by Andy Remic
With a crack, Volak bit Moraxx’s head clean off. Fire roared from the furnace of her insides, a blast of terrible heat.
And in that instant, Equiem magick was invoked…
The charm of transference…
Channelled by the Great Dwarf Lords at Skalg’s moment of greatest need.
And in an instant, the blink of an eye, he skipped, from Moraxx’s mind, into Volak’s – and watched in awe as he bit his own head clean off.
There was a blinding flash of light, incredible pain, and struggle.
An intense struggle of minds.
Volak felt confusion crush her into a ball, and spin her around, and send her crashing down through a dark deep well. She did not understand, even as her jaws closed on the throat of Moraxx, and extracted the very life from her sister with decapitation.
What’s happening to me? she thought.
What the fuck is this?
Moraxx’s head had come away, flames roaring from the inside of her chest.
And Volak stared, without understanding.
It took minutes to win the battle, to find some kind of stability, some equilibrium. Skalg himself was spinning in the vortex of the mind transfer. He felt the power of the Great Dwarf Lords behind him, powering him on, pushing him forward, forcing him towards conclusion.
Conclusion.
An end to this terrible madness.
What do I do now? said Skalg. Despite his physical prowess, he felt weak and lame.
Now, there is only one.
One is not enough.
You need to hatch the eggs… and choose the strongest.
Then destroy the rest.
We need our Dragon Engine.
We need our dragon slaves once again.
The Great Dwarf Lords demand it.
Volak nodded her huge, black, damaged head. Blood trickled from her in a dozen different places. She turned, and surveyed the Iron Wolves – who cowered, suddenly, expecting to be torched. And she could see they didn’t have the strength to fight on. They were done, and finished, and fucked.
“Do it,” growled Narnok.
But this was Skalg, not Volak. These peasants meant nothing to him, and he lifted his head, and stared up at the sky. The storm was abating, and rain fell now in a gentle downpour, tickling Volak’s snout, cooling her savage wounds. Then she bunched her muscles, her wings cracked out, and she leapt – and began pumping her wings as she shot up into the heavens, and disappeared amidst the reappearing stars… just another glimmering orb, just another shooting star.
* * *
Narnok looked over at Dek.
“She went,” he said, wearily.
“Where?” said Kareem.
Dek shrugged. “Do you give a fuck? Just… away. Away from here.”
They considered this, eyes searching the heavens with fear, lest she come back.
“Look at the dead one,” said Kareem.
“What about it?”
“Fires still burn on its insides.”
Narnok stepped forward, and patted Kareem on the back. “Lad. I reckon that furnace might burn for quite some time. Now come on. Let’s find Trista. If she still lives.”
“And if she’s dead?” said Dek, raising an eyebrow.
Narnok gave a half-shrug. “Well. We’ll give her a hero’s send-off,” he said, quietly.
* * *
The sun was coming up over the bruised, battered, scorched city of Vagan when they found a pale hand poking from the rubble of the collapsed tower. Gently, Narnok, Dek and Kareem removed the stones and beams, to find Trista.
Her face was serene, not a mark on her, not a speck of dust, not a smudge of ash. Her blonde curls were immaculate, arranged around her beautiful face as if prepared that way by a professional. In fact, she looked beautiful enough to enjoy her wedding day.
“Tris,” said Dek, gently, shaking her.
“She’s gone, lad,” said Narnok.
“No, no, look at her! She’s perfect.”
“She’s gone,” said Narnok, and knelt down beside Dek. He reached out, and touched Dek’s arm. Dek turned and looked at him.
“But… look! Not a bruise, not a single injury on her! She can’t be dead.”
Narnok turned, and what Dek said was true. Trista looked immaculate. Perfectly preserved. And yet, still her breast did not rise, and there was no colour to her cheeks, and no living breath in her lungs.
“I’m sorry, Dek,” and Narnok hugged him, hugged his brother, and they cried together.
The Mountain Gives…
Sakora lay, stunned. For long moments she had no idea what had hit her. She didn’t know where she was, what she was doing, who she was with… but then pain kicked in, and pain has a real way of focussing the mind.
She breathed in the mist which floated above her. She heard the whine and kick, the hiss and rattle of crossbow bolts all around, making her cringe. Confusion tumbled from her mind as she sought something, attempted to fix on a singularity in order to bring herself back to reality. And it was pain that did it. Pain, glorious pain.
The back of her head hurt, as did her neck. But it was her left wrist, shattered as far as she could tell, that sent waves of agony rippling up her arm and into her spinning brain.
Focus.
Calm.
Whilst training in the art of Kaaleesh, Sakora had broken many bones, and now was no different. She breathed, calmed herself, isolated the pain, and started to gradually erode the feelings that panicked her. She analysed the rest of her body. Her left ankle was also in a bad way, so when she got up, and moved, if she had to move fast, she’d have to compensate for her weakened left side, after the… ah…
Fall. Long fall. Lillith. Dragon eggs.
Fall.
She’d landed on her left side.
Dwarves. With crossbows.
Isolate.
Focus.
Isolate the leader.
Slowly, she reached down with her right hand, and pulled a dagger from her right boot. These movements hurt her, and she realised her entire body was battered from the impact after the fall. Thanks, Lillith, she thought, and gave a narrow, tight-lipped smile.
It took between six and twelve seconds to reload a crossbow, depending on factors such as competency, technique and panic. Sakora did an internal estimate, and sat up from the mist, surrounded by shattered dragon eggs – which had saved her by taking the brunt of the crossbow quarrel assault, and she focussed.
There were thirty mean-looking dwarves, caught in the process of reloading their weapons. And there was Val, weasel face ruptured in the middle of a screamed command. But no. Sakora’s gaze travelled, to the pale, haughty, arrogant bitch whose eyes had just settled on Sakora with a calm coolness, a calculated authority, that marked her out as the leader.
Sakora’s hand snapped back, then forward.
The dagger flew through the humming air, and plunged into Crayline’s left eye socket. The female dwarf screamed, and staggered back, but did not fall. Sakora climbed to her feet, sagging on her shattered left side.
Crayline’s hands came up, and gently fondled the shaft. Incredibly, she did not go down. Did not die. Sakora pursed her lips in annoyance. Crayline touched the shaft of the dagger in her own head, her own face, no-doubt puncturing her own brain… and she screamed again, dropping to one knee.
A second dagger flashed past her face, and embedded in the throat of a dwarf behind. He gurgled, clutching the weapon, and dropped to both knees, vomiting blood onto the smooth black walkway.
The other dwarves glanced up.
Sakora moved her shirt to reveal her baldric. It carried upwards of twenty daggers. The dwarves saw her movement. Recognised its inherent threat. They worked faster to reload their crossbows… but then Sakora went to work. Her left wrist was shattered, but she zoned out the pain and drew two daggers, both arms came back, daggers hissed, spinning. One entered an eye, another through an open, shouting mouth. Two dwarves dropped, blood pooling out.
&n
bsp; Two more daggers, thrown with unbelievable accuracy. One entered a throat, another was deflected by a raised arm – but it still entered the dwarf’s flesh, making him scream, and add to the rising chaos of the suddenly accelerating scene on the platform.
Another dagger, another eye socket. The dwarf made a meal of it, going down, kicking and screaming, spinning around on his side, begging his comrades to take away the pain – which one did, with an axe blow to the head.
Five dead dwarves in as many heartbeats.
Sakora grinned at them.
They ran for cover, sprinting from the chamber, all except Val and Crayline, who looked at one another, then down at the dead guards around them.
“You have… er… a dagger in your eye,” said Val.
“You think I hadn’t fucking noticed?” screamed Crayline.
“But… er… you’re not dead?”
Crayline glared at Val, blood streaming down her face and dripping from her chin like the ticking of a clock.
“You think, cunt, that maybe I hadn’t noticed that as well?”
Val giggled, on the edge of hysteria. “Crayline Hew! Not even a dagger in the brain can kill her! Roll up, roll up, and talk to the hard-as-a-coffin-nail bitch!”
Then he turned and stared at Sakora.
Slowly, from the mist, rose Talon. His face was twisted in pain. Pain, and fury. Gone were any doubts which had lingered for long days, long weeks, after their capture and torture. Now the man from the walls of Desekra was back. Here was Talon the archer, scourge of thousands of mud-orcs. And he was pissed.
He pulled free his longbow, and knocked an arrow to the string. He was ready to kill.
Dake crawled to his knees, still stunned from the fall, and stared around. Then he climbed to his feet and unsheathed his sword. This was Dake Tillamandil Mandasar, former Sword Champion of King Yoon’s Royal Guard, hero of the Second Mud-Orc War and heir to the Lordship of the House of Emeralds, Vagandrak’s largest ruling family. Nothing mattered to him anymore. His wife was dead, gone, lost. And a man without hope is a man without fear. His fear fled like ice melting under tropical rainfall, and he faced Crayline, and Val, and the other dwarves cowering in the adjoining chamber. And he realised with sour humour that he was never going to leave this fucking mine. He was never going to leave this fucking mountain. He would die here. Die here, and be with Jonti. And that was just fine by him.
A crossbow quarrel whined, and hissed through the air. Dake’s sword flickered up, smashing the bolt from the air. Talon drew back, paused, released his breath, and let the arrow fly. It spun lazily, and punched the dwarf shooter through the centre of his mouth. The dwarf staggered back, dropped his crossbow, crossed his eyes, and sat down on his arse, groping blindly for the shaft emerging from his skewered tongue. Then he lay down on his side, and bled a little.
Talon notched another arrow. “Would anybody else care to taste my shaft?” he said, and smiled, eyes glittering, and Dake patted him on the shoulder.
“Yes, brother?”
“It’s nice to have you back.”
Talon looked him in the eye, and saw the strength there, the comradeship, the… life. “You also, brother,” he said, and grinned. “Now let’s kill some fucking dwarves.”
“Wait.”
The voice came from beneath the mist, which swirled around the hundreds, the thousands, of dragon eggs.
Dake and Talon looked at one another. Sakora shrugged.
Beetrax sat up, and shook his head, and scratched his beard. His face was the epicentre of a summer storm. His eyebrows were stormclouds. His eyes were lightning. His grin was the grin of an evil god intent on absolute revenge.
He turned to look at his friends.
“You ain’t killing no fucking dwarves without ME!” he boomed, and climbed to his feet, wincing, and lifting his battered, chipped axe. And then he remembered. He remembered the crossbow bolt connecting with Lillith. The spray of blood. Her disappearing under the mist. And his head came up. And he stared at Crayline. And he stared at Val. “Oh, you cunts,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper.
A dwarf appeared, and loosed off a crossbow bolt. Talon’s arrow hit him in the throat, leaving him scrabbling on his knees, vomiting blood.
Beetrax looked around for Lillith, but couldn’t see her…
And impending death was a more pressing priority.
“We doing this?” said Trax.
“Let’s do this,” said Sakora.
They set off, and broke into a run. Another crossbow quarrel, whining past Beetrax’s ear. Sakora’s dagger took the dwarf in the eye, and he fell amongst the other dead dwarves creating a pretty plateaux of death on the walkway.
Crayline drew her sword, and stood, lips curled back, snarling, her face a bloody mask, the handle protruding from her eye like an obscene erection. Hers was a stance of absolute defiance. Utter arrogance. Total superiority.
To Crayline, every other living creature on the planet was an amoeba.
Several dwarves came out from hiding, and grasped battle axes in both hands, their faces grim. One appeared with a crossbow, and Talon fired a shaft through the bastard’s eye. He grinned. “It’s nice to level the playing field,” he said, as they reached the walkway, and leapt up onto the slick black surface.
More dwarves spilled out, to stand behind their leader, Val, or in reality, Crayline. Because Val was fooling nobody, and every dwarf present was in fear of Crayline, even more so now, with a dagger protruding from her face, almost proving her immortality. She was like a golem. Made from clay. Indestructible.
They might have laughed about it afterwards in the tavern. Little Miss Face-Fucked. The Bitch of the Undead, not even a dagger through her fucking brain could bring her down. Or what would no doubt be the favourite in these drinking games, this tavern brouhaha, Crayline Hew, Cock Face. But here, and now, there was no laughter, no banter, for she was there and she was, to all intents and purposes, terrifying.
Beetrax stood, facing Crayline, but he turned his eyes on Val, and his lips curled back. To his left stood Sakora, to his right, Talon and Dake. Dake twirled his sword, thinking back to the years of practice, the years of duelling, and the very real fact that his one love, his true love, was now dead; buried in the rubble of a dragon-destroyed palace.
“You want something from us?” growled Beetrax.
“Only your lives,” smiled Crayline, and the smile cracked the drying blood on her face to give her a crimson lightning mask.
Sakora stepped forward, and smiled. “You need to come take them, then,” she said, rolling her neck and presenting a fighting stance.
“I can do that all right, bitch,” hissed Crayline, and gestured to the dwarves. “Kill them,” she said, and leapt at Sakora.
With battle cries, the dwarves attacked, and Talon drew his sword, standing back-to-back with Dake.
“Time for blood,” he said.
“Just like the old days,” nodded Dake.
“Just like the old days,” agreed Talon.
Beetrax leapt at Val, but a huge dwarf shifted between them, his axe coming up, blocking Beetrax’s stroke. Trax’s axe bounced off, and the dwarf attacked, his axe whistling as Beetrax moved left, then right, dodging the blows, and grinning. “You bastard,” he said, and slammed his axe in the dwarf’s head, blade cutting through the steel helmet to crush the skull within. Another dwarf charged, but a backhand horizontal cut sliced his throat in a shower of droplets, and Beetrax was there, in front of Val.
“Remember me?” said Beetrax.
“I could never forget the bad breath.”
“Lillith. She is my woman.”
Val smiled then, a slimy, toothy grin. “Really? I reckon my seed is still inside her. I reckon she could be bearing my child.”
Beetrax’s face dropped. He went beyond fury, beyond rage, to another place of utter, total calm. “I’m going to kill you,” he said.
Val held a sword and a long knife. He smiled again. “I’d like to see
you try.”
Beetrax’s axe slammed forward, and Val twisted, knife lashing out to open a shallow wound across Beetrax’s cheek. Blood oozed out, staining his ginger beard. Beetrax’s axe slammed out again, then reversed, cutting backwards and turning into an overhead sweep that would have split Val from crown to crotch. Val dodged the blows; he moved fast, no, fucking fast, and a second slice of his knife cut the lobe from Beetrax’s left ear.
“Ow! You cunt!”
“I’m going to carve you up, piece by piece,” said Val, licking his lips, spreading his arms apart and crouching a little in a fighting stance. “You think I learnt nothing being dragged into this miserable fucking life on the streets of Janya? As a child you had to kill to survive. Well. I survived, and I survived by stabbing my enemies in the back. So I’m going to cut you up, lover boy, then take your bitch and fuck her again until she squeals. Whether she’s alive… ” he feinted and Beetrax blocked, “or even if she’s dead.”
Beetrax screamed and attacked…
Talon and Dake fought back-to-back, swords a blur, stabbing, slashing, deflecting axe and sword blows. They were hard to get near, and five dwarves had fallen at their feet already, dwarf blood making the walkway slippery…
Sakora and Crayline fought, Sakora with dagger and fist, Crayline with a short sword and dagger. It was a dance; a dance of blood, a dance of death. They spun, attacking and defending. A dwarf ran at Sakora’s back, but she twisted, dagger inserting neatly into his windpipe, then back to defend a sword-strike from Crayline, all in the blink of an eye. They moved so fast they were a blur, and all the while Sakora kept thinking, how, how are you still on your feet with a fucking dagger in your eye? In your brain? But Crayline fought on, like some kind of monster, like some kind of clockwork machine… a demon that could not possibly be mortal.
Beetrax and Val fought, exchanging blows. Or rather, Val dodged and defended, and his dagger lashed out, cutting Beetrax again, this time on the side of his neck.