Twilight of the Dragons

by Andy Remic

  Beetrax stepped back, chest heaving, and stared at Val.

  “I’m going to fuck you,” he snarled, eyes narrowing.

  “That’s what Lillith used to say. Every. Fucking. Night.”

  Beetrax growled, his fury white hot and beyond redemption. And yet there was a hint of panic there; because Val, despite appearances, was an incredibly talented fighter. He might look like a weasel that’d had its head bashed in with a mallet, and he might have a streak of cowardice that made him run more often than fight, but with a blade he was damned accurate. And he was cutting Beetrax up. Beetrax was just too slow and lumbering for the speedy little fucker.

  Trax attacked, axe slamming down, but Val dodged and sparks screamed from the walkway. Another dwarf attacked from behind, and Beetrax’s axe cut his head clean off, where it sailed across the void, to land, nestled amidst the dragon eggs, face contorted into a morbid comedy look of shock.

  Val attacked, and Beetrax stumbled back, barely able to ward off the blades.

  And then, he knew.

  He was too old, too weak, too injured, too broken. The fire had gone. His will had gone. He’d seen Lillith fall, and in his terror, he was flailing like a madman, trusting his strength and size and experience, when in reality, he just needed his woman back. His fucking muse. Or at least, to know she was still alive. To know he had something worth fighting for.

  Val was far too skilled.

  Normally, Beetrax would have had him by now. But he was a broken soldier. He was kicked down in the gutter, and there was little he could do to crawl back out again.

  From the mist, Lillith rose like a goddess. Her clothing was splattered in blood, her hair drenched in blood, but her face was serene and her eyes held raging fire. She stood, hand clutching her chest from the crossbow quarrel impact, but her eyes shifted and she gazed across that expanse of mist and those mystical orbs fastened on Beetrax.

  I love you, that look said.

  I love you.

  Val screamed, and came in for the kill. Beetrax welcomed him, feinting, allowing Val in close, then taking Val’s dagger in the guts with a grunt; allowing him the blow. The pain was incredible, unbearable, white fire raging through Beetrax’s flesh as the knife drove in deep. Val was there, in his face, grinning like a village idiot.

  “I have you now, axeman,” he grunted, and jabbed the knife further.

  Beetrax’s axe clattered to the walkway.

  His fingers clenched and unclenched.

  His gaze met Lillith’s.

  She nodded.

  Kill him, her eyes said, giving him the permission he sought.

  And she smiled.

  Beetrax looked into the face of Val, the Slave Warden, the torturer, the rapist, and he smiled a smile so profound Val’s eyes opened in shock, even though his blade was deep in Beetrax’s guts.

  Beetrax’s hands came up, and grasped Val’s head.

  “What are you doing?” he shrieked.

  “You stabbed me, lad.”

  “Yes, yes!”

  “And I agree, you’re better ’an me with a blade. You got me foxed there.” Beetrax’s face fell into thunder. It was the centre of a death storm. “But you got too close, you dumb, arrogant cunt.” And his hands began to squeeze, and Val began to scream, his hand falling from the blood-drenched dagger in Beetrax’s belly, both hands coming up and grabbing Beetrax’s powerful arms and hands, slapping at them, pulling at them, as Beetrax started crushing Val’s skull between his great bear paws.

  Hearing the cries, a dwarf ran at Beetrax. Beetrax was oblivious in his totally focussed hate.

  Talon’s arrow took the dwarf through the eye, emerging from the back of his skull on a shower of blood and eyeball jelly.

  Beetrax moved his face close to Val’s. He stared into his eyes. He stared into the dwarf’s soul, as his immense hands and powerful muscles exerted a bone-crushing pressure on the struggling Slave Warden.

  “When she screamed,” growled Beetrax, “did it sound like this?” He pushed harder, and there was a crack of skull, and Val screamed, long and hard, wailing, hands once again pulling and pushing and grabbing and slapping and clawing.

  “Stop, stop, please stop,” he wailed.

  “I’m sure that’s what Lillith said to you,” whispered Beetrax, straight into Val’s face. “But you didn’t, did you, you fucking little rapist little cunt fucking maggot. Well, you want to know something, pretty boy? You controlled her. And you controlled me. And now I control you. And guess what? My control manifests in the way I crush your fucking rapist’s skull.”

  Veins were standing out on his arms, his neck, his forehead, and Beetrax’s hands shifted around and his thumbs pushed into Val’s eyes, pushed through his eyes, and into his brain, and with a final, awesome exertion of pressure, he broke Val’s skull and ended his life.

  Beetrax let Val fall with a slap, and stared down at his bloody hands, almost in wonder.

  He staggered back, panting, face purple with exertion.

  “If there’s one thing I hate,” he whispered, “it’s fucking rapists.”

  * * *

  Dake and Talon were fighting as a team, and wreaking bloody havoc on the attacking dwarves. Crayline and Sakora were equally matched, and this galled Sakora. After her decades of training, to find this dwarf bitch who equalled her… and with a fucking dagger in her eye socket!

  They exchanged blows, and a kick sent Crayline’s sword clattering across the walkway. Sakora hit her with a left straight, a front kick, then a side kick to the chest that sent her staggering back. Crayline bent over, gasping, and so Sakora leapt in for the kill, right hand coming down to…

  Crayline shifted, subtly, and her hand suddenly struck out, fingers forming a point, a blade, which hit Sakora in the throat. Sakora’s own blow struck Crayline’s shoulder, without effect. Crayline followed with a second blow to the throat, in the same spot, and Sakora staggered back, hands coming up, choking, and dropped slowly to her knees…

  Crayline dismissed her, turned, and with dagger in hand, ran and leapt on Beetrax’s back. He let out a roar, and Crayline drove her dagger into Beetrax’s neck. There came a spurt of blood, and Beetrax spun around, dropping his axe, his fist lashing up, hitting Crayline in the nose. But she held on, driving the dagger deeper into the space between neck and clavicle, and Beetrax cried out, dropping to his knees, Crayline still riding him like a dying horse…

  Sakora, face now purple, also dropped to her knees. She could not breathe. Her windpipe had been crushed.

  Talon rushed to her, but two stocky dwarves got in his way, their axes swinging, and he began a savage battle for survival, sword dancing, stabbing, deflecting, as all the time he watched Sakora keel over, face purple, grappling with her own throat. Talon ducked, stabbing out, drawing his blade across a dwarf’s femoral artery; blood washed down like a torrid waterfall and the dwarf screamed, all interest in battle suddenly forgotten. The second dwarf leapt forward, onto the point of Talon’s sword, snapping it half way down the blade. Talon let go, and ran to Sakora.

  But she was still. Eyes fixed. Motionless. Dead.

  * * *

  Jael remembered sitting in the forest, listening to the trees. It was as if they spoke to him, and him alone, whispering his name, and whispering their secrets. The smell of the forest filled him, like some rare perfume, and he’d always felt as if he belonged. This was his place, his time, his sanctuary. Nothing could touch him here. Nothing could hurt him. It was a place, a world, of gentle tranquillity. A place where bad things didn’t happen.

  And as Jael grew up, he believed it. Believed in the innocence. Believed in the concept of his own private Haven.

  Until the robbers came, and murdered his family, and set his life on a very different and savage path.

  When Beetrax and the others had rescued him from torture, it had been, quite literally, a dream come true. Here were the heroes from his history books in school, but more, here was Beetrax, Beetrax the Axeman, a legend amongst
him and his friends. In the school field they used to re-enact Beetrax’s finest moments, the tale of single combat on the Greggan Field; the rescue of Princess Emilia Ladine when she was but a child, from a horrible mud-orc kill squad; but more than ever, the tales of heroism on the walls of Desekra Fortress fighting the mud-orcs and Orlana the Changer, the Horse Lady, from the Furnace. In the school field, they’d always argued as to who was playing the part of Beetrax the Axeman.

  And then here he was!

  On an adventure… with Beetrax the Axeman!

  Only, he had crumbled at the first sign of danger. Of torture. And Beetrax, being Beetrax, had turned on him.

  Jael whimpered, and shifted slightly, gloss black swimming before him. Where am I? What’s happening?

  His eyes flickered open.

  He could hear the sounds of battle. Steel on steel. Shouts. Cries. Wails. Thuds, like impacts in flesh.

  And for once, he was not frightened.

  His hand reached behind him, to his lower back. He was bleeding, but both bolts had entered through his thick leather belt. And although they stuck in his flesh, and the pain burned him like nothing he’d ever felt in his entire life, the leather had acted as armour – and saved a deeper penetration of steel.

  Jael rolled over. Tears ran down his face. One leg twitched, and wouldn’t work right.

  He could see figures, shimmering through a haze. He pulled out his dagger. Nobody would call him a coward this time. Nobody would call him a coward ever again!

  Jael crawled to his knees, then his feet, and gripped his dagger tightly. Sakora had given it to him, and it was perfectly balanced steel, razor sharp. As his vision cleared, so he saw Sakora go down, choking. Talon was fighting two dwarves. Dake was being pushed back towards the dragon eggs. And Beetrax…

  Jael watched, in disbelief, as Crayline leapt on his back, and stabbed downwards, her dagger entering Beetrax’s neck.

  “No!” he screamed, staggering forward.

  Beetrax punched her, but she clung to him like a parasite; unshakeable. And Jael saw Trax’s strength fade in an instant with that stab wound. His eyes shifted. He saw another stab wound in Beetrax’s belly. And yet still the giant axeman wouldn’t die.

  His axe was on the platform, battered and bloody.

  Jael stumbled forward some more, and looked at his own dagger. Then he reached for Beetrax’s axe, stooped, lifted it with a grunt, and lifted his head. Beetrax had spun around. Crayline was right there, before him, hanging on to her dagger, driving it deeper into Beetrax’s neck and revelling in his agony, in his grunts and gasps.

  Jael hefted the axe, stepped forward, took a mighty swing and planted a blade in Crayline Hew’s back. She stiffened, suddenly, went rigid, and then fell away from Beetrax to lie, quivering, bleeding, on the platform.

  Beetrax, on his knees, turned his head and looked at Jael. Pain twisted his face, but he forced a smile.

  “Thanks, lad,” he said, and keeled over onto his side, where he lay still.

  Jael looked down at Crayline. She was trembling, her spine split, her legs twitching, her bladder opening. Urine trickled out, smelling acrid.

  Jael stepped forward, looked down at the bitch who had shot an unprotected Lillith in the chest. He grimaced, lifted Beetrax’s axe, and brought it down with a thud, planting it securely in the centre of her chest.

  Crayline Hew dribbled blood, and lay still.

  Talon and Dake killed the last of the dwarves, and a sudden, bleak silence fell over the chamber. The machinery across the wall still twisted and turned, clicked and clocked and spun, and Lillith walked through the mist, which parted, as if to offer her a reverent pathway. She climbed onto the walkway, and surveyed the carnage. Val was dead. Crayline was dead. Even as she watched, Jael fell to one side, and passed into a state of unconsciousness. Lillith moved to Sakora, and knelt for a moment, but the Kaaleesh expert was gone; her soul fluttered away on angel wings.

  Finally, Lillith moved to Beetrax, and as Talon and Dake looked on, speechless, Lillith reached down and cradled his face.

  “I love you,” she said, leaning over him, and blood from her own wounds fell on him like a gentle, crimson rain, staining his face, staining his beard, running into his eyes, and running into his mouth; into his still, lifeless mouth.

  “I’ll love you until the stars go out,” she said to the dead body of Beetrax.

  And beneath their feet, the ground started to shake.

  Intensity

  “I love you,” she said.

  “I know,” he said, and gave an impish grin.

  She punched him gently on the chest, then snuggled closer, moved into him, her cheek against his shirt, against his chest, then lifting slightly, nose nuzzling up below his beard.

  “You washed your beard,” she said.

  “Of course,” he said. There was a pause. “I knew I was seeing you tonight, didn’t I?”

  She giggled, and it was so pure, so innocent, so beautiful, he felt his heart melt and fall down over itself, again, and again, and again.

  Candlelight painted the walls with gold.

  Below them, the university library, closed now due to the late hour, seemed to sigh, and settle, a million years of gathered knowledge, gently coated in dust, a billion words of learning, all waiting to be discovered.

  Lillith was Head Librarian at Vagandrak’s University Library. High above the shelves, above the gathered knowledge, was an office. One had to ascend by ladder, and it was reasonably inaccessible to the uninitiated; but it was there, a well-kept secret passed from Head Librarian to Head Librarian, down through the centuries. There was a table, two chairs and a low bed of oak struts, with a straw-filled mattress which had seen better decades. Lillith suspected the hideaway was for the occasional night the Head Librarian got carried away with his or her studies, or duties, and sought a brief slumber before returning to acts of librarianship. She, however, had other plans.

  On the floor stood a half-finished bottle of Vagandrak Red, candlelight glinting from ruby depths. On a circular wooden platter were a selection of cured hams, salami, a variety of cheeses, and thick slices of buttered bread. All were untouched, however, as Beetrax sat, his chest naked, his boots kicked into a corner, gazing at his love.

  “This is a special place,” he said.

  Lillith nodded, and she kissed his chest, one hand working its way through the curled hair she found there.

  “I like it here.”

  “I like it here, also,” she said, and gave a little bite to his nipple. He made an inward hiss through his teeth, huge muscles tensing, then relaxing a little. “Come. Why don’t you lie down?”

  “Er. If you’re sure?”

  “I’m sure,” she said, smiling, one hand brushing aside her long, thick plaits of hair.

  The oak struts creaked. Straw prickled Beetrax’s skin, poking through the mattress like tiny needles. But he did not mind. He did not care. He was smashed away, as if hit by a helve. His senses swam. The world didn’t make sense any more. The world didn’t work. His logic was broken.

  She kissed him.

  Her kiss was soft, and sweet, and tender. Realising he could be an oaf, Beetrax responded with gentility, not wanting to make a donkey of himself, and he learnt an amazing fact in that long, lingering moment of candlelit intimacy. The more gentle he was, the more passionately Lillith responded.

  She pulled away. Handed him a wooden cup of Vagandrak Red. Instead of guzzling, as he normally would have in the drinking piss pits he frequented, he sipped the wine, as he had seen men in fine top coats with silly hats do. The need was still there, to chuck the wine down his neck in one, but he controlled his hand, watching Lillith over the top of the carved oak cup.

  She reached for the platter, took bread, placed salami and cheese on the buttered slab, and handed it to Beetrax.

  “Eat,” she said.

  He took the food. “I’m not sure how hungry I am,” he said, voice just a little husky.

  “But I ne
ed you to keep up your strength.”

  “Ahh.” He reddened, even in the candlelight.

  “Not for that, you oaf,” she smiled, punching him on the bicep. There came a dull thwack. “You said you’d help me move those fifty boxes of books. Over by the rear doors, by the tomes on Ye Anciente Magick.”

  “Ahh. Yes. So I did.” He deflated a little, and took a bite from his slab of food.

  “That was a joke,” she said, moving closer, fast, her breathing coming in short gasps as she straddled him and he dropped his food to the floor, spilt wine down his chest, and laughed as she rode him backwards, and his head hit the straw pillows, and she was on him, kissing him, her hands stroking his face and neck and chest and arms. He kissed her back, more passionately this time, and long into the night the candles burned low, and they made love several times, each time slower and longer and with more deeply ingrained intensity, until Beetrax knew that he knew her, knew that she had melted and flooded into his soul, knew that, insane as it seemed, for those long moments when he was inside her, they had become one, become a part of the same creature and that creature would last forever. It had to. Because of the intensity of their love.

  Memory Echoes

  Chaos had come to the Five Havens. A breakdown in law and order, a breakdown in church rule, the arrival of anarchy. Dwarves ran through the streets, hacking at one another with axes, looting shops and houses, setting fire to churches.

  “Where are the Great Dwarf Lords?” the people would scream.

  “Where is our Dragon Engine?”

  “Where is King Irlax?”

  “Where is the Church of Eternal Hate when you fucking need it?”

  “Where is First Cardinal Skalg?”

  Nobody could give them answers, and so chaos beat down the door and began a savage party, with only destruction, fire and death as companions.

  * * *