Twilight of the Dragons

by Andy Remic

  Narnok considered this. Then, in a deep rumble, he said, “You’ll have to go through me first.”

  Volak’s peal of laughter rang out across the city, swirling the dust in the air into violent new shapes. It was genuinely a noise of humour, made even more bizarre as it came from the fire-licked lips of a dragon.

  “How refreshing!” she cried. “What is your name, tiny human?”

  “I’m Narnok. Don’t forget it. It’s a name I’m going to carve on your arse.”

  Volak laughed again, but the tone of the laughter had changed a little. This time, she was not so amused. This time, there was a hint of being offended amidst the laughter, as if one was laughing as if to save face, rather than out of joy.

  “You are correct, little man. It is a name I will not forget. I will remember you for many years to come. I will also remember how you ended up.”

  “Oh aye? How’s that, like?”

  “As ash,” said Volak, her voice low and dangerous. She inhaled, a mighty breath, and in one swift movement Narnok hoisted his axe, swung back his shoulder, and launched the weapon with all his considerable might. As the axe left his hands, so he dived sideways, back towards the limited protection of the crumbling house… and the axe went end over end, butterfly blades gleaming crimson by the light of the dying sun, and as fire began to erupt so the axe slammed inside Volak’s mouth and she stumbled, choking, as twisted streamers of fire erupted around the axe lodged in her throat.

  Volak’s scream went up, a high-pitched wail full of pain, and her knees bent, wings sweeping back, and with a powerful leap and slap which sent a concussive boom reverberating down the street, so she took to the sky.

  There came several heartbeats of silence followed by a clatter, as Narnok’s axe hit the cobbles, haft smoking, blades tarnished by heat.

  * * *

  They peered from the ruined building, from under the leaving, broken arch, where dust trickled down and invaded their clothing. The city seemed suddenly quiet; desolate. Like a tomb.

  “Where did it go?” whispered Trista.

  “Why are you whispering?” said Dek.

  “In case the fucking thing is behind us!”

  “Ahh. Good point.”

  “You see that? You see what I did?” grinned Narnok, grasping his smoking axe to his chest.

  “You didn’t kill it, is what I saw,” growled Dek.

  “Yeah, but I bloodied her nose!”

  “Narn, if your axe in the throat didn’t finish her off, I’m not quite sure what will.”

  “We need bigger weapons,” said Mola.

  They turned and stared at him. “Bigger than what?”

  “Bigger ’an what we got!”

  “Er,” said Narnok, and wiggled his axe, as if to say, fucking wield something bigger than this, my friend! “You have something in mind, Mola?”

  The stocky Dog Man nodded. “I was once part of the Spear Guard. Many years ago. Before Desekra. Before the mud-orcs. Before the Iron Wolves.”

  Dek tilted his head. “Spear Guard? I heard of those. An ancient clan. Guardians of the City, or something. Charged with being defenders if ever the city was under attack. Like, sieged by an army, that sort of thing.”

  Mola nodded. “Aye. It comes from ancient times, when there was these marauding raiders, these bastards, the Vaikaii. They’d sail in, packed in their longships, and raid inland. Vicious bastards, they were. It was always coastal to begin with, but then they got bolder, braver. Came with armies. Attacked cities.”

  “Is this going to take long?” snapped Trista. “Only there’s a fucking dragon on the loose and I’m guessing she’s really pissed off having an axe lobbed in her mouth.”

  “Calm down, calm down,” muttered Narnok. “Let the lad spin his yarn.”

  Mola scowled at Trista. “Listen. Point is, there are periphery towers. Around the city walls. And they’re still armed in case of a city siege. It’s written in blood in the King’s Scriptures. They can never be dismantled.”

  “These towers are armed? Armed with what?” said Dek.

  “Big crossbows. Catapults. Siege engine grade – designed to protect whatever the fuck was attacking the city. They was well stocked, used to have engineers checking them weekly. This was part of the Spear Guard’s detail. Defenders of the city, and all that.”

  “So they have giant crossbows?” said Dek, eyes gleaming.

  “Aye.”

  “And catapults designed to crush siege towers?”

  “Aye!”

  “What are we waiting for?” boomed Narnok.

  There came a reverberating crash as Volak hit the street, and the whole world seemed to shake. Buildings trembled. Stones fell, crashing against the cobbles. Fire screamed, and the Iron Wolves dived back as flames splashed past the arched opening, torching anything flammable in its way.

  The fire stopped, and there seemed to be an inrush of cooling air.

  “Where is that fucking axeman?” screamed Volak, her voice powerful, musical, but imbued with an anger like nothing the Iron Wolves had ever heard before. Glass shattered. Distantly, a woman screamed. “Where is… Narnok?” It came out as a terrible rumble.

  “See!” beamed Narnok. “I told you she’d remember it!”

  A dog barked, and Mola twitched, listening, then realised it wasn’t one of his. He could tell his own dogs’ barks from a hundred leagues. He grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. Worried about my bitches, is all.”

  “Mola!” chastised Trista.

  “We gotta move now!” growled Dek.

  Volak came charging down the street, her huge bulk, tipped wings and tail smashing through buildings. Dust and smoke swirled through the air, and the day now turned into a sombre half-night. Fire crackled. Destroyed buildings creaked. Bricks toppled.

  “I agree,” nodded Narnok, hastily, as they moved back through the building, deeper into its confines, running now, boots stomping through somebody else’s possessions. They came out of a back door and stood, looking around. Ahead lay a factory, and Narnok led the way, kicking down the door as behind them it sounded like hell was breaking loose.

  More fire screamed, and looking over their shoulders they saw the ignition of yellow flames. Volak charged through the house where they had stood, moments earlier. Beams and stones went flying. The stone archway was sent spinning into oblivion in jagged pieces by a twitch of her mighty, black-scaled head and snout. Roof beams were nudged aside. A wall was blasted with flame, and for long seconds it glowed until it exploded.

  “How does she know we were there?” hissed Trista, through gritted teeth.

  “I reckon she can smell us,” said Narnok, and he was deadly serious.

  “Fuck off,” snapped Dek.

  “No, really,” said Narnok, eyes wide like saucers. “I’ve read about stuff.”

  “Yeah, in the Children’s Happy Book of Dragon Fairies,” said Dek.

  They sprinted into the factory, and stopped. It was an engineering place, and the whole ground floor was filled with giant, iron machines – presses and industrial guillotines, lathes and stomps. The place smelt of scorched metal and old oil. It was gloomy, badly lit. Above, several massive H-section iron beams hung on thick chains. In various alleys – streets created by the vast machines which stood idle – were braziers full of glowing coals. Steam hissed through pipes, including feeder pipes which ran along the walls, thick as a man’s waist. The whole place reeked of hydraulic oil, sweat and scorched metal.

  “Where now?” said Dek.

  “Spread out,” said Trista, eyes gleaming. It was rare Dek had ever seen her so panicked.

  “What is this place?” said Kareem, glancing about.

  “They make shit,” said Narnok, eyes still wide, still freaked.

  “No shit,” scowled Kareem.

  They moved amidst the machines, some as big as a house. Steam hissed from pipes, and oil bled on the floor, like blood from severed arteries. The workers had obviously heard the good news, and fled. Their machines st
ood idle, oozing uselessness.

  Dek stopped, hand against a huge black edifice of iron. He turned to look behind, just as Volak came through the wall.

  Bricks flew as the great wyrm smashed a dragon-shaped hole where once had stood a door and several windows. A massive pipe was severed, and steam suddenly screamed in Volak’s face, and she ducked her huge shoulders, and heaved her way through the hole, averting her eyes from the blast of steam. Any other creature would have been burned to a smoking, trembling cinder; but Volak was impervious. Fire was her trade.

  “Where are you, you fuckers?” she growled, flames licking around her snout.

  The fuckers were making their way stealthily across the factory floor, running from machine to machine, looking over their shoulders, waiting for the next blast of fire.

  Narnok gave a short whistle, and the others looked over. He patted his forearm, then signalled ahead. They nodded. Narn had seen something, and they followed on his path, running, heads low, panic now a constant.

  Volak strode after them. She charged suddenly at a huge machine, a press for stomping parts out of iron – and she clashed against it, and it did not move. Iron groaned. The ground shook. For once, it seemed Volak had met her match. The press was the size of a small house, and must have weighed several hundred tonnes. It shuddered and groaned, and Volak dropped one shoulder and heaved. Huge bolts the length of a horse were ripped from the ground, shearing with squeals, and Volak shifted, lifting her wings, voice screaming through the factory. The massive press rolled away to one side with a noise like an avalanche, steam hissing from broken pipes, the press smashing through several smaller machines and crushing them down into the ground. For a moment it felt like an earthquake had taken hold of the factory, and everything was shaking, rumbling, and the Iron Wolves glanced up, worried the great roof high overhead would come crashing down. But it didn’t, despite thick beams shaking, and disgorging dust. It held. For now.

  “Come out!” screamed Volak.

  The Iron Wolves ran for it.

  Narnok was in the lead, and they all dropped to a crouch, panting, by a wall. It had huge brackets and bolts, and Dek frowned. “You brought us here?”

  “Look inside!”

  Dek moved around the side of the… tank, and half-climbed up some adjacent steps.

  “Oil?”

  “For cooling the machines,” said Narnok. “I’ve been somewhere like this once before. This is the storage tank.”

  “What kind of oil?”

  Narnok shrugged. “Dunno. But I bet it fucking burns.”

  “You want to draw the dragon here?”

  “Yeah. You see the bolts? We can collapse the wall of the tank.”

  “How do we ignite her?”

  “She’ll do that herself,” grinned Narnok.

  “Nice place,” snapped Trista. “But how the fuck do we get those bolts out? The heads are almost the size of Narnok’s arse.”

  “With this spanner?” said Kareem, and grinned. The spanner was the size of his arm, and he rammed it onto the first of the six bolt heads. He strained at it for a moment, face contorting, muscles standing out on his arms, tendons standing out on his neck. Then the great bolt shrieked, and turned, and Kareem spun it. Oil started to ooze from the wall of the tank.

  “If we can get her over here, we can drench her in oil, set her on fire!” said Dek.

  “We need a decoy,” said Trista.

  Everybody looked at Narnok.

  “Whoa,” he said, as Volak screamed, attacking another machine on the factory floor, and Kareem went to work on the second bolt. “What do you mean, a decoy? If I stand here, I’ll get fucking drenched in oil as well! I’ll go up like a bloody fish-oil rag on Dead Lepers’ Night! No, I’m not having it…”

  “Come on, Narn! The dragon’s coming!”

  “Got you,” growled Kareem, spinning the second bolt free. It was huge, black and corroded, and he dropped it to the factory floor with a clang. He looked around. “Don’t nobody fucking help, why don’t you?”

  Dek ran over, finding a second huge spanner.

  Volak crashed through the factory, and they heard her scream again, fire raging, cutting a hole through an iron machine.

  Dek went to work, and he and Kareem took out bolts number three and four.

  “Look,” snapped Trista. “You stand on top of this wall, right?”

  “The one we’re unscrewing?” Narnok looked dubious.

  “You entice Volak over there,” she pointed, “the guys take out the last two bolts, you jump for it, I’ll light an arrow and fire it into the mess. Volak will go up like a bonfire. What do you think?”

  “Sounds dangerous,” muttered Narnok.

  “More dangerous than a dragon trying to fucking scorch us?”

  “Yeah, well, I’m just saying.”

  “Get up there! Kareem, Dek, how we doing with those bolts?”

  “Nearly there,” grunted Kareem. Sweat was dripping from his brow.

  Trista unslung her bow, and ran up the steps, followed by Narnok, still grumbling. Now the factory spread before them. Some machines still blocked their view, but Trista and Narnok were foregrounded; lit up, so to speak. Trista knocked an arrow to her bow, and running beyond the oil tank, found a brazier. Narnok watched her, and she gestured wildly to him.

  “It’s a shit plan,” mumbled Narnok, and frowning, walked down the narrow wall of the tank, and stepped out onto the side Dek and Kareem were busily unbolting.

  “You all right down there?”

  “When it goes, it’ll go fast,” said Dek. “When we’ve taken out the bolts, there’s two flimsy pins holding everything in place. If me and Kareem hit them simultaneously, the whole fucking thing will explode.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?” scowled Narnok.

  “Just don’t stand in the middle, all right? Stay near the side. Just step onto the side wall. You got it?”

  “Don’t like it.”

  “Just fucking do it!”

  “Fifth bolt out,” said Kareem.

  “Trista! You ready?” bellowed Dek.

  “Ready.”

  “Do your thing, axeman,” grinned Dek.

  Narnok strode out, clasped his axe in one hand, then shouted, “Oy, you! You fucking pain in the arse dragon! I’m here, me, Narnok, the one what threw my axe into your big wide-open fucking mouth! Sting a bit, did it? Those steel blades eating into your soft mucus tissue? Well, come on over here and have another taste of my blades. They’re desperate to get intimate with your vocal chords.”

  He looked down at Dek. “Is that all right?” he mumbled.

  “Soft mucus tissue?”

  Narnok shrugged. “I was improvising, wasn’t I?”

  Volak heard him. And she stopped. And she turned. Her head came up, and those black eyes orientated on him. She stormed forward, bulk crashing machines out of the way, eyes fixed on Narnok and his single orb, which stared right back, angry, defiant, unafraid.

  Volak halted, claws gouging the stone floor, and her wings folded back.

  “As I said earlier, you have some balls, little ugly man.”

  “Ugly, is it? You’re the one with a face like a diseased horse.”

  Volak smiled, lips rippling back over fangs. She tilted her head.

  “You are too good to burn,” she said.

  “Well, come kiss my axe then,” said Narnok.

  “You… challenge me? That is a sweet concept.”

  “Come on, bitch! Or are you too used to letting your fucking subordinates do your killing for you?”

  Dek was signalling frantically, even as Volak’s gaze dropped to study the two men, the two Iron Wolves. Then her eyes narrowed. Pupils dilated, black on black. The flames around her snout became more intense, more… agitated.

  “Now!” screamed Kareem.

  With spanners, they hit the retaining pins and danced backwards as the wall slammed outwards and down, on huge iron hinges. There came a muted roar, and oil gushed out, flooded o
utwards, close enough to drench the wyrm in thick black sludge. Oil gushed and roared. Trista took aim, but she wasn’t needed… the pilot light flickering around Volak’s muzzle did the rest. Oil coated the dragon… and then ignited her by her own fire.

  A sheet of flames screamed upwards, touching the high, vaulted ceiling of the factory, and Volak was lost in a sudden inferno. Kareem and Dek ran for it around the back of the tank, using machines as cover as the flames superheated their backs. Narnok had leapt, and stood on a slippery narrow wall, axe in both hands now, trying his best not to topple into the remaining sludge.

  Trista shielded her eyes.

  In the midst of the roaring inferno, something seemed to squirm. Like a bucket of dark eels in clouded water, so Volak writhed in the fire. And a cry went up, a wail like nothing the Iron Wolves had ever heard; it was a song, a long, ululating call, a call of pain and anguish and fear. It reverberated around the factory, a sound so intrinsically painful it brought tears to all their eyes.

  They gathered, up on the raised platform of the tank, and watched Volak squirming in the furnace.

  “I never thought I’d see a dragon burn,” said Narnok, and there was a hint of sadness to his voice.

  Dek looked at him. “It fucking torches people all the time. It burns flesh from their faces. It exterminates men, women, children. Little babies. Don’t be feeling sorry for it, Narn. Or you’re dumber than I’ve ever given you credit for.”

  “But… listen to it.”

  They listened, as Volak flapped around in the oil and fire, her cries getting weaker. And then she seemed to fold in on herself, compacting into a black ball only half glimpsed in the flames.

  “Right,” said Dek, “who’s for the pub?”

  “It burned down The Fighting Cocks,” pointed out Trista.