The White Towers by Andy Remic Page B

deep into the huge fortress city of Vagan, the War Capital. Ancient cobbles gleamed with ice. Huge buildings, edifices displaying centuries of proud heritage, theatres, civic buildings, clan houses, trade centres, museums of Vagandrak history; all stood, massive and dark and edged with icing sugar, like a picture postcard.
    The elf rats started to walk, and hobble, and crawl, and slither up the street: deep into the heart of Vagan.
     
    Belton lounged back in his chair, polished boots up the rough-sawn desk, his brass brandy hip flask in his right hand despite being on duty at the Southern Gate Guard Barracks, and feeling the warm glow of fatherhood in his head and heart and soul, seeping through him like some incredible infusion of Belief. Three days old, she was, little Mia, and as beautiful as any carving of an angel on any church or holy place, not just in the Capital City of Drakerath, but in any damn city in the whole of Vagandrak!
    Tiny, she was, with pink-white skin, her fingers so small they couldn’t even grasp Belton’s stubby, guard’s finger. A spiky shock of rich black hair, a scrunched up face that was so cute it made Belton want to be sick with love, sporting a little turned up nose and little toes that wiggled whenever she squawked.
    Belton knew he was in love, truly in love, and for the first time. He loved his wife, yes, but this was heart-breaking love, fill your soul full of warm honey and float along the rest of your life to the Halls of the Gods-type love. This was a love you would kill for. This was a love you would die for, no questions asked: a long hard jump into the Pit.
    Belton took another slug, and peered out of the barred window. The braziers and torches flickered wildly, and snow was falling once again, giving the nearby houses and paved walkways a ghostly, ethereal ambience.
    It was quiet out there, especially at this ungodly hour. What sane person would walk the streets in such foul weather?
    Belton snuggled further under his wool cloak, which he’d draped across his shoulders, and unconsciously stretched his free hand towards the small log burner where flames crackled softly.
    Mia. Mia!
    He took a hefty hit of brandy, and peered out into the snow.
    It had been a fear-laden time, for sure: his wife clutching his hand until he thought she would break his fingers, the midwife down between her legs, face calm, words soothing. And then the words he would never forget for the rest of his life. “She’s crowning, push now, Salina, push now !”
    Within moments it was over, a bawling little white-pink bundle that the midwife passed to Belton with a smile. “Here’s your daughter, soldier. Hold her with care.”
    And Belton had stood, big bad gruff Belton, the man who’d bettered Two Trees at the annual South Guards’ Wrestling Tournament, breaking the man’s leg; the soldier who had no fear and absolutely refused to back down. The man who’d head-butted Big Jim, breaking his nose when none said it could be done. The man who’d horse-whipped the whiskey-smuggler Abdel the Beard, taking the skin off his back. Well, there Belton had stood, grinning like the village idiot and gazing down into the amazing face of his amazing baby girl as if he was a child himself. Thinking about it now, with a few slugs of brandy in his belly, Belton realised he had probably forgotten how to smile. Now, his new baby had taught him that simple pleasure in life, and he realised, as he rocked the chair back, legs creaking, that not everyone in the world was a cynical bastard, not everybody was greedy and selfish and hateful. Not everybody deserved to be extinguished in a pit of fire. No. There were some positives to life, some good things. And for many, many years Belton had forgotten all about the good things.
    Feeling suddenly melancholy, and realising maybe he shouldn’t really be drinking brandy on duty, Belton stood and moved to the rough-plank door. He opened it and chilled air rushed in, destroying the