Twilight of the Dragons (33 page)

“You said it was evil!”

“No. I said it was part of the dark arts. But even the dark arts can be used for the cause of good.”

Beetrax turned her around, and looked into her face. Then glanced down at her blood-soaked shirt, dried now, but the image still made him wince.

“So, Talon sewed you up?”

“Yes. I did want you to do it…”

“You know I can't stand the sight of blood,” he said.

“Really?” She raised her eyebrows. “
Really
?”

“Well. Your blood. It just makes me queasy.”

“Why's that, Beetrax?”

“Because I love you so much,” he said, simply, and smiled.

An hour later, they had found a small glade filled with flowers. It was bordered by rocks and trees, and was a quiet, solitary place, protected from the wind and bathed with sunshine. They dug a grave, taking their time to remove the rocks, and then laid Sakora out, arranging her hands, folded across her chest. Lillith straightened her clothing. “She was always fussy about the way she dressed,” she said, and smiled.

As the sun set, so they slowly filled in the grave, covering Sakora's body first, and then finally, her face.

They piled the rocks they'd collected on top of the grave, as a marker, and to stop any scavenging wild animals.

“Sleep well, princess,” said Talon, and his tears fell into the soil, onto the rocks, as he bent over Sakora's final resting place.

The wind sang a song through the wild places of the mountain.

“What now?” said Beetrax, rolling his neck, and glancing over to observe the setting sun. A deep red glow filled the world. It reminded him of blood. It reminded him of dragons.

Lillith looked at him. And she smiled, a kindly smile, filled with warmth and love.

“We go home,” she said.

T
he insanity
of violence and bloodshed which followed, well, it all started because of cock.

“More ale!” cried Beetrax, well in his element, grinning as he wrapped his arm around Dake's shoulders and leered into the man's face.

They were seated in the main tavern room of The Battered Cock
.
Beetrax had been adamant they drink at The Fighting Cocks, but when they'd arrived they stood, staring in horror and absolute disbelief at the smoking, charred remains.

“It's just a fucking shame,” Dake was pontificating. “I mean,
burned to the ground
!” He took another hefty swig. “It's a travesty. That's what it is. We should do something, raise some money, have her rebuilt, that's what I reckon.”

Beetrax nodded drunkenly, and slapped Dake on the back. “My very thoughts exactly. I mean, how can we go through life without the bloody Fighting Cocks? 'Twas an institution, is all I'm saying, and, in my humble opinion, the very
best
of the Cocks.”

Dake nodded, and beamed as Talon returned carrying large tankards of ale. He was trailed by Jael, who was looking a little sheepish.

“I'm sorry,” he said, wincing, and glanced at Beetrax. “I spilled some.”

“Hey!” beamed Beetrax, who was feeling extremely amicable; he was alive, his woman was alive, and he wasn't being tortured by a dwarf. Damn them fucking dwarves. “I needs to teach you a few lessons, lad. Right. When you're in a tavern, the rule is, never moan about a bit of spilt ale.”

“Why not?” said Dake. “You do.”

“I don't.”

“You fucking do!”

“I fucking
don't
!”

“Guys, will you keep the noise down?” snapped Lillith, who was seated at a nearby table, a glass of water by her side, poring over an ancient manuscript. Her eyes sparkled, and she winced a little, every now and again, as her chest pulled tight on the stitches over the crossbow bolt. She still carried the iron inside her. She didn't want it removed. She said she needed it, needed the pain, needed the
weight
of iron as a constant reminder of the hell and chaos she'd experienced.

There was a commotion at the tavern entrance, and three big men piled in. One was huge, broad and muscular, with a ridiculously large black beard and dark, twinkling eyes. The second was broad of shoulder, narrow of hip, and carried himself like a natural pugilist – which he was. The final one was a big lad, with a bushy beard, one eye and a savagely scarred face. They staggered to the bar, and ordered drinks too loudly, as other patrons stepped neatly away.

Back at the table, Dake nudged Beetrax. “Hey. Don't we know them?”

Trax squinted, and belched. “I don't think so.”

“Yeah. That ugly fuck. That one, there.” He pointed, just as Dek turned and stared at him.

“Oy. You. Fuck. What you fucking pointing at?”

Dake stared at him, mouth open, words failing him.

Dek strode to their table, closely followed by Narnok and Kareem. The two groups eyed one another warily, until Dek pointed at Beetrax, and said, “I fucking know you.”

“You do?”

“Aye.”

“You want a fucking badge for that, laddie?”

“A badge? Are you taking the piss?”

“Taking it? You're fucking giving it away,” snapped Beetrax.

“Wait, wait, wait,” said Lillith, gliding between the two groups. She looked at Beetrax, then turned and stared at Dek. She smiled. “Yes. You two do know one another. Beetrax, this is Dek. Dek, this is Beetrax. You were supposed to have a fist fight oooh, twenty, twenty-five years ago? But Dek got whisked away by General Dalgoran, and Beetrax went off to train as an axeman, and so it never happened.”

“Well it can fucking happen right now,” snapped Beetrax, surging to his feet.

“Any fucking time, grandpa,” scowled Dek.

“Who're you calling old?”

“You, you old cunt.”

“At least I don't shag my best mate's wife.”

The atmosphere fell into ice.

“You see!” snapped Narnok. “Every bastard knows about you and your cheating ways.”

“Will you give it a fucking rest?” growled Dek. “Or I'll break another fucking finger.”

“You reckon you can?”

“I can if you don't shut your fucking hole.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen.” Lillith held up a hand. “I think you need to calm yourselves.”

“Oh aye?” snapped Narnok, and Beetrax glared at him, fist closing around his axe.

“You show the woman some respect,” he said, “or I swear, I'll fucking gut you like a fish.”

“Trax, it won't be necessary.”

“Why's that?”

“I fear we have a common enemy once more.”

“We do?” Beetrax frowned. “Who?”

Lillith sighed, a sound like breeze teasing through dry, auburn autumn leaves. “It would appear Orlana the Changer, the Horse Lady, has escaped from the Furnace,” she said.

T
he mountain screamed
, moaned, grumbled, rumbled. It shook with the violence of an earthquake. It shook like it was the end of the world. Rocks fell. Columns collapsed. Tunnels imploded, crashing down, rock and dust screaming outwards in great geysers of debris. The Karamakkos groaned and trembled, and inside the vast depths, chambers collapsed, bridges fell, towers tumbled, and the mountain wept like a virgin on her wedding night.

Pure ice-hot hate swamped Volak.

The very world had turned against her and her kind.

She strutted through the field of eggs, roaring, screaming, fire blasting from her maw in an act of raw defiance, as the ceiling began to collapse. Huge chunks of rock fell, smashing eggs and dragon embryos into splattered smears.

The roof collapse accelerated.

And Volak could
hear
the destruction of Wyrmblood, outside, up above the dragon eggs; huge buildings of precious metals were toppling, towers came crashing to the ground, the platinum river broke its banks and spread like a silver platter across the walkways and roads of Wyrmblood.

Stone and rock fell like rain.

Volak moved to the centre of the chamber, and hunkering down, she gathered ten or twelve eggs together, pulling them protectively under her belly. She could feel how warm they were, fire licking delicately over their living shells.

Volak spread her wings, then brought them in like a shield, as she lowered her neck, lowered her head, tucking it underneath herself to observe her eggs; her offspring; her babes.

“I will protect you to the end,” she said, her words a gentle tickling of fire, as above, the mountain screamed and the entire city of Wyrmblood came tumbling down.

T
his has been
the
hardest book I ever wrote, for a myriad of reasons – and thus, these acknowledgements are extremely heartfelt! First, a big hug to Marco at AR for being so understanding of my sorry ass. You deserve a big kiss, and if you're extremely unlucky, you'll get one. Next, thanks to my boys, Joseph and Oliver, who are totally awesome and keep me going with bright firebrands to illuminate the darkness. You really do not understand what you mean to me; maybe one day you will. Super, wonderful, magical thanks to Marie, for breaking her back (and eyes!) test-reading and proofreading and critiquing my shit. I owe you so many chocolate bars (and fish!) it isn't even funny: thank you. A big thundering axe-blow to Kareem Mahfouz, for being so supportive, offering his help unconditionally, and for the test reading and enthusiasm. Cheers, whiskey dude! More big thanks go to Roy Young, for always being there, and for his amusing abusive voicemail messages! “For fuck's sake…what's the point of having a phone… ” LOL. Thank you to Rob Shedwick, my musical maestro and good friend, for long conversations when I really needed them, for his intuition and strength and help, and for allowing me see some light from the bottom of the fish tank. Thanks must also go to Jake, Kev and Ralphy – old friendships renewed! A big “Yo!” to the good guys of the Branston Crew (but not the scum). And a final sloppy kiss to all the friends who've stood by me through some very dark days.

A
ndy Remic is
a British writer with a love of ancient warfare, mountain climbing and sword fighting. Once a member of the Army of Iron, he has since retired from a savage world of blood-oil magick and gnashing vachines, and works as an underworld smuggler of rare dog-gems in the seedy districts of Falanor. In his spare time, he writes out his fantastical adventures.

A
NGRY ROBOT

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Quite a lot of killing

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n Angry Robot
paperback original 2016

Copyright © Andy Remic 2016

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ndy Remic asserts
the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

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catalogue record
for this book is available from the British Library.

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K ISBN 978
0 85766 456 3

US ISBN 978 0 85766 457 0

EBook ISBN 978 0 85766 458 7

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ll rights reserved
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his book is sold
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his novel is entirely
a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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