by Andy Remic
“But you know the worst thing, you useless piece of horse dung? It’s the comments about him.”
“Him?”
“Him.”
“Oh. Him. That cunt. Well, why not go running back to him? He’ll lap you up like cream. He’ll suckle your nipples like a squealing piglet. He still wants you, Lillith… I can sense it. In my bones. He wants you back, and he thinks I’m just some big stupid oaf, oh yeah, just a soldier, just a killer, uneducated, whilst he’s a fucking officer ooooh a fucking officer, well go back to him, I don’t fucking care anymore, you made it plain you think I’m stupid and uncouth, just a brute with an axe, that’s why I said those things I said, did what I did, because you’re laughing at me, Lillith, I can see it in your fucking eyes. Go back to him. He’ll open his arms and welcome you, drink you down like fine wine, stick his little tongue between your legs and ooh how you’ll moan in pleasure, just like the old days… ”
The slap rang out like a broken bottle against an unprotected skull. Beetrax rolled with it, and in truth, it had little power, nothing he couldn’t suck up in the blink of an eye and with a cheeky grin. But it was more the act, because Lillith had never struck him. Never. But she had now. And he didn’t know whether to cry or to fight.
“How dare you,” she said, trembling with rage. “How dare you speak to me like that!”
“Well, I’m dumb, ain’t I?” he mumbled, but his rage was gone, and the alcohol had made his mind foggy, and he wondered in the midst of his sudden abject misery how the fuck he could climb out of the pit he’d just fallen into.
“Beetrax. I never, ever want to see you again.”
She turned, and walked away, disappearing into the darkness of the, ironically, foggy Vagan street. Beetrax stared after her, face cherry red, wondering what he should do. Should he chase after her? Pursue her? Endure more slaps? Should he give her time to calm down, then approach her with his mumbled apologies? Or should he… go back into The Fighting Cocks and continue to get fucking wasted?
Beetrax would be the first to admit, he was not the brightest firebrand in Vagandrak.
So he turned, frowned at the grinning faces peering at him from the doorway, and entered the yellow warmth of The Fighting Cocks Public Tavern.
* * *
Five days, it had been. Five long, lonely, cold days waiting for Lillith. She did not knock on his door with her usual bustling, cheery greeting, bringing him a basket of cheese and bread and cured meats from the market.
No.
She did not appear. Beetrax paced the floorboards, fists clenching and unclenching, wondering what the hell he should do. Should he take her flowers? Declare his undying love? Apologise? Write her a letter? What? What?
The morning after the argument, he’d awoken with a pounding head, and distant memories of slaps and screams. It had taken the whole day, with sweet hot coffee, lots of buttered bread, and several gallons of water to clear not just his churning belly, but his churning mind. Images flickered back to him, one by one by one, and with each image he groaned, and slapped himself in the face, and chewed on his lip, and considered what a colossal insulting vulgar horse dick he’d really been.
And the sad thing?
It hadn’t been the first time.
He was an idiot. He freely admitted it.
“I’m an idiot,” he groaned to Dake, clutching a tankard of ale and staring forlornly across the quiet innards of The Fighting Cocks. Afternoon sunlight painted lines across the boards. The landlord wiped dirty tankards with a dirty rag, and eyed Beetrax uneasily.
“Listen,” said Dake, looking over his shoulder to make sure his own wife could not hear. “What you have to do, mate, is grovel. You have to beg. You have to say it’s all your fault. Then she’ll say some of it was her fault. Then you’ll find some common ground, and you’ll hug and kiss and cry, then have the most amazing sex you’ve ever had. Hey!” He beamed and slapped Beetrax on the back, making him choke on his ale. “Been there, done it loads of times.”
“No, Dake, you fucking dog, this is it! She’s left me. I fucked it up. I might as well go tie a rope and hang myself from the rafters.”
“Don’t be silly.” Dake put on his serious face. “Me and Jonti, right, we’ve been together for years. You think in all that time I haven’t got drunk and said stupid things? You think I haven’t danced with the wrong woman in the wrong way to the wrong tune? That was an icy cold walk back to the house, followed by an even icier sleep in the summer house at the bottom of the garden.” He shook his head. “Anyways. What I’m trying to say, Trax, is that we all fuck up. Men is men is men. We get drunk and say stupid shit. Our women, they fall out with us, and half the time we’re that fucking emotionally backward we don’t even know what it was we said that done the damage! But the art, my boy, the art is how we repair the damage after we do the stupid shit in the first place. You get me?”
“Eh?”
“It’s all about your apology, Beetrax. It is inevitable, in any relationship, that you will fuck it up. That’s a given. It’s written in the Scrolls of the Seven Sisters. Thou shalt fuck it up, wept the virgin Salander. Just trust me on this one, old horse. But, but, what matters is what happens next!”
Dake beamed. He was a little drunk.
“And what happens next?”
“What do you think happens next?”
“Er. I knock on her door? I take her flowers?”
“No, you fucking dolt, you lump of rancid horse excrement, you have to make her believe you love her again. I mean, I’m sure you do. But you have to show your feminine side.”
Beetrax’s voice hardened. “My feminine side?” he said.
“Yeah, baby, your fucking feminine side.”
Beetrax deflated. “I don’t think I have one,” he said. “Maybe I could ask Talon?”
“No no, listen. I’ll teach you.”
“You’ll teach me to have a feminine side?”
“No, horse dick… I’ll teach you how to get her back.”
* * *
And so, armed with Dake’s sage counsel, Beetrax had gone shopping. Now, Beetrax the Axeman was not an axeman to go shopping lightly, and so he took his axe. This wasn’t well received at the market, and he was certainly remembered, especially after threatening to cut a market trader in half for inappropriate comments about the size of his axe, but all in all, it went smoothly, if embarrassingly for Beetrax, and he returned to his room and penned a short note, which read:
* * *
Lillith. My love. My life.
Please come to my room tonight.
I have writ you a letter.
* * *
Love,
Trax X
* * *
He sent it with an urchin for a copper piece, then set to work transforming his simple axeman’s room…
* * *
Lillith stood outside the door, frowning. She took a deep breath and went to knock, but the door opened and Beetrax stood, in his cleanest trews, with a new black shirt that, actually, if Lillith thought about it, looked quite good on him. He smiled apprehensively. Lillith smiled back, although there was pain there.
“I wasn’t going to come,” she said.
“I didn’t expect you to,” he said, wretchedly.
“I… I just thought, I knew, I had to hear what you had to say. Before we… you know. Never saw one another again. Before we took a bow, and left the stage, you know?”
“All your friends think I’m no good,” said Beetrax, and clenched his teeth.
“It’s not that. It’s just… the drinking. The fighting. And then you turn on me. I can’t take it anymore, Trax. I can’t take the uncertainty. And I know we think we’re in love,” he looked at her hard, then, “but you have to know, if this isn’t love, then it’s over, because nothing lasts forever.”
“Look. Just. Come in. Please.”
Lillith stepped across the threshold. And, if truth be told, she was stunned.
The walls were hung with drapes, red
, gauzy drapes that gave the room an intimate warmth. Candles burned. Many candles burned. And Lillith knew Beetrax was not the type of man to light a candle. Drink a whiskey flagon? Yes. Buy candles and arrange them romantically and light them? No.
“You expecting somebody, Beetrax?” she said, her voice low and husky.
“Er. Yes. You.”
“I know. You dolt. Is that a new comfort couch?”
“Yes. Took three of us to carry it up the stairs. I hurt my back.”
“Mmm.”
Beetrax looked sheepishly around. “You like red, right?” he said.
“I love red.”
“And, and, I lit thirteen candles. You like thirteen, right?”
“I love thirteen. It’s my favourite number.”
“Yes. I remember.”
They stood there, staring at one another in the candlelight. Beetrax wanted to rush over, to take hold of her, to pick her up, to crush her, to love her, but he did not, he could not. Because he’d been a dick. And he’d fucked it up. Like he always fucked it up.
“I have cooked,” he said.
“You have? What?”
“It’s, er, slivers of Randa fish on a bed of rice, salad and peppers. Then I razored some cheese shavings over the top. With a touch of garlic. And salt. Er…”
“Sounds divine,” said Lillith. “Shall we go in? Sit? Eat?”
“You want to stay?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I want to read your letter.”
“Ah,” said Beetrax.
Lillith looked crestfallen. “You mean, you haven’t writ the letter you said you’d writ?”
“No. I writ it all right.”
“So are you going to give it to me?”
“I’m just a little… embarrassed.” He stood there, like a small schoolboy who’d forgotten his homework. Lillith decided to take pity on him. He was obviously making an effort. The biggest effort he’d ever made. Which for Beetrax, was quite something.
“Take me through,” she said, again, her voice low and husky.
Beetrax reached out, took Lillith’s hand, and led her through the main room to the kitchen. Here, he had actually put a tablecloth on the table, and lit more candles. Lillith’s keen eye counted thirteen. He’d also bought a few small statues, which he’d put on a shelf. Hell, he’d erected a shelf. And then put his new statues on it. Lillith squinted. They looked like clay renditions of fairies. She pursed her lips into a smile, imagining Beetrax, with his axe, buying fairy statues at the market. Now that she would have paid good coin to witness.
“I like what you’ve done,” she said, finally.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“I done it all for you.”
“I know, Trax. I know.”
He pulled out a chair, and she sat. The plates were already on the table. To Beetrax’s credit, the food smelled damned good. And Lillith was hungry. She hadn’t eaten for five days. She’d been too busy crying.
“First, I’d like to see the letter.”
“Ahh.”
“Please?” She looked at him, and tears rolled down her cheeks.
“I’ll get it,” rumbled the big axeman.
He disappeared and re-emerged, handing her the folded paper, his fingers shaking.
“Are you all right, Trax?”
“Not really,” he said, and sat down and poured himself a goblet of Vagan Red. He sipped it. She noted him sipping. Sipping, as opposed to swigging.
She opened the page. There, with several crossings out, a couple of inkblots, and a lot of love, was Beetrax’s letter:
* * *
I wanted to apologise in writing. I’m sorry. I am a horse’s dick. I’m sorry I said those things about you. I’m sorry I was horrible to you. I absolutely do not care about a man you used to see, and I know I moan about him, but I can read the love in your eyes like bright candleflames, and I know I mean everything to you, like you mean everything to me, and so I am sorry I mentioned his name and got angry about him. It will never happen again.
On reflection, I realise I am frightened. I am frightened of losing you. I know you are too good for me, I know I am uncouth and vulgar at times, I know I am not always the best companion, especially for a smart and edgucated woman like you, but I love you so much, and yet I treat you abominabally. I fear you will leave me, And so my fear turns to darkness. And then I am a horse dick. And then you do leave me.
Lillith.
I love you. You are my white witch. You are my sanity. You once said that I shine, and you reflect, but you are so so so wrong. More and more and more, you shine and I reflect. You are the sun, I am the moon. I am your willing servant. I am your slave. I am caught in your orbit. And without you, my sun, I could not exist.
I trust you. I love you. I want to be with you, always.
You are my molten tears, Lillith.
You are my beating heart.
You are birdsong.
You are the surf gently sighing up the shingle.
You are my muse, Lillith.
Please.
Please never stop loving me.
Because I will love you until the stars go out.
* * *
Yours.
Trax. xxx
* * *
She looked at him. He looked at her. She stood. He stood. They moved together. They pressed together. His great arms encircled her, and her arms encircled his waist. He leant down to her, but did not kiss her. He looked into her eyes.
“I love you,” he said.
“I know,” she said.
“I want to be with you,” he said.
“I know,” she said.
“You are everything to me,” he said.
“I know,” she said.
And then she reached up, standing on tip-toes, and she kissed him, and he melted into her, and he knew that everything would be well with the world.
* * *
Talon had taken the lead, and he kept his bow strung at all times. He felt maudlin, a great sadness within him. He had loved Jonti-Tal, in his own way; not as a woman he craved for sex, no, but as a soul sister. They used to call her The Ghost, for she’d been deadly with a blade. Now, she was just dead, and this horrific event had rocked Talon to his very core.
Of course, on the walls of Desekra, he’d seen many a comrade fall. But during those insane days of blood and steel and death, Talon, Beetrax, Sakora, Dake, Lillith, Jonti-Tal, they’d formed an almost unbreakable unit. They’d become brothers and sisters, not just of flesh, but of bone and blood and fucking soul. The sort of bonds that could not break. The sort of bonds which could only be severed by… death.
And Talon realised his complacency. They’d been hard fuckers, fighters to the core, practically invincible. And Talon, for one, had started to believe their own ego… until they faced down the splice, and been captured by the dwarves. Beaten, fucked up, tortured; Talon’s nerve, his beliefs, had been irretrievably wounded.
He lifted his bow a little. And he realised there was a tremor to his hand. His lips were dry. Mouth dry. Fear darted like a moth inside his brain. What if they met more dwarves? What if he fired his arrow, and missed? What if the bastards captured him again, captured them all again, and the beatings began, and the torture returned? Talon had been invincible on the walls of Desekra Fortress. But down here, he had come to realise his own mortality, underlined in blood by the savage and untimely death of Jonti-Tal.
We will all die, he realised, as his morale spiralled downwards.
We will be destroyed.
What are we doing? Where are we going? Why are we not trying to escape?
He stopped at a junction of tunnels, and listened, head tilting to one side. There was a strange sound. A kind of metallic thrumming. Then it stopped. Talon frowned, and realised his palms were sweating. He wiped them on his trews.
They’d had their chance. After the dragons broke free and tore the roof off the palace, Skalg, in some ways their
saviour, had kept to his part of the bargain. Kill Irlax the King, and they would have their freedom. But ironically, they didn’t kill the king, and still got their freedom, but then chose not to accept it. They had decided to do the right thing, as fucking heroes always should.
He smiled sardonically. And realised, with a bitter taste, that Beetrax had been right.
What had Lillith said?
You don’t understand, these great wyrms, these creatures of Wyrmblood – it says in the Scriptures of the Church of Hate that once they ruled the world. All races were slaves beneath them. Men, dwarves and elves.
Aye? What has that got to do with us?
They’re free, Trax. They will seek to re-establish their Empire.
You reckon?
Oh, I am certain.
Well, correct me if I’m wrong here, but there’s only three of ’em, yeah? How can you establish an empire if there’s only three of you?
That’s what we’re going to find out.
So now they were on a mission to find the dragons, find the city of Wyrmblood, unravel what the hell was going on. And for what? To save men? The people of Vagandrak? The fucking dwarves?
Talon gave a little shake of his head, and held up his hand. Behind, the group stopped. Dake came up beside him.
“A problem?”
“I heard something. Something… odd.”
“Clink of armour odd? Dwarven voice odd?”
“No.” Talon frowned. Then looked hard at Dake. “Are you with this? I mean, this mission? To find Wyrmblood?”
Dake shrugged. “If I’m honest, Tal, I’m beyond giving a fuck. Jonti is gone. My life is over.”
Talon gave a nod. He knew how Dake felt. Talon felt pretty despondent himself.
“I just wonder…” he said.
“Yeah?” Dake looked at him quizzically.
Talon shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”
They moved on down the tunnel, and several times Talon heard the sound. Each time it seemed to increase in intensity, making him frown harder and harder. He knocked a shaft to his bow, and seeing the action, Beetrax and the others loosened weapons, wondering what it was Talon had detected.
