by Andy Remic
“Yes, my sweet?” Lillith smiled.
“I’m confused. Why exactly did you bring us here? How are we going to stop this thing from happening?”
“We didn’t stop it happening,” said Lillith, and she smiled, and it was a smile that should never have belonged on Lillith’s face, a smile like nothing Beetrax had ever seen before. He blinked, and a cold chill blew across his heart, and blew across his soul. “We have started the countdown,” she said. “The queens. They demand it.”
“What?” bellowed Beetrax, leaping forward but Lillith grinned, her eyes glittering black and filled with smoke, and both hands came together, a clap, and Beetrax, Sakora, Talon and Dake were smashed from their feet, hurled high into the air, out over the centre of the dragon-egg field to hang, suspended, spinning slowly, amidst the clockwork machinery and beneath a smooth, black, polished sky.
“What are you doing?” cried Sakora, as Jael padded alongside Lillith and knelt, petitely, at her feet.
Lillith’s grin widened, and her eyes narrowed. “It was written. It is Equiem. Dragon Lore. It has to be this way.” She licked her lips, and dragon smoke oozed from her open mouth. “I’m hatching the dragon eggs,” she said, and her eyes glittered black, like the eyes of a dragon. Lillith was no longer in control. Something older had taken control of her mind.
Hunter’s Gold
Val was pissed.
Not pissed in the sense he’d had a keg full of ale, and was about to decorate the flagstones with his vomit. No. But pissed in the sense he was massively frustrated… because his true love was within reach, and yet he couldn’t quite grasp her. Not yet, anyway. But soon, my love, he crooned to himself. Soon.
As they moved through the mines, so Crayline kept tossing him odd looks. He did not like the looks, even less than he liked the huge array of weapons at her belt. It wasn’t just her reputation for extreme violence that freaked him out a little, or more honestly, a lot, it was the stories he’d heard about her killing friends, murdering family, torturing employers. She was a cunt you did not trust. If anybody was going to stab you in the back with a serrated dagger covered in fatal poison, Crayline Hew was the bitch to do it.
It was the corpse that sent them in the right direction. Or rather, a series of three corpses. They were well hidden, obviously victims of a sudden skirmish down here in the tunnels. They had been hidden well, but not well enough. Crayline Hew found all three bodies; she seemed to have a particular knack for hunting out the tortured and the dead.
“They came this way,” she said, dark eyes narrowed.
“How do you know?”
“Trust me. I have done this sort of thing before.”
“Hunted people?”
“Hunted and killed people. Well. People. Elves. Dwarves. It’s all the same barrel of twisted rotting flesh to me. I don’t care what race you are. I don’t care whether you subscribe to the Church of Hate or not.” Her eyes gleamed, dark and nasty. “All you cunts deserve to die.”
Val coughed. “Yes. Well. We are on a very specific mission here,” he said, the pitch of his voice just a little too high.
“Yes. You are,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
“It means what it says. But we’ll let that one go for now, shall we? I wouldn’t like to embarrass you in front of the, ah, men.”
Val nodded, face pale, eyeing her weapons once more.
It took several more hours to reach the new dig, the new chamber, with the high domed ceiling and the spiral steps leading down. Val was happy to let Crayline Hew take the lead, mainly because he didn’t know what the fuck was down there, but also because if the overlanders were waiting with primed crossbows, he was happy to let the bitch take three quarrels in the face, and to hell with it. He’d reached a point of tension where he didn’t know whom he trusted least: Beetrax the Axeman, or Crayline Hew, his second in command.
As they descended, each dwarf with axe, sword and crossbow at the ready, licking dry lips, wondering what the fuck they were dropping down into, so the light softened, and increased, and within long languorous moments, like dreams through treacle, they found themselves in…
“Wyrmblood,” whispered Crayline, dark eyes shining.
They stood, surveying the incalculable wealth, a city built from tens of thousands of years of dragon rule. But… who knew? Maybe it had been here a million years. How long had the wyrms ruled the planet? How long had humans and dwarves been their slaves?
“We should split up,” said Val, taking charge and eyeing his group of hardy dwarves with a mixture of pride and open fear. Val was no warrior, no hard case; he was a Slave Warden, inadvertently propelled to the peak of his career without forethought or any real understanding of his duties. He’d been promoted above his natural ability, and then given a mission fit for a warrior. Val was proud of his accomplishments, but deep down, as all such people did, he really suspected he wasn’t up for the fight. Deep down, he knew he couldn’t do it, and it was only a twisted sense of pride that forced him to carry on. To step down, to step back, was unthinkable. He’d rather fall on his axe blade.
“In what way split up?” said Crayline, dark eyes locked on him.
Val shifted nervously under that unreadable gaze.
“This place is vast. We split into three groups and carry out a search.”
“These men, and women, about whom we speak. They are dangerous, no?”
“Yes.”
“So, better to hit them head on? With our full force?”
Val looked around, and swept out his arm. “But look at the size of this place! This is no normal city, Crayline. It could take us forever!”
“Well, you let me track, then,” she said, and smiled.
“You can track them?”
“How do you think we got this far?”
“Er. All right. So we all stay together?”
“That would seem the sensible option in terms of logistical firepower. And by that, I mean force of crossbow arms.”
“Of course, of course,” said Val, nodding, and scratching his chin, but secretly thinking if, if I can pull this off, then Lillith will be mine once more, my woman, my lover, my slave, my hobby, for me to do with as I will. Mine, to have and to hold, to love and nurture, to fuck and abuse. And she will grow to love me, despite the pain. I know she will. I know she will learn to enjoy me.
Crayline knelt, and for long moments crawled about on the gold cobbles. Then her head came up, and she pointed. “This way,” she said, and looked back at Val. “You trust me, right?” She smiled again. The smile of a shark. The smile of a weasel.
“Of course,” said Val, and coughed, trying to hide his eyes.
“Follow me, then.”
And the group of hardened dwarves set off across Wyrmblood, following the scent of the bastard intruders, those who had no right to set foot in the Five Havens, those who should, at the very sight of Wyrmblood, have been executed on the spot.
Because this was the city mentioned by the Church of Hate.
Wyrmblood was cursed in the Scriptures of Hate.
Here, it was, that the Great Dwarf Lords had imprisoned Volak, Moraxx and Kranesh.
Here, it was, that the Great Dwarf Lords had found immortality.
Fire Fight
Skalg soared, and was free.
He cast off the shackles of his flesh.
He left behind his weakened shell.
And… for the first time ever, was unfettered.
It was like nothing he could have ever dreamed. Even from being a small boy, he had been physically inferior to his fellow dwarves. In tests of strength, or stamina, or axe fighting, he had always been bottom of the class – the shitty scum under the others’ boots which they scraped off with a stick. Not for Skalg any praise and sweet cakes, honeyed wine and fresh dwarf bread. No. Only pain, as the wooden axe cracked his skull, humiliation, as other young dwarves laughed at his lack of prowess, his lack of physical attributes, his natural weakness, his natural co
wardice, his ingrained and very fucking real inferiority. And in shame, with cheeks burning red beneath his young beard, he crawled out of sight again and again and again.
There goes Skalg. What a fucking weakling!
Skalg! Hoi! Wait there, I need somewhere to rest my weary boots.
Ho! Skalg! You fucking dreg. Come back next year when you’ve grown a pair of real dwarf bollocks.
You say you have five silver? Hand it over. It’s mine now.
Pain. Beatings. Humiliation. Even from his brothers and sisters. Even from his parents.
You fucking useless child, why don’t you fuck off and fall down the Great Well?
Mama, Mama, Skalg has taken all the gravy again!
What? Take it off his plate!
I will do Mama, after all, it’s not like he’s going to fight me for it…
And that was Skalg. Weak. Spineless. A coward.
And then… a cripple. Which, bizarrely, changed him. The mine collapse finally showed him what the prospect of death could be like… and Skalg did not want to experience death. He walked the dark side of his own understanding, and realised what it would be like to lose that one tiny precious gift called life; he realised that, actually, to get anywhere in the Five Havens you didn’t just have to fight, you had to have fucking teeth.
And he’d done that.
Grown.
Experienced that.
But always, they laughed at him. Not to his face, not always; although those that did had a serious meeting with the Church of Hate’s Educators. No. They laughed at him behind his back. Because in dwarf society, more than any other society he had studied, the weakling, the cripple, was worthless.
To have a strong back was the epitome of being dwarf.
Thousands of generations of miners. Digging. Breaking rock. Searching out precious gems and silver and gold. That was what being a dwarf meant. Stocky. Powerful. Able to find the gold to feed his family.
That was the dwarven way.
A cripple? With a twisted spine. A hunchback?
One might as well be dead…
But now, now, now, ah…
Skalg soared, he flew, his hazy mind sending impulses as he unfolded his great wings and cracked them against the sky, lifting himself high above Vagandrak and surveying the world below with incredibly powerful and sensitive eyes…
There, a village. Tiny people running, screaming.
Skalg took a deep breath, enjoying the scent of fire which lingered around his nostrils, and he straightened his spine, which crackled softly, tucked in his claws, folded back his wings, and dived towards that bright green-grey world below…
People screamed and shouted and ran, waving their arms in panic.
Skalg felt the most incredible exhilaration he had ever experienced. He felt not just powerful, but as close to god as one could ever hope to get. He was on a higher level than the Great Dwarf Lords, for although they, so they claimed, had transcended the physical realm, become something more than dwarf, here, and now, Skalg felt like nothing from beneath the stars could ever halt his progress.
Moraxx swept in, inhaled, allowed her glands to relax, and breathed a jet of pure white fire as she slammed down the street, chasing little running people. Several were caught in her blast, and ignited, burning as they ran.
Skalg targeted a woman, a succulent, plump woman with shoulder-length blonde hair and buxom bouncing breasts which wobbled and jiggled as she ran. He caught her in his jaws, lifting now, flapping his wings with a boom which he knew made the villagers’ ears bleed. He held her gently, and she was in shock so didn’t struggle; but then some form of courage, or a primitive need to survive, returned, and she began to struggle violently. So, as he flapped his wings, rising into the sky, Skalg squeezed his teeth just that little bit tighter, and there came a gentle pop, and she didn’t struggle any more.
* * *
Skalg squatted on a rolling hillside. Night was falling. The sun was a bloated orange corpse caressing the horizon.
He looked down at the woman, lying limp and twisted on the grass. She was broken, her spine snapped, but she was not dead. Her eyes followed Skalg as he moved, backwards and forwards, strutting, trying out his new body, testing the muscles, and how his thought impulses made everything work.
“Hel… ” she said.
Skalg nodded, dropping his huge dragon head towards her. She shrieked, but could not move. Tears ran down her cheeks. Snot ran from her nose. Blood ran from her anus and vagina, and Skalg’s nostrils twitched, recognising the reek, the stink, of human discharge.
Who are you? What are you?
An internal voice spoke, and the words came unbidden from the depths of his subconscious and Skalg frowned, though it was not possible to do so. He frowned mentally, at least.
I am Skalg. Who are you?
I am Moraxx.
I am unfamiliar with the name.
I am Moraxx, the killer of humans, the eater of dwarves, imprisoned for thousands of years, my mind churning, burning, disintegrating until I could break free and FUCKING SLAUGHTER EVERYTHING THAT MOVES ON THIS FUCKING PLANET…
Skalg was blasted back by the onslaught, and he realised, suddenly realised, that although the Great Dwarf Lords had placed him inside the mind of a dragon, Moraxx the dragon, her mind was also still in there. Displaced, but not dead.
Tricky.
Skalg stalked around the wounded woman on the hillside. The sun was sinking behind the rolling hills, rays fanning out in pretty red streamers. He moved close, dipped his head, and sniffed the woman.
She screamed, and screamed, and screamed.
Bizarrely, the noise hurt his head, so gently, he reached out, nuzzled her, then taking her body in his jaws, he bit her in half. The noise stopped. Two body parts fell. Blood pumped out, staining the grass; staining the soil and infecting the world.
Skalg felt…
Nothing.
He looked up at the sky, saw the infinity of stars stretching out beyond the cool blue yonder. A sudden urge came upon him. He could flap his great wings, leap up into the air, and accelerate until he reached those stars, and became a part of that glittering tapestry; and by doing that, he would live forever… merged, into an infinity of space and time.
The voice, again.
You are in my mind. You are in my body.
I have a mission.
I am MORAXX. You do not have permission!
I am here by the will of the Great Dwarf Lords…
A sneer. Oh. Those cunts. We WILL catch up with them, sooner or later, and when we do it will be a happy day for the sycophants. For we will burn them hotter than anything has ever burned in this world before…
Interesting, thought Skalg.
Why interesting?
Because, and Skalg savoured the words, because YOU are my slave, and I have your body, and you are MY sycophant. I have all the power. The might. The fury. The hate. And ultimately, the fire…
Moraxx began a reply, but with a scream Skalg sent the mind spinning away. He pumped his wings, leaping up into the dying sky, and powered upwards, eyes seeking out the stars.
Flying…
The land falling far behind.
Distant.
A blue and green pastel scene, tinged crimson by a forlorn and dying sun.
Exhilaration grabbed him. Upwards, he surged.
Onwards.
His dragon shell was vibrating now, each scale shimmering, and as he passed a crescent of the world so the sun came up once more, swinging into view, and crimson light bathed him like a blood shower. He welcomed it. Welcomed the world. Welcomed this, the complete and utter freedom to be all powerful, to do absolutely whatever he wanted…
And the blood of the innocents?
Skalg thought about it.
And his mind went hard.
Fuck them, he thought.
The weak deserve to die.
He flew, heading for the stars…
No. Not yet.
Why?
&n
bsp; You are there. For a reason.
I remember no reason.
You will kill the other dragons, then return and destroy the eggs.
Skalg considered this. A tiny spark ignited in his mind. And that great triangular head nodded.
Yes.
Skalg shifted his shoulder, dipping it, dropping it, and listening carefully, he could hear the distant destruction wreaked by Kranesh.
He twisted, and suddenly dropped like a meteorite towards the world of Vagandrak far far below…
* * *
Gavi was happy. No, Gavi was ecstatic. He toddled across the straw floor, and grabbed hold of the rough-sawn bench by the table. He beamed up at Mama. Mama was busy sewing, her face narrowed in concentration, eyes focussed, and Gavi gurgled up at Mama, giving his biggest round smile as the happiness coursed through him… because he knew, knew more than anything, that Dada would be home soon. Mama said Dada had been deep in the forest cutting down the BIG TREES with other men of the village, and that’s why he had been so long gone. And Gavi had spent THREE WHOLE DAYS imagining Dada out in the woods with the other men, his big hands clutching his big axe, and swinging it with big powerful strokes to cut down the BIG TREES. The time had gone slowly, stretched off forever, and although Mama did fun things, played games with him, told him stories about the wolves in the forest and the noble dragons in the sky, tales of kings and princesses and witches and magick, of lost treasure and fun pirates, it wasn’t the same without Dada there, because although Gavi loved Mama, loved her with all his heart, Dada was a GIANT and Dada was a GOD and nothing in the world would get between Gavi and his Dada.
Mama was busy, so Gavi toddled across the floor to the little stool. Mama had told him never to touch the little stool, because if he climbed on the little stool he might fall off and land on his face, and then he’d have an ugly twisted face like Padda Wa who lived in a cave and threw stones at children. But this time, this time Gavi knew it would be all right because Dada was coming home and he wanted to stand on the little stool and look out the window and be the first to see Dada walking down the mud road.
