Twilight of the Dragons

by Andy Remic

  “I love you both,” she said, ejected on sweet breath, and with a smile that could break a million hearts. “And you know I would never kill you. But I swear, if you do not cease this foolishness, I will cut you. Both of you. Deep and bad. Not enough to kill, but enough to make you wish you were dead.”

  Slowly, Dek and Narnok backed away, still scowling, faces like a summer thunderstorm. They sank to their stools.

  “Well, it’s him, ain’t it, Tris,” grumbled Dek.

  “If he hadn’t done it, I couldn’t complain about it,” moaned Narnok.

  “Shut up!” hissed Trista. “He’ll be here soon, and he needs our help, and what’s he going to think if this is the sight he’s presented with? He’s an Iron Wolf, by the Seven Sisters. Have some decorum for a brother, will you?”

  Dek nodded, and picked up another wine flagon, taking a hefty swig.

  Narnok rubbed his beard, and belched. “Remind me again who he is?”

  Trista sighed. “Kareem Maff. Fought at Desekra against the mud-orcs. Kiki knew him. Spoke very highly of him. Said he had a demon in his soul.”

  “Well, I don’t remember no Maff fucker,” said Narnok, scowling, and taking a heavy drink of ale.

  “I do,” said Dek, quietly. “He was a dangerous motherfucker. Dark skin, big bushy beard. Sergeants kept ordering him to shave it off, but he refused. Did ninety days in military prison, still wouldn’t shave that fucking beard off. They sent in three Staffs to do it for him, and he broke their noses and cheek bones. Good lad. Salt of the earth.”

  “Did you fight him in the Pits?”

  Dek shook his head. “No. He was more… moral than that. Wouldn’t fight for money. Only to the death.” Dek looked up. “So don’t piss him off, all right?”

  “I have no need to pick a fight with this man,” growled Narnok. “After all. He didn’t shag my wife.” He gave a narrow smile with thin, scarred lips.

  “You see, Tris?” moaned Dek. “See what I have to put up with?”

  At that point the door to The Fighting Cocks opened, and Kareem Maff stepped in. He was over six feet tall, massively broad, and carried himself like a natural athlete, a warrior. His dark eyes swept the tavern and most turned away under that dark, intense gaze. Then he spotted Trista, and his face cracked into a smile, and he moved across the tavern in much the same way as a galleon glides through a collection of bobbing, useless rowing boats.

  “Trista!” He held out his hand, and she shook, her small, white fingers engulfed by fists easily as big as Dek’s.

  He surveyed Narnok and Dek coolly, not fazed in the slightest by their size, demeanour, oozing menace or reputation. He grinned then, a full-teeth grin, and sat down. The stool creaked.

  “You’re as big as I remember,” said Trista, and gave a little flutter of her eyelids.

  Kareem beamed. “Well, that’s a very nice thing to say, Trista. You’re certainly as beautiful as I remember…”

  Dek leant forward. “What the fuck is this? Have you come to lick pussy or is there a fucking reason for your visit?”

  Kareem eyed Dek up and down, face slowly dropping into a frown. “Hey. Friend. I have a problem, and came here to talk to Trista about said problem. I don’t need no broken-toothed simpleton interjecting on the conversation. Now, if you don’t like me and Tris smiling at one another, I suggest you fuck off and find a whorehouse.” He smiled. “Somewhere they like to pander to your kind.”

  Dek kicked back, but Narnok grabbed him. With momentum and power, Dek dragged Narnok halfway down the table.

  “What the fuck does that mean?” snarled Dek. “My fucking kind?”

  “Calm down, calm down,” beamed Narnok, still holding a flagon.

  Kareem shrugged, and looked at Trista. “I thought you said they were cool?”

  “No.” She pursed her pretty lips. “I said they were headstrong, and a little insane, but salt of the earth and usually willing to help a fellow Iron Wolf. Especially one who fought on the walls of Desekra.”

  Kareem nodded, and stood, stool scraping. He eyed Dek, gaze narrowing. “You’re quick to anger, my friend,” he said. “So I’ll be saying goodbye. I didn’t realise my brothers would be such a prickly fucking bunch. I ain’t come here to fight. I came here for help. Because I need it and I thought my Iron Wolf brothers would be the ones to turn to in, like, my times of trouble.”

  Narnok scrabbled to his feet, and moved forward. “Listen, lad,” he said, and belched. “Don’t pay much attention to Dek, he’s a fucking horse dick on occasion, and if I didn’t love him like a brother, I would have chopped him from crown to bloody bollocks with yonder axe.” He nodded in a vague direction of his ill-abused weapon. “Look, lad, sit down, tell us your problem, we’ll help you if we can.” He forced a smile, and patted Kareem on the shoulder.

  Slowly, Kareem sat. He frowned a little, and glanced at Dek.

  “It’s all right,” said Dek, scowling at Narnok, “Narn is right. We’ll help if we can.”

  Kareem took a deep breath. “I have a problem. And it’s not your normal kind of problem that can be sorted by cracking a few skulls.”

  “Well, you look handy enough for that, lad,” said Narnok.

  Mola snored in the corner, head now back against the stone wall, dead to the world. Or as close to death as alcohol would allow.

  “Go on.”

  “Well, it concerns the Red Thumb Gang.”

  “Ahh,” said Narnok.

  “Ahh,” said Dek.

  “We know those bastards pretty well,” smiled Trista, sipping daintily at a goblet of wine. As a rule she did not drink, she could not stand to lose control, and recognised inherently that to be a warrior, one had to retain one’s senses at all times. Not that it stopped Narnok and Dek. But then, that’s why they had considerably fewer teeth than Trista.

  “I hate those bastards,” muttered Narnok. “You know why they’re called the Red Thumb Gang?” Kareem nodded, but Narnok, fuelled by pride and ale, continued anyway. “When they murder some poor, unfortunate bastard, they leave a bloody thumb print in the middle of his – or her – forehead.”

  “I am aware of this,” said Kareem gently, looking to Trista, who shrugged, as if to say, he’s going to say what he’s going to say, there’s no stopping the drunk old bastard when he’s on a roll. Better just let him get it out of his system, like piss into a piss trough. When he needs to go, he needs to go.

  “Red Thumbs. Bah! Think they rule every criminal activity in every city from here to the other pissing side of Vagandrak. Think they control the Honey-leaf in Drakerath, the whores in Zaret, illegal sorcery in Katarok… but we showed them, didn’t we Mola? Eh? Eh, Mola? Remember that thing with the Elf-rats?”

  Mola continued to snore.

  “Anyway,” interjected Trista, “please, Kareem, tell us your problem. Something to do with money, I presume? It would appear it’s very easy to get into financial… difficulties with the Red Thumb Gang. And once you’re in their pocket, you fucking stay in their pocket, if you know what I mean.”

  “Money?” Kareem gave a small laugh. “If only it were that simple.”

  “Go on,” said Narnok.

  “I fell in love,” said Kareem, looking down at the rough-sawn wooden planks of the drinking bench. “I said it would never happen. I always said I was a military man, fighting was in my blood, I’d never succumb to a bloody woman’s magical charms… that’s what I always swore. But I did. I fell. And I fell hard.”

  “How’s that a problem?” rumbled Dek.

  “Well,” said Kareem, scratching his whiskers, “have you heard of Debanezeer Salt?”

  “Red Thumb overlord,” growled Dek. “Got his name because he’d decapitate his enemies, cut their heads right off, scoop out their brains, and fill their empty heads with salt. He’d have them, upside down, lining the drive to his big house on the outskirts of Vagan. I knocked some of his teeth out, once.” Dek grinned. “Nearly started a fucking war.”

  “And you’re sti
ll alive?”

  Dek winked. “I don’t kill easy, son. And luckily, he was drunk. Too drunk to remember my ugly mug, so he must have been pissed! Anyways. What did you do? Shag his wife?”

  Narnok reddened, and scowled at Dek. “You just can’t let that sort of thing lie, can you?” he snapped.

  “No, no,” said Dek, “I didn’t mean anything like that, didn’t mean nothing by it. I was making an observation, is all.”

  “Yeah, but you couldn’t say it different, could you? Had to say shag his wife. Just like you shagged mine.”

  “Don’t fucking start again, Narn.”

  “Guys, guys,” said Trista. “Focus? Kareem? Problem? Red Thumb Gang? Remember?”

  Grumbling, the two Iron Wolves subsided, and Kareem continued. “Debanezeer Salt. Scum of the earth. Human offal waiting to shuffle off this mortal coil. Well. He has a few sons. And he has a daughter.”

  “Ah,” said Trista, nodding in understanding.

  “Met her at a dance. Beautiful, charming, funny, we laughed all night. What a woman. Said I’d never fall in love. Well, I did. We ran like idiots through the city, drinking, laughing, loving. For weeks. Ignored the world. I’ve never had so much fun in my entire life. I’ve never been so happy. Then one night, I’m relaxing by my fire, I love a good fire, a big fired stacked up with logs I’ve chopped with my own hands, like, and there’s a knock at the door. I’m a bit mellow. Been on the old spirits, my brother imports them from the east; so I’m pretty oiled, and I open the door and these three big bruisers bustle in. Now, I’m not a man to start trouble, but three big fuckers coming into my comfy living space. So I broke a few jaws, sent them running. An hour later, ten of the cunts turn up. So we have a bit of a scuffle, but some bastard hits me from behind with a helve. Down I go. Wake up hanging from Suicide Bridge in the Scourge, watching the dark waters toiling underneath me, black like ink. I’m groggy from the pick-axe handle, but I’m switched on enough to make out Debanezeer Salt. Big, big, ponderous fat lump of horse shit. Waddles over, leers down at me, gives me some fucking lecture about befouling his pure daughter and all that shite. Then they hoist me up, slap me around a bit, break both my thumbs, and tell me if I ever go near her again I’ll be dead Kareem.”

  He sat back, frowning.

  “So… you love this woman?” said Narnok.

  “With all my heart.”

  “No chance of you, you know, finding another fish in the fish pond, like?”

  Kareem stared hard at Narnok. “I don’t think so,” he said.

  “So you need to convince this Salt guy that you’re a good man, somebody worthy to take his daughter’s hand in marriage. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” said Kareem.

  “But he’s a murderous psychopath who scoops out brains and fills hollow heads with salt? And uses them as lawn decoration?”

  “That’d be it,” said Kareem.

  Dek thought about this. “I think you’re pretty fucked, lad,” he said.

  Mola continued to snore, a rumbling backdrop like that of a gentle earthquake.

  “You know what I suggest?” said Narnok.

  “What?”

  “Marry her in secret. And run away together. If she loves you as much as you think she does, then fuck everybody else. Fuck them all. You go for it, bloody kidnap her, fast horses, dead of night and all that. Dead romantic. I’ll come give you some backup, if you like.”

  “I was hoping for a more diplomatic solution,” said Kareem. “One that meant I could still live in Vagan, with my true love. Live a normal life. Have fun, raise children, watch them grow into men. You know. A normal life. Not on the run like some criminal, hunted by criminals. Always watching my back. That’s no life, Narnok.”

  “Hmm,” said Narnok.

  “Trista?” Kareem’s eyes were pleading.

  “Don’t ask her,” rumbled Dek. “She’s a psycho when it comes to weddings. She has a certain… history… with brides and grooms.”

  “Dek!” snapped Trista, eyes wide, face flushing red. Fury was suddenly her mistress and they all realised she’d palmed a blade. It gleamed by the light of the fire in the hearth, and the candles that circulated the room on silver candelabra, flames flickering like serpent fangs. “I cannot fucking believe you just said that!” Her knuckles were white around the shaft. The tip of the steel trembled, just a little.

  “Sorry, Trista,” mumbled Dek. “I wasn’t thinking proper.”

  “Yeah, well, you never do,” said Narnok with a thunderous scowl. “That’s why you upset Trista here, and I think you deserve that blade in your belly, by the way. And that’s why you did what you did.”

  “Did what I did?” Dek’s voice was murderously low.

  “That thing you did. With my wife.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Narnok. Better spell it out, letter by fucking letter.”

  “That sexual act you did.”

  “You mean, when I, like, fucked your wife?”

  “That’s right, when you fucked my wife.”

  “Well, she fucking enjoyed it!”

  “Not as much as I’m going to enjoy this!”

  “What?”

  Narnok slammed a sudden left hook at Dek, who swayed back, years in the Fighting Pits kicking in and fuelling his instincts by a will to survive… and win money. Lots of money. Narnok howled and leapt forward, crashing into Dek and they both tumbled backwards, taking the table and all the drinks with them. Kareem and Trista leapt away from the upended table and flowing ale and wine, whilst Mola continued to snore in the corner, oblivious to the mayhem kicking off.

  Dek grabbed Narnok in a head-lock, but Narnok was big, and mightily strong, and he threw off Dek’s warrior embrace and swung another punch, but Dek was moving, clawing his way to his feet to stand, swaying, the worse for wear for so much ale and wine.

  “Don’t do this, Narn!” he roared.

  “Not in here!” screeched the landlady, running forward and placing herself between the two large men. “You fuckers are not breaking up my bar again. Now my husband might be a spineless wheelbarrow of horse shit, and yes, I know you’re hiding behind the bar you useless sack of turds, but you two fuckers are going to take this outside or by all the gods and the Seven Sisters and by all the fucking demons in the Chaos Halls, I’m going to call the City Watch and have you locked up for a fucking week. Then I’ll pay a goodly sum to bribe the Watch to make sure the Thumbs look after you during your stay. I am so sick of your fighting and damaging my premises. Now get the fuck out!”

  It was quite an outburst from such a little woman. But it worked. Especially on Dek.

  Dek had possessed an inordinate amount of respect for his mum, and so he could not help but obey the majority of women he met. He simply could not help himself. Women, to Dek, were on a plinth beside the gods. They were to be trusted and respected and honoured. Woe betide any man Dek caught laying a finger on a woman. Dek would break that finger. Then hand, arm, shoulder and neck.

  “Come on,” he rumbled. “I’m going out for a piss.”

  “Not with me, you’re not,” growled Narnok.

  “Well, use the fucking ladies’ then. You’ve certainly grown a pussy these last few months.”

  Dek stumbled towards the Fighting Cocks’ exit. Everybody moved out of his way. Everybody. You did not fuck with Dek the Pit Fighter unless you wanted a broken jaw. And a few broken ribs. Maybe a broken leg.

  But before he reached the exit, the heavy oak-plank door was flung open, and six large, armed men squeezed through the portal. Muscles bulged, faces gleamed with sweat, eyes were narrowed. They were an ugly bunch, and even an idiot could see they meant trouble; they oozed fight from every stinking pore.

  Dek halted, sobering fast, and checked out these newcomers. Behind him, he heard a hissed intake of breath. Narnok, who’d been about to follow Dek out, reached for his axe, sat on a creaking stool, and gently laid the weapon across his knees.

  “A ripe bunch,” muttered Trista.


  Narnok nodded. “Wake Mola.”

  “I know these fuckers,” said Kareem, and his hands curled into fists. “They’re Red Thumb. Work down the docks for Salt.” And even as Kareem finished the sentence a ponderous man squeezed through the doorway. Has was a fat man, but tall, maybe six feet and five, and one could see why some might underestimate him. His belly flopped into rolls, his thighs were like tree trunks, and a great udder hung under his chin, wobbling with every movement, every gesture, like some kind of distended chicken giblet. But Narnok, Dek, even Trista, could see beyond the excesses of pork pie and fried potatoes, rich cream and sugared fancies; they could see the strength which formed the trunk of the man. Yes, he was fat. But he was a solid motherfucker, if ever they’d seen one.

  Salt surveyed the inner workings of The Fighting Cocks as one might survey something nasty they’d trod in down in the Scregs. He was dressed in bright fabrics, a mixture of tweeds, with ruffs and scarves, with colours and country greens; it was a random mishmash that only the crazy or the heavily protected could have pulled off in Vagan. Most men would have been laughed out of the room. But one sight of this massive gentlemen with his odd dress sense and six heavies caused the feisty landlady to head behind the bar, joining her cowering husband and putting any future breakages down to experience.

  “Ahem,” said Salt, dramatically, looking straight through Dek as if the pit fighter was a simple inconsequence, and settling his small black eyes on a face as ripe as any ham joint, on Kareem.

  Kareem went pale, face tightening, lips pursing, head dropping a little as if to say, oh shit, oh no, why me, why now? “There’s always somebody wants to stick their nose into your life,” he muttered, “always somebody wants to stab you in the back.” He stood, fists clenching and unclenching.

  Debanezeer Salt sauntered across the tavern’s main room as if he owned it, brushing past Dek like a petal on the wind brushes against a tree. Only, as Salt passed, in happy fat ignorance, so Dek reached out behind himself, scowling, grabbed Salt’s ridiculous jacket, and tugged.

  Salt teetered backwards, and sat suddenly on the boards with a thump. Somebody laughed. The six bodyguards bristled, and one rushed forward towards Dek, face crimson in anger, lips snarling and spitting.