Denizens and Dragons

by Kevin Partner

  “But she will see only you, crazy friends Bill,” the little lizard said, his voice imploring the seeing of sense. “Even if you lives long enough to bring her into the Darkworld, you will haves to run into the army. You will has to burn with the king!”

  Moving heavily toward where he knew the portal to be, Bill nodded. “I know. But there is no other way. If Humunculus isn’t stopped here, he’ll spread through my world like a disease and there is no-one, not even the Varmans, who can stand against him if everything I feel about the power in that box is let loose. You don’t have to stay with me, though, in fact I don’t want you to. Go home, my friend, and let me do this.”

  Tears rolled down Sebaceous’s tiny pale face. After a few moments he shook his head. “No. Friends is friends and you is right. This way, we makes my world also safer - one less dragon.” He hopped up Bill’s leg and into his pocket.

  Bill gave a thin smile, drew in a deep breath, and stepped through.

  #

  “I’m absolutely bloody fed up!” Gramma shouted as the three witches and Chortley strode towards the army of Humunculus. The king had recovered his composure and was now dancing in a mechanical fashion and well out of harm’s way. Rank upon rank of black and grey clad goblins stood between him and them.

  “I mean, there’s sod all to work with ‘ere. I’m an Earth Witch and there’s nothing living in this hellhole. And I’m covered in this ‘ere grease. That bugger Ignis Bel said it’d give us protection in ‘ere for a while, but ‘e never mentioned it stank!” Gramma stopped with the other witches and stood, hands on hips, facing the army, her face darkened by a thick layer of something black. She cupped her hands and put them to her mouth. “‘Ere, I must say you’ve done a fine job in your country as king, your people must love you soooo much! It’s like a bloody alien planet!”

  The prancing had stopped and the machine Humunculus stood with brooding, silent, menace.

  “Yeh, and not a nice planet neither. This ain’t the sand dunes of Ares, it’s more like the black crack of Uranus!”

  There were titters in the ranks as goblins, orcs and hobgoblins nudged and winked at each other. Yes, even here, in this desolate valley where the only living things were the tufts that grew around its puckered rim, there was room for that most universal of languages - the good arse joke.

  And then, with a roar, Humunculus stamped his foot. “Attack!” he cried and the ranks, shorn of their good humour, levelled their spears and stepped forward.

  “Nicely done,” mumbled Mother Hemlock as she began making complicated movements in the air. “There ain’t exactly a lot of water here.”

  “Fortunately, there’s plenty of wind,” Velicity said, dancing fragrantly around a bewitched Chortley.

  Gramma chuckled. “Stands to reason that there’d be wind in Uranus. Better out than in, I always say. Let it rattle in church or chapel.”

  “Get on with it, Gramma, I can’t do it all myself!” Velicity shouted with uncharacteristic venom.

  The old woman mumbled something under her breath, then closed her eyes and spread her arms out. A dry desert wind blew around her as Velicity danced. Gramma felt outwards and downwards for signs of anything vegetable that she could enchant. Her fingers twiddled as she searched, ignoring the roars of the goblins who, faced with an undeniable power hidden within these three women, were girding themselves to attack.

  “Ah, there you are,” she muttered as the tendrils of her mind touched a green softness. “Right, lickle roots. You’ve been dormant for too long. Jessie Hemlock?”

  Mother Hemlock turned to the old woman, her face drenched in sweat, her arms spread to the sky. “What?”

  “We need water,” Gramma said, without opening her eyes.

  “Well, I knows that don’t I!”

  “Listen,” Gramma said, “there’s a whole lot of roots down below, it’s like some sort of petrified forest.”

  “What’s it got to be scared about?” Mother Hemlock replied, automatically.

  Gramma opened her eyes. “This is no time for jokes, Jessie. Bring down some rain and I’ll ‘ave those roots up and out of the ground and fightin’ for us.”

  The sun darkened momentarily and the old woman looked up to see a small black cloud passing in front of it and heading their way.

  “Well done, our Jessie!” Gramma said, before closing her eyes again and searching again for the roots. She was out of her mind. As she caressed the ancient wood, she felt the first of the dusty water fall from the sky.

  #

  Attracting Beryl’s attention had been easier than Bill had imagined. He’d known he was risking his life in tempting a dragon to follow him into the Darkworld, but he’d expected to be expunged on the battlefield in glorious victory against the forces of the night. He hadn’t expected to be roasted as soon as he passed through the portal and into the back of Beyond.

  Beryl had been waiting for him as he stepped through. Somehow, she’d followed the ethereal trail of the box she thought was her egg and was now sitting, mournfully, looking at a blank cave wall for lack of a better plan. Bill’s appearance snapped her out of her malaise and he only barely had time to come to a halt, do an about-turn, and run back through the portal before she could open her mouth.

  He knew she’d followed him. He knew because she was a mother on the scent of her potential baby and also because he’d had the clothes burned from his back as he ran. If he could’ve been bothered to give a toss about his modesty, he’d have been grateful for the used and now rather soiled underpants that kept his equipment from getting whiplash as he tore along the path. Every now and again he would catch sight of Sebaceous as he flitted through the meagre cover to either side, his terror slightly mollified by the reassurance of knowing that the little lizard wouldn’t be on his person when he was engulfed in dragon flame.

  Bill veered right as Beryl roared and a jet of flame carbonised the rocks to his left. Had he had time to think, he might have suspected that the dragon wasn’t actively trying to roast him as she gave fair warning before flaming, but he was concentrating entirely on running as fast as his naked, burnt, body would carry him.

  At last he crested the rim of the valley, the clangour of battle rising from its foot in between the dragon’s roars. There, below him, he could see the horde of the Fairie King gathered around a small group he recognised. As they surged forward, many would fall, seemingly grasped from beneath the earth and dragged into its depths. Others would clutch themselves and collapse like grisly balloons with the air let gently out. Yet others were flung through the air as a mini tornado whipped through the gulch. And there was the flashing blade of Chortley’s sword as he plunged into the enemy.

  But even in his panicked state, Bill could see that it was hopeless. There were simply too many of them and there, near the rear, were gathered the machines and, in their centre, stood Humunculus, the staff raised high. And then Bill knew what was about to happen. The Faerie King, tiring of the damage being done to his army by the witches and Chortley, was about to unleash the magic of the box early.

  Bill headed towards the king, vaguely wondering why he could no longer hear Beryl’s roar. He felt within him a rage he had never experienced before. Fire came unbidden from the depths of his soul and coursed through his veins. Even without dragonfire, he was going to do his very best to take that twisted bastard out of this world and into the deepest pit of hells. He careered on, exalting in his power, a young, fearless warrior in the wars of the gods before the worlds were created. He cared not for death, he cared only for glory.

  Who was he kidding? He was Bill Strike and he was shitting himself. But plunge onwards he did.

  The box was open, its light blinding in this dark world. The staff was raised. He was among them. Machines fell away, dismayed by his fury. Behind him, he heard Beryl roar, but he leapt for the staff anyway, diving forwards, his arms aglow with his own flame, his arse warmed by the wall of fire following him.

  Humunculus shrank back as Bill
grabbed for the staff. He fell onto the box, his magic flowing into it as the dragonflame reached him.

  He felt a heavy weight land on his back and, as darkness engulfed him, heard, or thought he heard, one word echoing in his mind. “Idiot.”

  Chapter 37

  DARKNESS, THEN LIGHT. A CLEAN, perfect white filled Bill’s mind. Was he dreaming? Was he dead? He became aware of the sounds of struggle somewhere off to his left, right, above or below. Direction made no sense, only that the sound came from elsewhere.

  He looked. He was in a space with no light. Not merely black but a kind of negative light that sucked everything, every thought, towards it. In its centre, like the opposite of a black hole, was whiteness. And orbiting the light were two figures, tumbling over and over as they wrestled.

  He swam towards them, feeling the attraction of the white but, at the same time, the sense of being drained by it. This must be what it was like to be a moth, he thought. As he approached the struggling ghostly figures, he perceived that they were naked and that the nearer one, with its back to him as it slowly revolved, was female. Nice arse, too.

  Over her shoulder, a face floated into view. Anger flared in its eyes as it perceived him.

  “Humunculus!” Bill, or the spirit of Bill, called. And it was him. The Faerie King in his spectral form, as beautiful and terrible as he had been in the flesh until Bill had killed him the first time. Well, now he was going to finish the job.

  With a hiss, the form of Humunculus, pushed away from his opponent who fell backwards and into Bill’s embrace.

  “Brianna!” Bill cried. It was her, the pure essence of her. As beautiful as the fae Humunculus, but filled with a light that was not cold, but which spoke of love.

  “I came after you,” she said. “Got a machine from Rasha and, when I worked out your stupid plan, jumped over you as the dragon’s fire engulfed you. I don’t know where we are, but living or dead, we have to stop him. He mustn’t reach the white. I don’t know why, but he mustn’t.”

  Bill kissed her and felt himself filled with her love, the two of them rotating gently in a perfect moment that was ended by the quiet glee of the Faerie King.

  “I love you,” Bill said as he pushed himself away from her.

  She smiled. “I love you too,” she said. “Nice equipment, by the way,” she added, looking down.

  Bill rolled over and began swimming away.

  “Nice arse too,” Brianna said with a forced cheerfulness.

  Bill spurted towards Humunculus as he swam at the white disc that seemed so close. And then Bill understood. They were sperm swimming towards an egg. The dragon had been right all along, except this box didn’t produce a dragon. So, what did it produce? If the analogy were to be followed through, it would depend on which of the two of them swam into it. And it wasn’t arrogance that made Bill all the more determined to be the one, it was the image of an all-powerful Humunculus emerging from the box.

  He reached out and grabbed the spectral arm. He knew that he had to get there first, even though it meant his extinction as an individual. As they rolled one over the other, he caught sight of Brianna trying desperately to approach. But something kept her away, as if there were tides in here and the sea was flowing out.

  Humunculus snarled and clawed and bit as Bill kicked and punched and grabbed. Bill cried in pain as the Faerie King slashed at his arm and his hand fell away, rotating grimly in the light of the egg. He saw Brianna again, her face desperate. He heard her call. “I love you Bill Strike. Don’t be late for the wedding!”

  And he struck. With all his anger, frustration, fear and, above all, love. He struck with his remaining hand, tearing through spectral flesh as, in his fury and fear, Humunculus kicked out, knocking Bill’s legs from under him. He watched them go wheeling away as, with his one remaining limb, he plunged his hand into the heart of the king, closed his fingers around it and squeezed.

  The king was gone. Bill felt what was left of himself begin to spin inwards, catching glimpses of a distraught Brianna as he turned over and over, accelerating towards the bright light that would end his existence and bring into being something new, something not-Bill.

  He felt his face turn towards it and he began to slip inside. He sighed as he felt his power drain into the light.

  And then the light went out.

  #

  When Bill opened his eyes, it was to see the wrinkly face of Gramma Tickle hovering over him. The old woman smiled. “He’s back,” she said.

  Bill sat up. He was lying in a bed and above him he could see the canvas of a makeshift tent.

  “Where am I?”

  “In the realm of Varma and in the company of the Count, who awaits you,” said a strange voice.

  “Who are you?”

  A middle aged, stocky, man with greying hair and a Van Dyke leant over him. “I am called Ignis, but you must rest.” The man waved something pungent under Bill’s nose and the darkness took him again.

  #

  The second time he awoke it was to see Brianna’s face.

  “What happened to your hair?” he asked.

  Brianna scowled and reflexively ran her hand over her head. Her hair was short and patchy and she winced as her fingers touched her scalp. “I was stupid enough to try to protect you from dragon-flame,” she said, “I lost most of my locks and my back’s so raw I won’t be able to lie on it for a long time.”

  “Pity,” Bill said.

  “You’re not going to say you find me even remotely attractive like this, are you?”

  Bill smiled. “I’ve seen what you look like on the inside, my love. And I think you’re beautiful.”

  “Idiot.”

  “Probably.”

  “I’m not going to marry you.”

  “Okay.”

  “But I will be with you, always.”

  “Good.”

  She leant down and kissed him pushing all further questions out of Bill’s mind.

  Chapter 38

  THEY’D TAKEN OVER THE CATHEDRAL in Montesham for the wedding. It was, after all, a hero of the Darkworld War who was getting married and the bigger the occasion, the bigger the piss up.

  Not that the groom was entirely enthusiastic. He would, on reflection, have preferred a simple ceremony, perhaps on the battlefield with Mother Hemlock officiating. His experiences of the past year had cured him of any lingering religion so he would hardly have cared who conducted the affair and the absence of any guilt-infested moralising by a priest would have been welcome. Although, on second thought, Mother Hemlock was as capable of rendering a sermon as any wandering monk.

  A horn sounded. It was time. He’d been dressed in ill-fitting finery of the sort that could be rustled up at a moment’s notice - the ceremony had, after all, been rather brought forward by the risk that, had it not happened quickly, the first offspring might appear suspiciously ahead of the nine-month schedule. And, while he didn’t care about such scandal, his bride to be, being a traditional kind of a girl, did.

  The door opened and he stepped into the aisle. As was traditional, his bride stood at the altar already. She turned to look at him and his breath caught. What had he done to deserve such beauty? Aside from help save the world. He strode along the scarlet carpet, past ranks of hushed attendees, his ceremonial sword bouncing against his hip sending the occasional clinkety clink reverberating along the ancient walls.

  Finally, he reached the altar and stood alongside his brother, his best man and, only a year ago, his enemy. The priest stood there, his jewel encrusted cowl and mitre testament to his piety, humility and poverty. The priest raised his hands, and, when the time was right, the groom spoke.

  “I, Chortley Hatchit Colin Strike, take you Velicity Fragrance De Vere…”

  #

  The old woman took a sip of her sherry and gave a satisfied grimace. “Oh, that were nice of young Chortley to change his name, weren’t it?”

  Bill nodded for the thousandth time at this - Gramma was approaching her
record for repeating herself. “Yes. He said his sister could take the family name with her when she eloped with Thun to the wilderlands. He said, as a bastard, it wasn’t really his name in the first place.”

  “Pity young Brianna ain’t so keen to be a Strike too,” the old woman said with a sly wink.

  Bill smiled. “But then, she wouldn’t really be Brianna, would she? She never wanted to be Mrs Strike any more than I wanted to be Mr Hemlock.”

  “Well, I can’t tell you how happy I were when you and her came out of that wreckage alive. Roasted, like, but alive. And you’d been still for so long, we were just looking for a shovel.”

  “I imagine it must have been quite the sight,” Bill said as he took a sip of his Wonderful Cock. He’d heard the story before, of course, but was feeling relaxed and at ease. The burns were almost healed and it was even possible for him to sit for short periods without too much discomfort.

  “Oh aye. That dragon swept in and the flame what came out of her… Well, it took all the roberts, they went up like lickle cangles. And then there was the robert that had jumped on you, I didn’t know it were our Brianna then, but it didn’t seem to burn so quickly. It was like as if there were something protecting her, at least a bit.”

  Bill grunted. “Yeh, I reckon it was my flame cancelling out Beryl’s.”

  “Well, the goblins, those what weren’t crispy already, ran off into the hills and all what were left were this pile of ashes and burning wood. The Humunculus robert, it were twitching, but it were too hot to go near. I could see your leg poking out and it started moving too, but then it went still. And, all of a sudden, out of the middle of the ash, it came flying out. Never seen nothing like it in all my born days.”

  “I wish I’d seen it,” said Bill, gulping down another mouthful.

  Sebaceous emerged from beneath an upturned bowl of peanuts and patted his belly. “It was amazings, friend Bill. I was there just in time. Beryl, she got the box and was clawing, and the box shattered and it came out. It was all white and shining and then it saw its mummy. It was so beautiful.”