Twilight of the Dragons

by Andy Remic

  Fire roared. Glowed.

  The beast writhed… dropping to its knees, voice keening, wailing, ululating a song of desolation to a god of engineered flesh, a demon of the Equiem, who did not care, would never care, because the Old Gods despised everything living in the world of men.

  Gradually, the flames died down, the oil burning out, except for a few pools on the scorched rock.

  Beetrax strode across to the crumbled, keening creature, and stared down with his hard face, and his hard eyes, and yet couldn’t help feel some sympathy for the poor, burned, fucked-up mess.

  Talon had helped Sakora to her feet, and Dake had only just recovered, and they moved to Beetrax.

  “It’s still not dead,” said Talon, breathless, face a little scorched in places.

  “I can see that, lad.”

  “Well… shouldn’t we kill it?”

  Beetrax stared at Talon hard. “It tried to burn you alive, lad.”

  Lillith touched Beetrax’s arm. “Please. End its life. Show some mercy, Trax. Please.”

  “I agree,” breathed Dake, holding his bleeding nose.

  Beetrax nodded. “Stand back, then.”

  Like a man about to chop a huge tree trunk, he stepped back, braced himself, and took a mighty swing. His axe whined, and thudded home. The creature’s keening raised in pitch. Beetrax cursed, wiggling his trapped axe free. He took another swing, and another, each time the dying creature’s wail of pain increasing, and raising the hackles on all their arms and necks.

  “Why won’t you die, you fucker?” mumbled Beetrax, taking another seven, eight, nine swings. Until, finally, there came a crack and the head finally detached from the body. Fire blossomed out, a sudden heat blast that sent Beetrax skipping back, and then the creature seemed to fold in on itself, and crumble down, and inwards, into scaffolds of ash.

  Beetrax gave Lillith a haunted look. “You know what I’ve learned about Equiem magick?” he said, his voice hoarse, cracking, as if he might cry at any moment.

  “What’s that, my love?”

  “You magickers can keep it,” he said, softly, and turned, and walked away.

  * * *

  It was later.

  Much later.

  Sakora walked through the gloom, and although she normally spent her life without fear – her decades of training, of suffering, of hardship, of purity, after her hardcore upbringing in the art of the Kaaleesh had made her brave and yet wary – things were now getting too much. She was wary of their predicament. Wary of this foolhardy mission they had embarked upon, and the terrifying monsters that seemed to lurk down in these ancient, twisted halls. She was wary of every single dark corridor, black tunnel, junction, hall and intersection. Sakora hated weapons of violence, indeed, hated violence, and yet her life seemed to be a spiral which went down and down and down… a spiral which had started with her husband, Raka.

  The bastard.

  She could not even fully quantify her hate. She hated him so much, she could not bring herself to utter his name. To picture his face in her mind made her blood immediately boil. To think of his hands on her… touching her flesh… she shuddered. It made her skin crawl. And she was still confused as to how it had all gone wrong, until she thought about it very carefully. And she realised. It was complacency. And boredom. And a realisation that he did not want her. He did not want her one fucking bit. It was a one-sided relationship. It was a farce, viewed from the outside as a perfect marriage, but inside, internally, she was boiling, she was breaking down, she was crumbling like a chalk cliff into a violent sea.

  But now, several years down the line, Sakora was free. Free of his twisted machinations.

  It had taken some gentle persuasion.

  One day, he turned up with a cart, smashed his way into her home – which had been their home, until he left – and started helping himself to her things. She’d arrived as he was rifling through her underwear drawer, and he’d grinned at her, and it was that grin that sent her over the edge.

  Raka should have known better. He knew her history, or so he thought. It was just his base stupidity that allowed him to formulate a plan that meant ripping her off. Not that she cared about material possessions – not at all. To Sakora, everything of importance was internal. Flesh and mind and soul. Everything else, all real world-possessions, they were just gravy.

  But there was concept.

  And there was honour.

  And there was respect.

  Raka was showing her no respect, and despite him being a big man, and even a modest champion in the Fighting Pits, she decided it was about time he learnt to respect her properly. With care.

  “You are in my things,” she said, voice quiet.

  “Fuck off!”

  “I told you not to come to this house again.”

  “Fuck off, you bitch! I’m taking what I want. I’m taking what’s owed to me. I have a new woman now, one who’s not so into your spiritual kind of shit, one who I actually want to fuck. Not like you. Boring little Sakora. You’re not worth the hassle, with your fucking sermons and your healthy living and your meditation. What a boring cunt.”

  Sakora moved fast, hand striking an uppercut to his chin that sent him staggering backwards, tripping over a stool and banging his head on the wall. The underwear he’d been holding landed on his face, lace covering his eyes. He looked quite ridiculous.

  “I suggest you stay down, Raka,” she said. And smiled at him.

  His face turned red, and rage flooded him. He scrambled to his feet. “Oh you’ve done it now,” he growled. “You want to play big boys’ games? You want to come play with daddy? Come on then. If the gloves are off, then the gloves are off.”

  He charged at her, his bulk terrifying, dwarfing the slim and gently proportioned woman. His fist hummed past her ear, and she twitched, knee coming up to block, as his boot stamped down to break her knee. Then she frowned. That just wasn’t nice. That was a dirty pit-fighting trick. Her left elbow struck his jaw, and as he went down again, diagonally, her arm came up, fist in the air, and the tip of her elbow slammed down vertically on the top of his head.

  He hit the ground hard, and lay there for a while. An elbow strike to the skull was like being hit by a helve. Or it was when Sakora delivered it.

  Sakora smiled internally, and took several steps back, waiting for what she knew would follow.

  Groggily, he climbed to his knees, and shot her a look so bad, if looks could kill, she’d be in pieces in a bucket.

  “I suggest you leave,” said Sakora, knowing he wouldn’t.

  “I suggest I fuck you,” he growled, with an evil glint in his eye, and getting to his feet, he charged her, hoping to smother her with his bulk.

  Sakora skipped back, legs snapping out, each blow a connection from her shin to his knees and thighs. He howled, but still came on, grappling for her. Sakora ducked and slipped right, slapping a right hook to his jaw, then leaping onto his back, high up, her arm coming up again and tip of her elbow slamming down on his skull, three, four, five times. She rode him to the ground, and he was groaning. She rolled him onto his back, grunting a little for he was a heavy son of a bitch, and then she leapt atop him, straddling him, grinning down.

  His eyes fluttered open.

  “You bitch,” he said

  “You bastard,” she said.

  “I’m going to fucking break you.”

  “Like this?”

  She slammed her hand down, fingers straight, hand like a blade, straight into his septum. Blood sprayed out and his nose broke with a cracking splinter.

  His fist whirred past her, then a second punch, which she met square on with her own, what appeared small and delicate, fist. There came a splintering of bone as she crushed two of his knuckles.

  He cradled his hand, tears in his eyes.

  “I have a suggestion,” she said.

  He groaned, unable to reply.

  “Why don’t you pick yourself up, or even just crawl, and get out of my house. Never
come back. Never contact me again. And we’ll both be happy people. I don’t want to hear your voice, and I certainly don’t want to see your face.”

  “Urrhhhh…”

  She punched him in the cheekbone. Just a light slap. To get his attention.

  “Do we have an agreement?”

  “Yerrrrhhhhh…”

  Sakora stood, fluidly, and considered stomping on him. But she was Kaaleesh, which trained restraint. Kaaleesh was not the art of aggression, but the art of self-defence, the art of channelling energies, of honour, of doing the right thing.

  Raka crawled to the door. Sakora followed.

  He managed to make it to his feet, and staggered outside to where his cart waited, hitched to a patient donkey.

  Sakora smiled.

  “Goodbye, Raka,” she said, and was half closing the broken, skewed, smashed door when he screamed, and charged back down the short path wielding a mace. It was an ugly-looking weapon, of black and silver steel, the haft about a foot long, the head circular but containing tiny plates of sharpened steel, like mini axe blades. Raka swung for her, and she stepped out into the small garden, skipping sideways as a second blow threatened to crush her skull. One blow from that mace, and Sakora would be dead, skull caved in. Blood and brains leaking to the stone chippings.

  “Come on, bitch,” he said, eyes glowing. “Let’s finish this.”

  “You really want to?” Her voice was perfectly calm. She lifted her chin a little, and eyed the man she once thought she had loved. I cannot believe I had such emotion for him, she thought. I cannot believe I thought I loved him. Did I? I must have done. But now, he is nothing but a primal insect. I am happy for him to die. I happy for him to be crushed underfoot.

  He charged again, and the mace whirred past her head. She ducked and twisted away, spinning low, not seeking to land a blow – not yet – but instead, weighing up his technique, his tactics, studying him. It was part of the art of Kaaleesh. After all, it was an art, not just brutal combat.

  “Come on!” he screamed, and she saw the red flush of anger, and this was good. With anger came stupidity. With anger, came foolishness. With anger, came mistakes that got you dead.

  He charged a third time, and the mace slashed in a low horizontal arc. Again Sakora danced back, the mace a thumb’s breadth from her abdomen, but this time, as Raka came past, she struck him on the neck. He staggered, flailing low, dropping the mace and ploughing his face into the soil.

  He groaned, and did not move.

  He could not. Sakora had broken his neck.

  She moved, and crouched down beside him. “Consider this the end of our marriage,” she said, and grinned. His eyes swivelled up and fixed on her. He tried to snarl, but barely managed to curl his lips.

  “I’ll fucking kill you,” he managed.

  “I’ll be waiting,” she said.

  Three months later, Raka was dead. He’d received his own dagger in the eye during a tavern argument as he sat in his chair, next to his walking sticks. Sakora felt no sorrow. Only a relief that washed through her like gallons of water, cleansing her system, cleansing her soul, washing her in purity.

  * * *

  The tunnels seemed to go on forever, stinking of oil and grease. Several times the group heard large numbers of dwarves rushing past, be they miners or soldiers, they did not know, and they crouched down in the darkness, or used rocks or abandoned carriages or even the huge chains themselves as cover. They feared another onslaught from a weird, engineered beast. However… they were lucky. There were no monsters. And every dwarf seemed to be preoccupied with something – probably the very real fact that the three dragons from The Dragon Engine had escaped, and the primary source of power in the Five Havens had been, effectively, severed.

  “This is shit,” muttered Beetrax, as they crouched once again, hiding behind wood and iron wheels. “This is no way to live. Lillith, for the love of the Holy Mother, let’s make good our escape now whilst we still can.”

  “We have to think of the bigger picture,” soothed Lillith.

  “Yes, like our own fucking lives!” snapped Beetrax. “You remember that fuck we had to deal with back there? That’s not normal, Lillith. It ain’t natural. It’s bad magick. It’s dark, and twisted… just wrong.”

  Lillith looked around, at the pale faces of her companions. And she realised – they were all deeply frightened. They had been through a terrible ordeal during these last few months, and now, with her mission of… honour… Lillith was extending it.

  “You need to trust me,” said Lillith.

  “We trust you, but we want to live,” said Talon, his voice quiet, eyes narrowed.

  “This does feel like a mission of madness,” acknowledged Sakora.

  “I still believe in you,” said Jael, his voice gentle.

  “You shut your fucking hole, lad, lest I fill it with my fucking boot,” snapped Beetrax.

  “You leave the lad, let him be,” said Lillith. “He’s fragile.”

  “Fragile? Fragile! I’ll fucking give him fragile when I strangle the little cunt.”

  “What did you expect him to do?” hissed Lillith, suddenly, a rage coming upon her, making Beetrax rock backwards. “You expect him to take the force and skill of a seasoned torturer? You think you could have endured that at his tender age? He did what he could to survive. We all suffered down there, Trax, all of us, in our own different ways. So you back off, I’m warning you, because Jael here will still surprise us, I promise you.”

  Beetrax clenched his jaw, ground his teeth together, and frowned, but cut off his curt words. He remembered previous arguments with Lillith. He’d lost every single one.

  “I’m sorry,” said Jael, voice wavering. He half-looked at Beetrax, not daring to meet the huge axeman’s stern gaze. “I’m really, really sorry. I never meant to betray you all. That Krakka, he was a brute. He terrified me.”

  “And I don’t?” growled Beetrax.

  “Lillith’s right, leave the lad alone,” snapped Dake. “Who knows what we would have done if we were his age!”

  “I wouldn’t have fucking backstabbed my friends, that’s for sure,” said Beetrax.

  “Yes, well, we’re not all big, tough, terrifying axemen like you, are we?” said Dake, with a sweet sardonic smile in the gloom.

  “Much as this conversation is fascinating,” observed Talon, his voice dry and biting, “I do fear it may draw attention to our predicament if you don’t keep your fucking voices down!”

  “You there! Come out of the shadows!”

  Talon scowled at Beetrax, as if to say, see you big fat fucker, I told you so.

  “I’ve hurt my leg, I can’t move!” wailed Beetrax suddenly, in his best harsh dwarf voice.

  “Hurt my leg?” mouthed Talon. “Are you a village idiot?”

  Three hefty dwarves dropped down into the cutting, and moved towards the carriages behind which the heroes crept.

  “I didn’t see you come up with something better,” scowled Beetrax.

  “Who’s there? Show yourselves! We hear more than one voice!”

  A shaft whistled from the gloom, hitting the lead dwarf between the eyes, point smashing through his skull and mashing the brain within. He stood, stunned, before physics caught up with him, blood trickled down his forehead, and he toppled backwards in a tangle of limbs and armour.

  The other two drew swords, and charged, screaming ancient dwarven war cries. Beetrax took the first, stepping out of the darkness and chopping his head off with an economic short slam of his axe. Dake took the second on the point of his sword, forearm warding off a blow, his blade pushing and twisting between plates of leather armour to slice the heart within.

  Silence fell, except for a bubbling sound from one of the corpses.

  A few seconds passed.

  They waited in the darkness, to see if any other rogue dwarves had heard the short melee.

  “See?” snapped Talon, quietly. “Voices to a minimum!”

  “We need to fin
d somewhere to rest,” said Lillith.

  “Why?” said Dake.

  “I… I need to show you something,” she said.

  * * *

  It was an hour later, in a small side-alcove halfway along a deep tunnel. It had a table and rough wooden chairs, maybe a refuge for train engineers, or maybe just dwarves caught out in the open cuttings. Whatever, it was deserted, and Lillith bid them all sit in a circle.

  “Why?” said Beetrax.

  “I wish to enlighten you,” she said.

  “Why?” said Beetrax.

  “Because I have lost you all, I think, in different ways. You are despondent, you do not believe in what we are doing. I need to show you what I saw. I need to open your minds and make you realise… these dragons, they are not only three. The threat is much, much bigger than anybody could possibly imagine.”

  They sat in a circle, and joined hands as Lillith bid.

  “Close your eyes.”

  They did so.

  “Breath slowly, to my count, in through your nose, out through your mouth.”

  She started to count, and the group, intrigued now, did as she bid.

  And then… then they were falling through their own minds, through a rush of blinding white, and they were falling through the sky high above the world, and far below lay tiny distant forests, rivers, rolling hills, mountains. The land of Vagandrak. There were villages and towns and cities. There were streams and lakes. To the south was the ocean, and over the high mountain peaks beyond the Pass of Splintered Bones, beyond the vast snaking walls of Desekra Fortress, lay the amber rolling dunes of the desert.

  And they spun, and they were all as one, and they were flying, high above the world.

  “Relax,” came Lillith’s soothing voice, as vertigo gripped them.

  And their gaze shifted, altered, and around them were dragons, ten dragons, a hundred dragons, a thousand of the great wyrms, all black and scaled and spiked, their long, almost equine faces savage and noble and terrifying. They flew in formation, a perfect V with one huge, magnificent beast at the tip. This was the queen.

  Below, fires started to blossom. Villages burst into flames, houses smashed and burned and destroyed. Beyond, cities were being torn apart. Houses and civic buildings, churches and towers, all broken to the cobbles, roofs torched, black smoke rolling up into the sky.