Twilight of the Dragons

by Andy Remic

  The two lead dwarves had axes. One deflected Beetrax’s overhead swing, but collapsed when his boot stomped his kneecap, breaking his leg in half, folding it back at the knee with a brittle snap like deadwood on a fire. In instinct, Trax shifted a thumb’s breadth, as the second dwarf’s axe whistled past his ear, skimming his shoulder but bouncing free. With no space to wield his weapon properly, Beetrax stepped forward, kicked the dwarf in the balls, and as the stocky warrior went down, stamped on his skull with a sickening crunch. The dwarf lay there, blood leaking out of his nostrils, head caved in.

  “Come on!” screamed Beetrax, axe in both hands. “Fucking come on, I say!” he bellowed as all the hate, all the anger, all the fucking frustration welled up within him, a pan of water hitting the boil, a fucking volcano filling up with a payload of molten lava and ejecting it with a scream that blew rock and ash a thousand miles in every direction.

  The next two dwarves paused, sickened by what they had seen. But the one behind pushed forward. He was almost as wide as he was tall, barrel-chested, his armour and helmet battered, burned and broken, his face carved with battle scars, his beard growing in strange directions due to the carved scar flesh beneath.

  “Come on then,” he growled, black eyes glittering, “you fucking pale worm from over the mountains, you fucking grease stain on the honour of our Harborym ancestors.”

  Beetrax leapt forward, as did the dwarf, and their axes clashed, bounced away, clashed again. Beetrax’s weapon sent a shower of sparks from the wall, then cut sideways at neck height. But the dwarf was moving, ducking, and his own weapon came up, cutting the cloth of Beetrax’s tattered shirt and missing impaling his chin by a hair’s breadth.

  They both took a step back, acknowledging the other.

  “I’m here, Trax,” came Dake’s voice. Beetrax heard the slither of oiled steel.

  “No. I got this.”

  “You think so, you fat, pompous, southern cunt?” growled the dwarf, brutal jaw hardly able to handle the Vagandrak tongue. But he grinned, and his eyes sparkled dark and evil, and he gripped his axe in powerful hands and braced his shoulders and got ready to kill.

  “Fucking show me, midget,” snarled Beetrax, baring his teeth, and the two warriors leapt at one another. Axes clashed, three times, four times, smashing from one another, smashing from the walls in showers of sparks. The dwarf kicked Beetrax in the stomach, Beetrax grunted, went down on one knee, threw a left straight into the dwarf’s groin and staggered back.

  “I see you only got a pussy in there,” growled Beetrax.

  “No, it’s just my cock is harder than yours.”

  Beetrax launched forward, and their axes locked. They strained against one another, and although Beetrax was a huge warrior, incredibly powerful, the dwarf held his own, grunting, broad shoulders braced, a heritage of mine-working and sledgehammer-wielding giving him prodigious strength; boots scrabbled on the rough carved stone, and their faces came to within inches of one another.

  “You fucking stink,” said Beetrax.

  “And you’re an ugly southern streak of piss.”

  “At least my mother didn’t have a whore’s cunny fish-breath like you!”

  The dwarf made a squawking sound, and pushed harder. He slammed his head into Beetrax’s face, hammering the warrior back, and their axes clattered to the stone tunnel as they grappled. The dwarf had a low centre of gravity which gave him an advantage. He dragged Beetrax to the ground and they rolled around for a few moments, punching one another, headbutting, time and time again. Beetrax reached down and grabbed the dwarf between the legs. He let out a squeal, high-pitched and feminine. Beetrax crushed as hard as he could, every ounce of energy he had, with memories of his own previous torture in the cock area fuelling his rage.

  “Stop stop stop!” screamed the dwarf.

  With his free hand, as they squirmed on the tunnel floor, Beetrax reached down and pulled a knife from his boot. With the dwarf’s crushed balls in one hand, he lifted the blade and plunged it into the dwarf’s eye.

  Blood fountained, drenching Beetrax, turning him into a demon.

  The dwarf squirmed for a while, and they continued to roll around as Beetrax held him tight, waiting for him to die.

  Then he slumped, and was still. Beetrax untangled himself, and pulled free the dagger from the bloodied eye-socket, and dragged himself to his feet. Two dwarves still stood in the tunnel, fixed with fear, and Beetrax grinned at them with bloodied teeth, face a crimson mask.

  “Class,” said Talon, stepping forward, brushing back his long hair. “Could you have even produced more blood?”

  “I didn’t see you fucking stepping in, pal!”

  The remaining two dwarves turned and started to sprint down the short tunnel. Talon unhooked his bow, knocked an arrow, and fired. It took the left dwarf in the nape of the neck, slamming him stumbling into a fast-forward run until he fell on his face, which cut grooves through his flesh.

  Talon looked sideways at Beetrax. “Am I earning my bread now?”

  “There’s one left, cock-head.”

  Talon drew, fletch to cheek, and fired. The arrow hissed, rotating, and punched the dwarf in the back. He hit the stone floor and started to scream, reaching around, trying to pull the shaft out, legs kicking. Then he went suddenly limp, but continued to scream like a man on fire.

  Talon had severed his spine.

  “Savage,” said Beetrax, quietly.

  “But now we’ve got him for questioning, yes?”

  Beetrax looked at Talon. And smiled. “Neat. Remind me never to cross you. Or at least, never to turn my fucking back on you.”

  Talon unstrung his bow. He smiled, but it was a cold and unfriendly smile. The smile of a man who had made his peace with God and the Seven Sisters, and was happy to settle down in his grave.

  “You remember that, Axeman,” he whispered.

  * * *

  “You can’t do this,” said Lillith.

  They’d dragged the dwarf back to the chamber, and propped him up, like a limp eel, like a half-slaughtered lamb, on a stone bench. He was weeping, tears running down his cheeks and into his beard, staining his leather jerkin. His eyes darted around swiftly, in fear, surveying Beetrax, Lillith, Dake, Talon, Sakora and finally Jael.

  When he saw Jael, despite his tears, despite the fact his hands were like flopping fish on the bench, he gave a narrow smile.

  “Krakka’s bitch,” he spat, and spit drooled from the corner of his mouth.

  Beetrax frowned, and leaning forward, slapped the dwarf hard, knocking his head from right to left, and cracking his skull against the wall.

  “You’ll talk.”

  “I won’t, southern scum.”

  “Talk, or I’ll saw off your legs.”

  The dwarf looking into Beetrax’s eyes, observed his blood-caked face, and remembered the spectacle with the warrior dwarf back in the tunnel. His breathing was fast and shallow. Beetrax worried he didn’t have long left to live.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “You were hunting us?”

  “No.”

  “How did you find us then?”

  “We were in a side mine when you passed. We heard you clattering about like fucking amateurs.” The dwarf smiled then, but his face was torn with pain. A little blood drooled from his mouth and stained his beard.

  “You sure you weren’t hunting us?” Beetrax slapped him again, a hard, open-handed slap that rocked the dwarf’s head against the rock. He sat, stunned, and then blinked a few times regaining his senses.

  “No. Why would we?”

  “You tell me.”

  “But you were in the mines, weren’t you? I saw you. With Krakka.”

  “Well, I killed that cunt.”

  “Yes. I was surprised. You were only saved because Cardinal Skalg needed your help.”

  Beetrax frowned. “How do you know that?”

  “It was the talk. In the mines. After you were betrayed.”

  “What
the fuck does that mean?”

  “You were betrayed. One of your group was helping Krakka. He told them about your escape plan – with the cauldron. That’s why there were a hundred dwarves on hand with primed crossbows. You didn’t think it was a coincidence, did you?”

  Dake leant forward. “He’s lying.”

  “Why would I?” The dwarf cackled, blood dribbling down his chin. “You know I speak the truth. You know there was no reason for those bastards to be there, fully armed, waiting for you to make your escape attempt.”

  Beetrax rubbed his beard.

  “Who was it?”

  The dwarf grinned. His eyes shifted, past Beetrax. Beetrax turned.

  Jael was backing away, his face pale, looking as if he might puke any second.

  “You?”

  “No,” said Jael, and the young lad stumbled.

  Beetrax frowned. “You told Krakka about our escape plans? After we rescued you from those forest bandits? After we saved you from certain death? After I tried to teach you the secrets of the axe? After we fucking helped you.”

  “It wasn’t my fault!” wailed Jael, and turned to run, but Lillith was there, and he fell into her arms, buried his head in her bosom, and started to weep, dropping to one knee. “It wasn’t my fault,” he wailed.

  Beetrax stood, slowly, like a lumbering bear. He gripped his axe tight.

  “No,” said Dake, grabbing Beetrax’s arm. Beetrax pushed him aside as if he were broken branch, a leaf in the wind. Dake fell against the wall and collapsed. Beetrax strode forward, face forming into a maelstrom of violent thunderstorms.

  “You betrayed us?” he said, reaching forward.

  “No,” hissed Lillith, slapping his hand away. But still Beetrax came on.

  “You fucking betrayed us?”

  “I didn’t mean to,” Jael said, mumbling from Lillith’s bosom.

  “How the fuck did you not mean to?”

  “I was forced!”

  “How?”

  “By Krakka. The Slave Warden.”

  “How?”

  “He threatened to torture me.”

  Beetrax stood, staring in disbelief at Jael. Then he spat on the stone. “He fucking had us all tortured, you whining little cunt. We all went through weeks of agony. And you squealed like a whiny, back-stabbing little piglet.”

  Beetrax turned and strode back to the paralysed dwarf. His axe sang out, a song of death, and cut the dwarf’s head from his shoulders. The head rolled down the corridor vomiting blood.

  “No,” hissed Lillith. “Stop!”

  Beetrax pointed with his bloodied axe blades. His words were so filled with emotion and disgust he could hardly speak. “Jael – lad – if you ever come near me again, I will surely kill you.”

  Jael nodded, and hid in Lillith’s embrace.

  * * *

  The group travelled in silence for what felt like weeks. With the death of Jonti-Tal, and now this revelation over Jael’s betrayal, their morale was seeping away faster than water from a battered sieve.

  They trudged through what seemed like endless mine tunnels, always heading down, always alert for the sounds of dwarves, be they miners or soldiers. But for a long while they saw nobody. The mines felt abandoned, which was ironic, as it was this status of barrenness which had attracted the heroes, and certainly Beetrax, in the first place. What had he said during Dake and Jonti’s anniversary party, when he had first sprung his plan on them?

  “It's a map that leads to the Five Havens, the five dwarf cities under the Karamakkos Peaks. They were once ruled by the Great Dwarf Lords who mined untold wealth – I'm talking oceans of jewels, warehouses full of gold coin, lakes of molten silver! Enough to buy you a lifetime of whores, Falanor brandy and Hakeesh weed! … The point is, the Harborym are long gone, extinct for ten thousand years, the Five Havens lost to the knowledge and thoughts of us mere mortal men. But all that treasure is still there, waiting for some hardy adventurer types to trot along and fill their pockets, and maybe even a few wheelbarrows, with an orgy of sparkling loot.”

  “I hate to piss on your fire, Beetrax,” said Dake, frowning, “but unless you hadn't noticed, we're all affluent to the point of decadence. That's what being Vagandrak’s Best Kept War Heroes did for our pockets. Why then, in the name of the Holy Mother, would we want to risk life and limb climbing mountains, fighting rock demons, and delving into long forgotten underground pits probably better left to the psychopathically demented Rock Fairies and all their little golems? Hmm?”

  “Because of the three Dragon Heads,” said Beetrax, eyes glinting. “Tell them, Lillith.”

  “The Dragon Heads were colourless jewels found deep, deep beneath the mountains. It was discovered they had incredible healing powers – they could bring a man back from the brink of death; they could heal massive, open wounds, making flesh run together like molten wax; they could cure plagues and cancers and other diseases we couldn’t even dream of. They are referred to in the Scriptures of the Church of Hate with reverence, as if they were bestowed on the Great Dwarf Lords by the Mountain Gods themselves. Indeed, it is the Dragon Heads that gave the Great Dwarf Lords their dominion and kingship.”

  Beetrax gave a sardonic smile, his boots scuffing against rock. So much for his fucking plan! They’d not even infiltrated the bloody Harborym mines, instead being attacked by one of Orlana the Changer’s splice, a deformed and mutated creature, a horrific blend of man and horse. After an avalanche, the group had been captured by dwarves, or more precisely, Krakka the Slave Warden, an evil bastard who hated humans and set about torturing their group. With their wills broken, or so Krakka believed, they had been set to work in the mines. They soon planned and executed an escape, with Beetrax killing Krakka in the process, and had then faced death due to Jael’s betrayal – a death which would have been certain, if Skalg, First Cardinal of the Church of Hate, hadn’t caught wind of their existence and decided he had a better use for these overlander slaves, these heroes of Vagandrak: namely, the assassination of King Irlax, royal thorn in Skalg’s side.

  Beetrax went over the events in his mind, again and again, wondering how things could have turned out different, how they could have avoided capture, how they could have evaded torture. He touched his testicles gingerly as he walked, remembering the man who had tortured him, remembering the Ball Cracker, a machine he had become intimate with during his days of “fun”. Trax’s face turned crimson with fury. His fists clenched involuntarily. And then he thought about Val. Val, the twisted bastard dwarf who had raped his love, his life, Lillith. Raped her repeatedly. Beetrax knew it in his soul, although had never had the nerve or lack of compassion to come right out and ask it. But to Trax, it was as plain as day, written on gentle Lillith’s face, an agony of emotional scars etched into her skin as a metallurgist etches patterns onto copper. Beetrax felt his fury rise another notch. And another. If the day came when he ever got to confront Val – well, that would be a reckoning worth watching.

  Beetrax took deep breaths, and Lillith came up beside him, looked up at him, smiled, her serene face filling him with a splinter of peace. He smiled back, but she could read his eyes and could sense his fury. Her fingers clenched his bicep, and that hold said, be at peace, my love; be calm, my love; be as one with me, my love.

  Beetrax tried. Oh, by the Seven Sisters, he tried.

  But sometimes, being filled with fury was the right place to be.

  Seeing Lillith’s concern, he tried to think of better times, older times, wiser times. And he regressed. He plodded down that stone corridor in the shit-hole that was under the mountain, and he looked at Lillith’s face, and he remembered…

  * * *

  His room in Vagan was spartan, for Beetrax was not the kind of man to hoard crap. He had a large, broad bed, rough-cut pine table and chairs, and various cushions which had been a gift from Lillith when she first saw how uncomfortable his room had been. There was a rug, also a gift from Lillith, and a vase of dried flowers, again, from Lillith.
Beetrax was an axeman, military, serious for the majority of the time. As he would put it, he had little time for flowers and girl shit.

  However, on this particular evening, Beetrax had excelled himself for one so unmeasured in the art of seduction. Not that seduction was his aim, far from it. This was a mission of forgiveness. Him, begging forgiveness, from her. For being a horse dick. Again.

  He didn’t remember how the argument started, but he’d been drunk, again, and belligerent, again, and finally, aggressive, again. They’d been in The Fighting Cocks, but the argument spilled out onto the cobbles with Dek wagging his finger and proclaiming things like,

  She’s right, you know. The woman is always right.

  You’ll regret it in the morning, old horse.

  Better crawl back to your room now; it’ll look worse in the morning, I promise you, mate.

  To which Beetrax had proffered many scowls and various hand gestures only understood by mud-orcs and those who killed them.

  Lillith had raged at him in the street, as he swayed, after several flagons of wine too many, scowling, and reacting to aggression with the only way he knew how – more aggression. Beetrax had never backed down from a fight in his life. All his scars were on his face, arms, chest and thighs. He always faced his enemies, and was happy to cleave them from crown to bollocks with a hefty axe strike. And yet, and yet now he was facing the biggest threat of any man’s life: an angry lover.

  “You think you can treat me like this, say those things to me in front of your friends, and walk away? You think I’ll forget it all, just roll over like a sweet little lady and let you hurl abuse and make jokes at my expense? Well fuck you, Beetrax. Fuck you.”

  “No, fuck you!” he bellowed, and pointed in her face.

  She smacked his hand out of the way.