Twilight of the Dragons

by Andy Remic

  “If you didn’t keep interrupting my concentration, then maybe I’d actually get to the top of this pile of shit.”

  Beetrax swore in several different languages, including mud-orc, and faced the tunnel, and waited. Sakora stood to his left, loosening up, and Lillith moved back, her face filled with apprehension.

  Something bad is coming, she realised. Something… old. Something changed by the magick of the Elders; the magick of Equiem. She shuddered, and delved down deep inside herself, searching her repertoire, her internal library of white spells, magick used for healing and cures. There were hundreds. But deep down, past the layers of civility, through clouds of spiritual fog which protected her, there were dark spells, tangled tails of Equiem magick. She had once taken an oath to never, ever use them… for to use dark Equiem was to give away a part of one’s soul, a little bit at a time. Every time you used the dark arts, they infected you, ate away at you, gradually transforming a person from good to evil – until you stood in a place where you no longer had any control, and were completely lost. Eventually, Equiem took away your humanity. Even casting a single spell would send Lillith on a dark road towards the Chaos Halls.

  “Beetrax?”

  “Yes, Lil?” He was eyeing Talon as he reached the top of the scaffold, and peered over the edge, tentatively, as if frightened he might fall. Beetrax tutted, shaking his head.

  “Whatever comes through that tunnel opening, kill it.”

  Beetrax frowned. “You’ve changed your tune.”

  “Just do it!”

  “All right, all right!” He twirled his axe in a figure of eight, a blur of steel, blades hissing. “Kill it. I got it.” He stood, shoulders braced, and waited, eyes narrowing. Dake stood slightly to one side, out of range of Beetrax’s blades; he didn’t want them in the back of the head by accident.

  A cool breeze drifted from the tunnel opening. Behind, from some far section of the chamber, water dripped. There came a creaking sound from one of the shacks, and Beetrax turned around once more, the hackles rising on the back of his neck. Something felt wrong. Out of place.

  “It’s the dark arts,” whispered Lillith.

  Beetrax shrugged, and faced the gloomy hole of the tunnel.

  The sounds had stopped. Silence oozed from the dark hole like black honey, and Beetrax shivered.

  “You ready up there, archer?”

  “I am, axeman.”

  “You’ll watch my back, right?”

  “Have I ever let you down?”

  “When you do, I’ll be dead, that’s for sure.”

  “Trust me, Trax.”

  Beetrax nodded, and his humour had gone, as he prepared to fight. Something was coming, he could feel it, as unstoppable as the seasons, as terrifying as nature. And then it was there. It halted within the depths of the tunnel, its breathing slow-paced and husky. Then there came a flowering of flame, just for an instant, which blossomed like the opening petals of a dark rose, before it withered and died, the rose crumbling to ash.

  “What the fuck is that?” said Sakora, breathing deeply, calming herself.

  “Not quite sure,” said Beetrax. “But it’ll die just like any other bastard.”

  “It’s studying us,” said Lillith, carefully. “It is a monster, but it’s intelligent.”

  “Why doesn’t it attack?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lillith. “But it has been tracking us. It has our scent in its nostrils.”

  They waited, watching the beast in the darkness.

  And then it stepped forward, slowly, into the light.

  “By the Seven Sisters,” said Lillith, taking another step back.

  Flames flickered around the strange, twisted dragon snout. Black eyes glittered, watching them, as its tail whipped backwards and forwards like an angry cat, the speared tip glinting, razor sharp, whining through the air.

  Beetrax acknowledged this, and was about to charge, when flames rumbled around the creature’s grinning maw.

  “Er, it has fire,” said Beetrax, through clenched teeth, out the side of his mouth.

  Sakora nodded, dumbly. She had never seen anything quite like it. Well, she had, but Orlana’s splice had been a completely different proposition. This was… this was horrific beyond anything she’d ever witnessed.

  “You are one ugly motherfucker,” snapped Beetrax, and his words snapped the spell. The beast let out a sudden, high-pitched wail and charged, thundering forward, black and green scales glinting, legs stomping, tail whipping about.

  Beetrax watched, carefully, then his eyes flickered to Talon.

  A shaft hissed through the gloom, smashing into the creature’s back, making it rear its head, screaming, as Beetrax stepped to one side and his axe slashed out. A blade was deflected by scales in a shower of sparks, and the creature slammed passed, as Sakora danced backwards and the tail came around, slashing in a horizontal arc that crashed into Beetrax at midriff height, doubling him over and sending him flying across the rocky floor, face purple, gasping for breath, axe clattering off to one side. Dake ran in, sword raised, eyes hard, but a second swipe of the beast’s tail lashed out, cracking him around the head and sending him rolling, to slam against a stack of old wooden crates. He rose for a moment, but then slumped to the ground, stunned, clutching his head where blood trickled from a savage wound in his cheek, and from his nose.

  Sakora leapt at the beast, and a blast of flames sent her skipping away, knives glinting, eyes wide, attack forgotten as the heat scorched her eyebrows and hands.

  The beast turned, panting, and glittering eyes fixed on Lillith.

  Lillith took a step back, her voice a gasp, spells suddenly forgotten under that Equiem-born gaze.

  Beetrax had got to his knees, then his feet, but he was too far away…

  An arrow flashed, hitting the creature behind one ear before deflecting, and whining off across the chamber. A second arrow followed, punching into the creature’s back, just below the shoulder blade. The point went between scales and bit deep, with a solid thunk of steel in flesh. The beast grunted, and turned away from Lillith, and looked up at Talon on the scaffold.

  Sakora leapt onto its back, a dagger flashing down, but it grated against dragon scales. A thick-fingered hand sporting long, dangerous claws reached back, plucked Sakora from its back – holding her suspended and dangling for a moment – and then launched her across the chamber, where she hit an upturned mine cart, folded around it with a grunt of pain, and lay still, a broken doll.

  Talon fired another arrow, but the creature side-stepped, and it skimmed from its twisted dragon head.

  The beast grinned, took a deep breath, and a stream of fire blasted across the chamber, hitting the scaffolding, and igniting the wood.

  Talon squawked.

  Beetrax charged, axe slashing out, but a back-handed swipe sent him rolling across the floor, to hit the wall of the shack. Dust and pieces of wood rained down on him, making him sneeze violently, and sag, as several huge chunks of wood thundered down onto his skull, and unconsciousness threatened him with a dark dropping veil.

  The beast charged at the scaffold, and Talon fired two, three, four arrows which glanced away. A fifth shaft hit the creature in the eye, but it didn’t even slow, smashing into the lower struts of scaffold which groaned, and twisted, and sagged. Talon slipped, and grabbed a support, as the whole structure groaned again, moving to one side in its entirety, flailing like a dying dancer on ice.

  “Fuck!” screamed Talon, as flames roared around him and he dropped his bow. “Trax! Sakora!”

  But he could see Sakora. She was out of the game.

  Dake was unconscious, blood under his face.

  And Beetrax sat, like a drunkard in the gutter, shaking his head, wondering what had hit him.

  Talon’s eyes, reflecting the glow of roaring fire, met with Lillith’s. The heat was rising fast now, and his boots were burning.

  Help me, said his eyes.

  Lillith sighed, her face filled with sor
row.

  I cannot, said her eyes. I cannot access the dark arts… or my soul will surely be gone…

  And so Talon waited to burn, as the creature smashed and broke and slashed at the scaffold, the only narrow, collapsing barrier between Talon and fire and death.

  We’re all going to die, he realised, and desolation filled his soul.

  We’re never going home again.

  Iron Wolves

  Trista was tall, elegant, and incredibly beautiful. She wore a stunning green silk ballgown, which billowed out from her waist in a globe reinforced by wires to keep the shape. It sparkled with glittering sequins. Her shoes were a glossy green to match, exclusive items made to measure by Hitchkins of Drakerath. She wore a gold watch on one wrist, which shone with inset precious stones, and a diamond bracelet on the other, which sparkled as it caught the firelight from various flickering brands.

  Trista’s face had high cheekbones and nobility, cheeks flushed pink, lips painted with just the right pastel shade of green; her earrings glittered with yet more diamonds set in molten tears of silver. Her luscious blonde hair was piled atop her head, curls stacked and skilfully interwoven to add a foot in height to her already tall, athletic frame.

  Music was playing.

  It was a wedding march.

  Trista stepped across the stone flags, heels clacking, and paused by a column at the rear of the church. The ceremony was in progress, the bride in white, the groom and his best man in dark grey. She clutched flowers. He clutched his own hands. They made a perfect couple. They were beautiful, and happy, and Trista could smell the stench of their perfection.

  “Beautiful people,” she muttered.

  A grey-haired old lady turned from the back pew and frowned at her.

  Trista shrugged, lifted her glass of wine, and sipped, sighting on the perfect couple with their perfect lives and perfect minds and perfect jobs and perfect marriage, and she felt the hate coursing through her veins.

  “Those fucking bastards,” she whispered. The old woman turned again, and tutted, scowling. “It’ll never last.” Trista wiped away a tear and took another sip.

  The newly wedded, how fucking sweet, their lives perfect. They are lucky beyond belief. They have a long bright sparkling future ahead of them. They will consummate the marriage and she will carry his seed and they’ll have a plump bouncing baby girl, soon followed by a golden haired utterly perfect beautiful little brother. And the world will be so right for them. Their future will be an everlasting fucking dream.

  The grey-haired old woman stood up, and turned towards her. Trista felt a secret blade emerge from up the sleeve of her ballgown, and appear, concealed, in her fist.

  But…

  But maybe their future won’t be so perfect after all. Maybe he’ll be out drinking, laughing with his friends, and end up in a savage bar brawl. Maybe he’ll get stabbed in the guts, lie bleeding in the gutter, calling for his lovely new wife. But he’ll die, and bleed everywhere like a spear-stuck pig, and where will she be then, I wonder? Will she move to his best friend, slip into his bed, between his sheets, like some whore at the sign of a silver coin? He’ll touch her, as her husband used to touch her, and she’ll sigh and coo, and they’ll fuck, him sliding in and out, in and out, her cunt wet with her eagerness. How sick, how crass, we’re all just fucking animals, there’s no faith, no honour, no nobility, no fucking loyalty. We’re all whores. All fucking whores. And every whore deserves to die…

  The grey-haired old woman was close now. Her mouth had opened, and suddenly her eyes dropped and saw the blade, glinting orange with firelight. Trista recognised the signs of an impending scream, and she tensed, ready to move fast…

  “There you are,” rumbled Dek, stepping from behind a pillar, his hand on her shoulder. The blade flashed, a reaction, instinct, and a tiny droplet of blood appeared under one of Dek’s eyes.

  He stared hard at her.

  “You’ve been watching me?”

  “I’ve been watching you,” he agreed. Dek’s eyes shifted from Trista’s face, to the grey-haired old woman. Quietly, he growled, “Go sit down if you know what’s good for you.” Then he grinned.

  “What have I become?” whispered Trista, going from absolute anger to sudden deflation in one heartbeat.

  “You’re just troubled,” smiled Dek. “Like the rest of us. But you’re getting better. I know you’re getting better.”

  “I’m a monster,” she said, and her tears wet Dek’s shoulder.

  “You’re no monster,” he said, hugging her tight. “You have your reasons. I know that. But you are improving.”

  “How? How the fuck am I improving?” she hissed.

  Dek nodded, to where the bride and groom were kissing. People cheered and threw fruit and confetti.

  “Because they’re still alive,” he said. “Now come on. Come with me. We have a job to do.”

  Trista nodded, and took Dek’s rough, calloused hand, and allowed him to lead her from the church.

  On the way out, he reached up, and touched the nick, his finger coming away with blood. He smiled, a grim smile, and stepped with Trista out into the light.

  * * *

  Dek drained the wine flagon in one, belched, and launched it at the flagstones where it shattered into a hundred jagged pieces. He clenched and unclenched his fists, brows furrowed, battered, broken features clearly annoyed as he digested the words he’d just endured. One half-stitched wound below his eye had opened, and slowly disgorged beads of blood that left a trail like crimson tears down his face.

  The landlord stepped over, and pointed. “None of that, son,” he said.

  Dek stared at him, and went to rise, but Trista reached out, her palm against the brutal pugilist’s shoulder, pushing him back down.

  “We’ll pay for it,” she said.

  “By fuck we will,” growled Dek, scowling.

  “Dek?”

  He met Trista’s cool, unnerving gaze, and looked away. She was incredibly beautiful, her cheeks flushed pink, lips painted, diamond earrings glittering with reflection from the open, roaring fire; her head was piled high with luscious blonde curls, her teeth white and perfect and often smiling. And yet, and yet here was possibly one of the few people in the whole of Vagandrak, Dek would not broker an argument with. You did not fuck with Trista. Trista was a simple and brutal incarnation of knife-death.

  “Yeah? Well? Tell him. Tell that fat, dumb, drunk bastard to close his mouth, or I’ll knock out his few remaining teeth. He just won’t let it go, Tris. Just won’t fucking let it go, week after week, every time I think that’s it, he’s moved past it, he just brings it up again like a bad coin. I’m sick of it. Sick to my bones.”

  Trista leaned close. “I know, Dek. But we’ve been through hard times. You know that. It’s just Narnok’s… way, his way of getting over it.”

  “Getting over what I did?”

  “Yes. And the rest. The torture which followed. The facial scarring. That bastard Xander putting out his eye with acid. It’s like, like you are his pressure release valve. Without you, I’m not sure what he’d do. It’s almost like you’ve became his reason to live, to fight, and to hate.”

  “Well, I’m fucking sick of it,” complained Dek.

  He looked up, tattooed fists clenching again as Narnok half-staggered across the busy tavern. The Fighting Cocks was crowded on this late afternoon. It was the day following Labourers’ Pay Day, and Vagandrak was awash with ditch diggers, stone breakers, builders, cesspit cleaners, all eager to enjoy their single day off. Usually with a generous measure of alcohol thrown in.

  Narnok.

  The giant axeman sat, and his stool creaked. His face was a nightmare mask of crisscrossed scars. One eye was a milky white, obviously blind, and he had thick-banded tattoos, many of them military in origin, up his wide arms and across his neck.

  He grabbed his tankard, and downed the dregs, then belched. He rubbed his hand through his beard, then turned his good eye on Dek, and surveyed the shatte
red flagon.

  “You have an accident?”

  “No.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Narnok scowled.

  “Leave it,” said Trista, and glanced across to Mola, who was asleep on one arm, drunk and useless. Mola was snoring. Trista kicked him hard on the shin under the table, but the snoring simply changed pitch and tone.

  “It’s you, ain’t it?” scowled Dek, unable to help himself. “Same fucking moan, same fucking argument. All the fucking time, it’s all I fucking hear, you banging on about Katuna and how I, well, you know…”

  “Fucked her.”

  “See, there you go again…”

  “You fucked my wife, Dek. What do you want me to do? Forget about it?” rumbled the huge axeman, and now he’d flushed red with anger and Trista sighed because she could see the argument, and possibly the fight, the eternal fight, looming large and very real. She noted that Narnok had shifted slightly, and was leaning more towards his double-headed axe, butterfly blades on the flagstones, haft against the wall. “You want me to forget that your stupid, battered mouth closed around her nipples, suckling away like a greedy babe at its mother? Perhaps you’d like me to ignore your hand on her quim, fingers sliding inside, that’s my wife, Dek, my fucking wife, and you had your fingers inside her cunt-honey.” His temper was rising incrementally. “So, Dek, my old friend, my old chum, you want me to forget you sliding your cock inside her greased quim, do you? Pounding away at her, like some sailor at the docks with a cheap whore? You want me to FORGET IT?”

  They both surged to their feet, jaws clenched, fists cracking, heads slamming together as they stared and stared hard, deep into one another’s souls.

  “Let it go, brother,” said Dek. “Or by the gods, I’ll fucking pound you to the dirt.”

  “I’d like to see you try.”

  They froze. Trista had risen, a shining, silver, razor-sharp knife in each hand. Blades touched throats. Her words were calm, and measured, and soft, and sweet, but her eyes were raging. Inside her soul, there was a furnace that would never go out.