by Andy Remic
“His family will also be put to death,” said Blagger.
Razor stared at him.
“Yes,” said Blagger.
“There’s another loose end.”
“There is?”
Skalg looked sideways at Razor, as if to say, where the fuck did you find this one?
“We’ll take care of it,” said Razor, and moved to Blagger, helping the huge Educator to his feet. “Come on. We need to give Fire Sergeant Takos a ride home.”
“A ride… oh, I see.”
The Educators moved out of the room, and Razor closed the door with a heavy click. Skalg moved to the eyeless corpse, and lifted the head by its blood-drenched hair. He stared into the mangled, bloody, eyeless sockets, and said, “We’ll find you, you bastards. We’ll find you and fucking destroy you. See if we don’t.” He let the head fall with sodden thump, and limped, almost crab-like, from the blood-stained room now so reminiscent of a cattle slaughterhouse.
Making Friends
BEEXTRAX STOOD with fists on hips, breathing the chilled morning air, having enjoyed a full fried breakfast of pig slices, five eggs, black pudding and mushrooms, with huge chunks of toasted black bread smothered in fresh butter and damn near a gallon of over-sweet tea. He belched, and rolled his neck, and scratched his bushy ginger beard.
“Ach, life feels good!”
He beamed at the frosty clear sky, then ambled over to the stables, patting his overlarge belly, and gave a nod to the stable boy. A few minutes later his boots were planted on the gravel, as he fitted a brush over his hand, and started to groom Bella, his grey mare, with long, sweeping strokes. She whinnied, head coming round to nuzzle Beetrax, and with his free hand he patted her velvet snout. “There there, good girl. You know who looks after you, eh lass?”
“They say when a man talks to his horse, he has truly gone mad.”
“I went mad a long time ago, brother.”
Beetrax turned and smiled at Dake, who stood in the entrance of The Fighting Cocks, wearing baggy trews, a ruffled white shirt, with braces hanging down by his sides. His cavalry boots were scuffed and face full of dark stubble. He held a tin mug of tea, from which steam slowly rose, and he took a sip and touched his forehead gently with the splayed fingers of his left hand.
“Gods, how much did I drink?”
“Enough to drop a Shire horse.”
“That’s why I feel like this!”
Beetrax brushed Bella. The mare gave a gentle whinny. “You have a good night, Dake?” He gave a leering grin, and Dake shook his head. “You know, after you left us, and went to bed, like?”
“Yeah, I had a good night. What about you?”
“I woke up on a bench with a full flagon of ale balanced on my chest. Damn, but I hurt my shoulder. Must’ve slept funny.”
“You left a full flagon? That’s not like you, Beetrax. Must be getting old.”
“No worries. I drank it right down for breakfast. Lined my stomach for the pig slices and eggs.” He belched again, as if to emphasise just how much he had enjoyed the fine breakfast dining at The Fighting Cocks.
“I can’t believe you ate breakfast.” Dake looked ill, tinged with green.
“Ha! It’s the only way to mop up the ale.”
Beetrax stopped his brushing and took a step back, admiring his handiwork. Then he studied his fingers for a few moments, before looking up at Dake, then glancing away. “Look, Dake. About last night…”
“Don’t worry. We’re still coming with you. One week from now.”
“Yes yes,” he waved a paw, “I know that. I just wanted to say, you know, sorry, like, about what we was talking about.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“None of us had any idea.”
“I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“Yes. Yes. Sure. It’s only–”
“Beetrax!”
Beetrax looked at his friend.
“Yes, Dake?”
“This is why we never told anybody. It’s not a topic for discussion. And every time you mention it, you make the pain feel that little bit more real. So please – just treat me and Jonti like normal. We’d appreciate it.”
Beetrax strode forward, and grabbed Dake in a hug, spilling hot tea down both their shirts. Through his beard, he mumbled, “It’s just, I love you both, and I want you to know I’d die for you both.”
Crushed by the huge axeman, Dake wriggled. “Yes, thank you, I already know it. Now please get off me, you stink of ale, eggs and black pudding! And sweat. And… horses? Gods, Beetrax, do you ever bathe?”
“Got one lined up! Er. In a few days.”
“I advise sooner, rather than later,” smiled Dake kindly, stepping backwards.
There came a sound from the tavern, and small man stepped out pulling on a heavy overcoat. He had short hair, spiked irregularly, a narrow, angular face and sharp dark eyes. He was modest of stature, but moved with a purpose and poise that showed he could handle himself. His eyes cast over the large axeman, and settled on Dake. He gave a narrow smile.
“Well met, Dake.”
“And you, Weasel. Are you keeping well?”
“As well as any man can,” he said, and buttoned up the heavy coat. Again, his eyes roved over Beetrax, eyeing up his massive physique, brutal flat face and military tattoos.
“Friend of yours?” said Weasel, with a casual air that wasn’t.
“I certainly am,” rumbled Beetrax, “and if you don’t stop talking about me like I ain’t here, I’ll come over give you a good shake, just to show you I’m real, like.”
“A bristly one as well, eh Dake?”
“Right,” snapped Beetrax.
“Whoa, big fella,” said Dake, moving in front of Beetrax and placing a restraining hand on the axeman’s huge bicep. “Weasel here helps run the fighting pits; he’s always on the lookout for new talent, isn’t that so, Weasel?”
“I certainly am.” He smiled, but it was a smile with little humour. “If you can fight, a big man like you could make some real money in the pits.”
“But not as much as you, eh Weasel?” Beetrax grinned like a corpse. “Listen. I done my time in the pits before you was a nipper. Now, I am a man of independent means, and don’t need to crack skulls to prove anything.”
“A shame,” said Weasel, with that same narrow smile. “You fought under Tanker Kal?”
“I did.”
“So you’d know Dek, then?”
“Aye, I know Dek. We had a couple of disagreements, me and that cantankerous bastard. He’s the one knocked one of these teeth out.”
Weasel looked impressed.
Dake coughed. “I seem to recall it was late one night, after considerable wine, and you said his wife had the face of a horse’s bollock sack?”
“No, no,” Beetrax held up his hand, shaking his head. “She wasn’t his wife.”
“Well you did well then, sir.”
“Well?”
“To still be walking. He broke a man’s spine last week.”
Dake winced. Beetrax’s eyes showed no emotion. “’Tis the risk you take when you fight in the pits. But then, Dek did well to walk away from me.” He smiled.
“He did? How so?”
“He didn’t win.”
“You sure, lad?”
Beetrax grinned, and continued to groom Bella. “We fought each other to a standstill. Three times we went back into that mud-slippery shit-hole, after the bruises had gone down, after the bones had mended; each time we fought each other to exhaustion and neither of us could beat the other.”
Weasel cocked his head. “Ah. That Beetrax. Trax. I remember your name, now. I heard the tales.”
“No tales, little fella.”
Weasel gave a long, sly grin. “Less of the ‘little fella’, if you don’t mind. In these parts I’m a respectable businessman. Last man to call me a ‘little fella’ got a blade between the ribs.”
Beetrax shrugged, and turned his back on Weasel. He
continued to groom Bella, presenting his broad back as if to say, there you go, little fella, stab away as much as you like.
Weasel pulled on a pair of gloves, and gave a shiver against the cold. “Not very friendly, is he?”
“He grows on you,” said Dake, smiling.
“Well, tell him if he changes his mind I can be found here, usually on a Sunday afternoon.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Oh yes. Dake. A word of advice for an old friend. A couple of merchants came in yesterday. All cut up. Said there’s a new batch of bandits on the road north out of Drakerath. Just if you was travelling in that direction. Yoon is supposed to keep the roads free, but with more recent cuts to the army…”
“Thanks for the warning, Weasel. We’re heading northeast.”
“You got business in Rokroth?”
“No, we’ll be heading up towards Skell Forest.”
“You becoming a woodcutter, my friend?”
Dake grinned. “It’s a long story.”
Weasel gave a short wave, and disappeared from the courtyard, down the cobbled street. There was some life outside on this bitterly cold morning, the clatter of iron-bound wheels, some chatter; but the city seemed sluggish in coming to life, as if a shroud of weariness had dropped over its ancient stones.
Beetrax moved back to Dake, scratching at his chest. “What did he say?”
“Bandits, on the north road.”
“Ach, horse bollocks. They won’t be no trouble for the likes of us.”
“I’m sure the City Watch will have sorted it out before we pass anywhere near.” Beetrax was staring at him. “What?”
“Have you had any breakfast yet? Come on, I’m going back inside. I’ll buy you a feed fit for a king!”
Dake looked aghast. “Beetrax, you’ve already eaten.”
The big man loomed close. “I’m a growing lad, ain’t I?”
For Beetrax, the next few days were spent gathering together weapons, provisions, and checking the packing of his saddlebags. Beetrax wanted to travel light, and yet knew they had a substantial journey and therefore had to take a goodly amount of provisions. The roads north of Skell Forest were used for some small amount of trade, but eventually the villages ran out and various treacherous mountain passes had to be traversed. Due to the hostility of the terrain, few travelled north towards the Karamakkos Peaks; there was no reason other than insanity.
Beetrax, however, had been there before. He knew it was tough, but it was doable. And he had a secret weapon. He knew about the bridges – the Ice Bridges of Sakaroth – and how to reach the long deserted underground ruins of the Five Havens. That was the irony; the Five Havens were only accessible during the winter months, the very time most would decide against battling the mighty Teeth of the World. In the summer months, the Grey Chasm was impassable. Utterly and totally.
As the following weekend approached, Beetrax was getting worried. He sat in The Fighting Cocks growing more and more nervous; and the more nervous he became, the more he drank. And the more he drank, the more chance of a fight and injury that would halt his little adventure in its tracks.
They might not come.
Of course they’ll come!
Dake and Jonti, for sure. Talon, yes. But Lillith and Sakora? You’re not exactly their favourite bearded axeman of the year…
Beetrax sat in a corner, nursing his ale and fretting. This made him angry, because he wasn’t the sort of rough-and-tumble head-cracker who fretted about nothing; and yet here he was, mumbling to himself like a teenage virgin at the first sight of ready moist quim.
Damn, what’s wrong with you, axeman?
Shut up. It’ll be all right! They’ll come! Trust in your friends.
I trust in no man, woman or god. They might not turn up!
Damn…
“You staring at us?”
Beetrax blinked, and looked up. The young man was clearly the worse for wear, swaying and holding a flagon of ale, most of which appeared in an inverted V down his tunic. It was the material of the tunic which made Beetrax narrow his eyes. Vagan silk, edged with silver thread. A noble’s tunic. Ah, but damn. Beetrax took in the pock-marked face, the neatly trimmed hair – not done with a freshly sharpened short sword, like Beetrax’s own shaggy mop, but with a proper razor – and small goatee beard which sheared neatly into curved sideboards.
Gods, that sort of facial sculpting, that kind of narcissistic blade-work, it must take him ages! What’s the point, eh lad? When you have a face like it’s been trampled by a diarrheic donkey?
Beetrax smiled, shook his head in the negative. “What, little old me? No, friend, I’m simply sitting here minding my own fine business, like. Thanks for calling over to say hello, though. I appreciate your attempt at brotherhood.” He beamed, and waited.
“My lady friend, Jallenta, she reckons you were staring at her.” He gestured vaguely behind himself with his flagon, to where a woman who had the extruded face of a horse, was lying across a table, head resting on one arm, snoring. She, also, wore a fine embroidered dress of red and purple. Beetrax’s eyes dropped to her boots. Fine soft leather. No scuffs. No mud.
Beetrax took a deep breath, eyes searching for the landlord. But The Fighting Cocks was filling up fast and he was lost somewhere in the throng at the bar. By the Seven Sisters, how do I manage to attract trouble all the time? Eh? Why does it come looking for me like a bull after a flapping, slack-jawed idiot?
“Look, friend, turn around and go away. I don’t want no trouble.”
“She said you were staring at her bosom.” The man bared his teeth, in what Beetrax thought was a snarl.
“Right. For a start, I can’t even see her tits from here. And if her face is anything to go by, I’d be more after grooming her horse mane than trying to fumble with her nipples. But that’s by the by, friend. You need to turn around and fuck off before I break your stupid nose. Then your jaw. Maybe a few fucking teeth.”
Beetrax stood, suddenly, and loomed over the well-groomed youth. The man looked up, swaying a little, and Beetrax was annoyed that his sheer size didn’t make the little scamp run for his mother’s milk tits.
The man wagged his finger, and belched. “My name is Daron. I’ll be back.” He turned and slid into the crowd.
“Right,” mumbled Beetrax. “Time for a swift exit.” He downed his flagon, belched, rolled his neck and pushed his way through the throng.
This was the end of the working week for most, and the ’Cocks was full of mostly labourers, smiths, hard-working men ready for a few ales after a week of breaking their backs. They were boisterous but mostly friendly; Beetrax’s sort of men.
He passed the table with the snoring woman wearing fine boots, and then made for the stairs. They had a long journey ahead of them on the ’morrow, last thing Beetrax needed was a belly full of ale, broken knuckles and three nights in the city cells. He passed the bar, shouldering a couple of rough-looking men out of the way with a muttered apology, down a narrow corridor, then right to the stairs leading up to the accommodation on the floor above. He started up, wincing a little as his knee and hip twinged with pain, legacy of an old injury, a fall from a cantankerous stallion during a cavalry charge, way back, years ago, nothing more than a hazy dream from older, better days.
Five stairs. Eight. Halfway. A voice from above.
“Where are you going, old man?”
Beetrax cursed, glancing up. It was Daron, with his silk tunic and trampled face. He seemed a little more sober, and this was odd. What was not odd was the short dark blade in his fist.
“Listen son, I did nothing wrong,” said Beetrax, turning at the sound from the bottom of the rough-sawn stairs. Two broad-shouldered men. Both carrying blades.
Beetrax gave a narrow, bloodless smile.
“I beg to differ, you unwashed, common scum,” said Daron, advancing slowly down the steps. Behind Beetrax, the two large soldier-types began to climb. Beetrax weighed up his options, sighed, and charged up at Daron.
The charge was a surprise, and the blade came up as Beetrax batted it aside with his left forearm, grabbed Daron’s bollocks in a meaty grip with his right, and delivered a bone-crunching head-butt that broke the young man’s nose.
Beetrax stared at the squealing face beneath him, blood-drenched, jaw working sporadically as Beetrax’s iron grip crushed his testicles, and images flickered and flashed into the axeman’s brain, older days, darker days, on the walls at Desekra, slamming his axe into a mud-orc’s face, watching brains splatter over the battlements, watching his friends squirming in their own blood and sloppy puddles of disembowelment. And then it was gone in a flash of relief and Beetrax cannoned back to the present.
His left hand grabbed the man’s windpipe, and by throat and balls, he picked him up and hurled him down the narrow stairwell. A tossed ragdoll, he cannoned into his companions and all three went tumbling down the hard wood steps. Beetrax fancied he heard some bones break. He charged down after the flailing limbs, jumping from the mid-point, not caring where his boots landed, or whom he crushed. His boots thudded home, one against a skull, another against ribs, and then he was on his knees punching all three men in a squirming mass of limbs and bodies and faces. A knife flashed past his face, but he nudged back, the steel carving past his eyes. He grabbed the arm and broke it with a crunch. More punches, and then suddenly everything was still in the dimly lit corridor.
Mumbling and groaning, Beetrax grabbed one man by the legs and dragged him along the corridor, back-kicking the door open and pulling the man onto the icy cobbles. The cold hit Beetrax, and he shivered, but now he had a clear mission before him. If anybody called the City Watch, there’d be questions, and arrests, and pointless wasted time. Beetrax didn’t have time nor inclination for none of that.
Methodically, he dragged all three men out onto the cobbles and they lay, unconscious, like three cadavers. Beetrax checked they were all breathing, which they were, and that was a good thing. Beetrax killed men too easy these days, and it was a struggle to restrain himself when the blood was up and boiling, and the anger and bad memories flowing.
Beetrax breathed softly, and calmed himself, and looked around. Lit by the moon, the courtyard was eerie, spectral. He noticed a couple of leaning sheds behind the stables, and dragged Daron over to them, kicking down a door and peering into the inky blackness. It seemed to contain some huge, rusted machine, with several large cogs and wheels. Grunting, Beetrax pulled Daron inside, then went back to the other two men, pulling them inside also.