Twilight of the Dragons (4 page)

“Do it!” he screamed. “Fucking do it! End it! Kill me now!”

The light and the heat grew, until the chamber was nothing but a vision of pure bright white.

And then it was done. The light died. A cool breeze drifted through the chamber.

Darkness crept back in.

The Dragon Heads spun to a stop. They were no longer bright and beautiful. They were dark, and filled with an oozing, evil oil.

A scent of hot metal hung in the air.

There was a tiny scratching sound, like a nail dragged across slate.

And Skalg vanished.

S
kalg floated through a million dreams
, like a swimmer through a lake of black oil. Voices called to him, some he recognised, like his mother, and a lover he had murdered, but many he did not know. And then the words became clearer, and he realised they were shouting at him, screaming at him, accusing him…

Fucking dirty bastard cripple…

Abuser, abuser of women, abuser of children…

You raped me, I will see you burn in the pit, I will see your eyes torn out by crows, I will see your cock chewed off by rabid hounds…

How could you do this to me, Skalg? Your own mother? How could you leave me to die, not visit me when I suffered on my deathbed; how could you let me die alone, my son? How could you let me die alone and unloved?

“I didn't!”
he screamed. “I didn't do those things!”

And yet he knew that he had, and shame burned him, not just his face, but deep down to his core.

You took my money and had me beaten to death,
spoke a different voice. An old man, this time.

You murdered my husband, then forced me into your bed before having me killed for my inheritance. You bastard. You fucking bastard's bastard. Have you no soul? Have you no pity? Is the only thing you care about – money, and power, and ejaculation? I will see you hang, you dirty little scabby cunt.

You went to the Ministers. You told them lies about me. I was summoned to their offices, like some cur, some criminal, tried and convicted without any investigation. They believed honest do-good Skalg, for his track record was clean, but really he was snake in the grass, a dirty back-stabbing poisoner, a dwarf with his finger on the trigger of an evil, loaded crossbow just waiting to stab me in the back, take the right shot, the killing shot… well, I will get my revenge, Skalg, you hypocritical little shit, you twisted and corrupt piece of fucking rancid offal, I will get my revenge on you… I will see your lovers burn, see your children turned to dust… now, or in the next life, or in the next…

“Stop, please, I beseech you!” Skalg tore at his hair. Tore at his purple robes. His mind felt fractured. As if he was going to implode. He could take no more. And just at the moment of his greatest madness, when the pain and the confusion climaxed, a calming voice touched his mind.

“Shhh,” soothed the voice. “You have to learn to zone out the
zyigs.
”

“Zyigs?”

“Lost and broken spirits from your past. They may exist, they may not. They may be figments of your imagination, or lost souls looking for retribution. One thing is for sure – you must zone out the voices, or they will certainly turn you insane.”

“But… but they know things!” wailed Skalg.

“That only you know? Yes. Which is why they may be a manifestation of your guilt.”

You took my daughter. Took her from my home. You promised her power and wealth and respect. You took her to your bed, you fucking whore bastard, and you raped her, for she was enamoured of your power. Then when she turned on you, you dropped her from your monstrous tower. I will hunt you down, hunchback, and I will use a saw to cut through your hump and your spine. I will cut you in half, you fucking evil little cunt.

My father came to pray at the Cathedral of Hate. But he was not important enough to kiss your arse, O mighty Skalg. So you had him removed, and your Church Wardens beat him on the steps of the cathedral. And he died there from a fractured skull. I hope the Great Dwarf Lords burn you in a Chaos Hall of their own devising…

I loved you. You were my best friend. You were like a brother. And yet you turned on me. You reported me to the authorities. You stabbed me in the back, you evil shit-sucking motherfucking maggot. I trusted you. I thought you were my friend. And yet you spilled your diarrheic filth like sewer shit from your filthy lips. One day I will find you, and I will kill you for betraying me like you did. One day I will find you, First Cardinal Skalg.

Skalg.

Yes?

I am Kokar. Remember that name.

Why? Why should I remember your name? You're just like all the other cunts…

No. I am Kokar. I am special. You murdered my daughter. You dropped her from your fucking tower. And I will never, ever stop hunting you, you pointless, worthless, useless fucking cripple…

“No more, no more, no more,” he whimpered, hands over his ears, no longer swimming through the oil of dreams, but sinking, sinking, deeper and into darkness. Then hands grasped him, and lifted him, and the zyigs seemed to drift away, their complaints and rants and hate and loathing drifting like a stray leaf on an ocean current.

Skalg went limp, like a dead fish…

And then everything faded to black.

S
kalg awoke
, face down against black hard rock. He stared at the rock for a long time. It was jagged, like it had been quarried, and was lined with tiny lodes of precious metal. He was cold, and realised his body was shivering. The pain through his humped back, his twisted spine, was considerable, and he gritted his teeth for a long time, trying to will the pain away. But as usual, as always happened in these situations, the pain remained. Got worse, in fact. As if the God of Pain was mocking him. As usual.

“Bastard,” he muttered. “Son of a fucking mule.” He wondered what had happened, and remembered bad dreams, first about the Great Dwarf Lords insulting him, then about ghosts of his past inflicting insults and threats. He shivered. “You've done a lot of bad things, Skalg,” he murmured to himself, and shame burned his cheeks beneath his beard. “You've hurt a lot of good people. You done a lot of…
evil
things on your way to becoming First Cardinal of the Church of Hate.” He shuddered, remembering the accusing voices –
feeling
their hate, a force so real and painful that it stabbed him like a silver blade right down to his core.

“But… where am I now?”

He rolled onto his back with a grunt, and looked up at a black sky. He was outside.
Outside.
And with a shudder, and emitting a tiny whimper, he realised there were no stars. Like all dwarves, Skalg hated the outside, despised the concept of being “overground”, as much as a fish hated being stranded on a beach. Dwarves were
born
to be underground. It was in their bones, like it was in the bedrock of the mountain. But he
knew
about the night sky, he
knew
about stars. He'd seen pictures in books. Here, there were none.

“What kind of place is this?” he wondered out loud, and exhaled, watching his cold breath stream like smoke. “Where am I?”

“You are in a special place,” said a small child dwarf, who stood near him. The child had silver skin and was naked. He looked… unreal. Not a thing of flesh and blood, but a being, something
created
by something which had only
heard about
flesh and blood. An organic construction.

The child stood, staring at Skalg. “You were brought here. By the Great Dwarf Lords. I am their servant, Mokasta. I am here to help you, and to administer the challenges. Now get up.”

“Challenges? What challenges?”

Grunting, Skalg managed to get to one knee, then wobbled slightly, pain coursing through him. He cursed in a variety of languages, and tried to rise, grunting, sweat standing out on his brow, his lips puffing, until he placed both hands on one knee and tried to lever himself up. He failed.

Mokasta stepped forward, and looked down with eyes like small black pebbles. His skin shone silver, as if under moonlight. His face held a perfect serenity, and his head tilted to one side.

“You struggle?”

“Of course I bloody struggle!”

“Would you like me to help you?”

“What do you think, genius?” growled Skalg.

“There is no need for animosity here. Soon, you will be begging me for help.”

“You reckon?”

Mokasta held out his small hand, and the fingernails were black. Not the black of injury or dried blood, but gloss black, like the beady eyes of a carrion crow on a battlefield, unwinding entrails from a rancid corpse.

Skalg took the hand. The grip was incredibly strong, and Mokasta lifted Skalg easily to his feet. The hunchback stood there, glaring at the little boy, who simply turned and started walking across the undulating black rock. Skalg followed, limping, one arm hanging slightly lower than the other, and only now did he look around himself properly.

The landscape of rock stretched off in all directions, a relatively flat plain, and they were surrounded by savage, saw-toothed mountains. They towered high into the obsidian heavens, impossibly big, but strangely without snow at their summits.

Skalg suddenly realised there was no breeze, no circulation of air whatsoever. The air was cool, however, and his breath steamed as he struggled after the small boy, his panting accelerating as his heart rate increased. Unused to any physical activity, and with a lifestyle filled with unwilling women, rich red meat and Ushgak Red, Skalg's stamina was far from being anywhere near adequate.

“Where are we going?” wheezed the First Cardinal, as Mokasta started to pull away. Followed by, “Slow down, will you? Can't you see that walking is difficult for me?”

“We are going to that mountain, there.” Mokasta pointed towards an evil-looking vast tower of rock, a shearing upthrust mountain like a giant, inverted tooth, sheer and terrifying to observe. “They call it the Demon's Cradle.”

Skalg eyed the huge mountain warily, and continued to hobble after Mokasta.

“Oy, lad. What will we do when we reach the foot?” He stumbled suddenly, and cursed loudly as a narrow streak of pain like molten lava shot down through his twisted back, and speared him through the pelvis. Urine leaked out as he lost some bladder control for a few moments. He coughed and spat.

“We are not going to the foot of the Demon's Cradle.”

“Eh?”

“We are climbing to the summit.”

Skalg stopped dead, and it took a few moments for Mokasta to also halt, when he became gradually aware of Skalg's lack of perambulation.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Those dark eyes surveyed him. “You called upon the Great Dwarf Lords. They answered your call, Skalg. Being First Cardinal of the Church of Hate required some considerable effort on your part, but now the Great Dwarf Lords have answered you – the first in a thousand years – and you must further prove yourself worthy of their patronage.”

“By climbing a mountain?” scowled Skalg.

“It is not merely the climbing of a mountain,” said Mokasta, and gave a sly smile, an image that looked wrong on the small boy's face; it was too advanced, too adult, too
knowledgeable.
“It is an honour to be challenged by the Great Dwarf Lords themselves. Is this not so?”

“But… but I'm a physical wreck!” wailed Skalg. “I am crippled! I'm in constant agony! I suffer so much I spend many nights on the verge of passing out, or insanity, or both. Can you not see what a fucking physical disgrace I am to the dwarves?”

Mokasta trotted a little closer. He placed his hands behind his back. And that round silver moon face peered up at Skalg. Softly, he said, “And that is why this challenge will make you so much more worthy than your able-bodied peers.”

Mokasta moved to a small mound of boulders, which led to a slope of scree, and then a jagged, ascending ridge like the spikes on the spine of a great wyrm. “I will meet you at the top,” he said, then turned and leapt from boulder to boulder, scrambling up the slope.

Skalg stared for a long minute, then limped forward, cursing. He climbed onto the first boulder, breaking a fingernail and frothing in anger. Then he stepped gingerly from rock to rock, aware that a single slip, a misplaced step, could break an ankle or pop a knee joint. For several minutes Skalg trod gingerly across the boulders, then stood at the foot of the scree slope. He looked up, and sweat stung his eyes. Pain crawled down his hump and spine something horrid.

Taking a deep breath, and with tears in his eyes, Skalg began the impossible ascent.

B
eetrax groaned
. Shit. Fuck. Cold. Stone tunnels. The flickering edges of a candle burning low.

And he realised. He was sleeping on guard duty.

Sergeant Kalka. That evil old crippled bastard. “Any of you fucks sleep on guard duty, I'll have you whipped a hundred fucking times! It's cunts like that who get their best mates killed.”
And yet – and
yet
exhaustion was not something you could control. It wasn't an on/off switch. You didn't decide it. It fucking
infected
you. It decided
you.

Fuck
, he said again, internally, lifting his axe and staring at his dulled, muted, distorted reflection in the chipped and battered blades.
We're here. In the dwarf mines. And I wish I was somewhere else. Anywhere else. Preferably with brandy and a pork slab sandwich. Maybe a bit of apple sauce on the side.

Maudlin, and filled with a sudden desolation that blew through his soul like a demon wind through a desecrated tomb, Beetrax wondered when this horse shit would ever, ever be over…

His eyes stared into the dull metal reflections of his axe blades. They were hazy. In those axe-blade reflections he could determine no detail, no definition, just blurred representations of what he was in reality. The thought saddened him.
Is this what my life has become? Trapped in a fucking dwarf mine with no hope of survival, of getting out alive? Of ever breathing fresh air again?

The sound came to him. A tiny skitter of stone on stone. A minute pebble kicked. A shard of gravel raking over rough-stone tunnel floor.

Beetrax did not move, did not flinch, did not tense. He continued to stare into his dulled, lifeless, blurred-eye reflection as his senses suddenly screamed and the hackles rose on the back of his neck. He heard the sword hissing towards his head,
oh how did those fucking bastards get so close without him realising?
and threw himself sideways, axe lashing out in a sudden sideways movement that half cut the dwarf's leg mid-thigh. The dwarf collapsed like a battered sack of donkey shit, suddenly screaming, sword dropped with a clang, clutching at his half-severed leg as blood pumped out, and flooded that tiny compartment of hewn stone corridor.

Beetrax's head came up, eyes narrowing at the five remaining dwarves in the tunnel, and lifting his axe, he whacked it down through the screaming dwarf's head, silencing his cries and cutting the head almost in half like a ripe melon, sliced from eyeball to opposite jawline.

“Any other cunt want to die?” he growled, as he felt the rage swelling within him, a rage so raw and basic and primeval he knew he had no control, no sanity, but did not fucking care anyway. It washed over him like a tidal wave of blood from an extinct race, and the dwarves spread out as much as they could, which was only two wide in the tunnel, as Beetrax simply growled, baring his teeth in a snarl, and attacked.

The two lead dwarves had axes. One deflected Beetrax's overhead swing, but collapsed when his boot stomped his kneecap, breaking his leg in half, folding it back at the knee with a brittle
snap
like deadwood on a fire. In instinct, Trax shifted a thumb's breadth, as the second dwarf's axe whistled past his ear, skimming his shoulder but bouncing free. With no space to wield his weapon properly, Beetrax stepped forward, kicked the dwarf in the balls, and as the stocky warrior went down, stamped on his skull with a sickening crunch. The dwarf lay there, blood leaking out of his nostrils, head caved in.

“Come on!” screamed Beetrax, axe in both hands. “Fucking come on, I say!” he bellowed as all the hate, all the anger, all the fucking frustration welled up within him, a pan of water hitting the boil, a fucking volcano filling up with a payload of molten lava and ejecting it with a scream that blew rock and ash a thousand miles in every direction.

The next two dwarves paused, sickened by what they had seen. But the one behind pushed forward. He was almost as wide as he was tall, barrel-chested, his armour and helmet battered, burned and broken, his face carved with battle scars, his beard growing in strange directions due to the carved scar flesh beneath.

“Come on then,” he growled, black eyes glittering, “you fucking pale worm from over the mountains, you fucking grease stain on the honour of our Harborym ancestors.”

Beetrax leapt forward, as did the dwarf, and their axes clashed, bounced away, clashed again. Beetrax's weapon sent a shower of sparks from the wall, then cut sideways at neck height. But the dwarf was moving, ducking, and his own weapon came up, cutting the cloth of Beetrax's tattered shirt and missing impaling his chin by a hair's breadth.

They both took a step back, acknowledging the other.

“I'm here, Trax,” came Dake's voice. Beetrax heard the slither of oiled steel.

“No. I got this.”

“You think so, you fat, pompous, southern cunt?” growled the dwarf, brutal jaw hardly able to handle the Vagandrak tongue. But he grinned, and his eyes sparkled dark and evil, and he gripped his axe in powerful hands and braced his shoulders and got ready to kill.

“Fucking show me, midget,” snarled Beetrax, baring his teeth, and the two warriors leapt at one another. Axes clashed, three times, four times, smashing from one another, smashing from the walls in showers of sparks. The dwarf kicked Beetrax in the stomach, Beetrax grunted, went down on one knee, threw a left straight into the dwarf's groin and staggered back.

“I see you only got a pussy in there,” growled Beetrax.

“No, it's just my cock is harder than yours.”

Beetrax launched forward, and their axes locked. They strained against one another, and although Beetrax was a huge warrior, incredibly powerful, the dwarf held his own, grunting, broad shoulders braced, a heritage of mine-working and sledgehammer-wielding giving him prodigious strength; boots scrabbled on the rough carved stone, and their faces came to within inches of one another.

“You fucking stink,” said Beetrax.

“And you're an ugly southern streak of piss.”

“At least my mother didn't have a whore's cunny fish-breath like you!”

The dwarf made a squawking sound, and pushed harder. He slammed his head into Beetrax's face, hammering the warrior back, and their axes clattered to the stone tunnel as they grappled. The dwarf had a low centre of gravity which gave him an advantage. He dragged Beetrax to the ground and they rolled around for a few moments, punching one another, headbutting, time and time again. Beetrax reached down and grabbed the dwarf between the legs. He let out a squeal, high-pitched and feminine. Beetrax crushed as hard as he could, every ounce of energy he had, with memories of his own previous torture in the cock area fuelling his rage.

“Stop stop stop!” screamed the dwarf.

With his free hand, as they squirmed on the tunnel floor, Beetrax reached down and pulled a knife from his boot. With the dwarf's crushed balls in one hand, he lifted the blade and plunged it into the dwarf's eye.

Blood fountained, drenching Beetrax, turning him into a demon.

The dwarf squirmed for a while, and they continued to roll around as Beetrax held him tight, waiting for him to die.

Then he slumped, and was still. Beetrax untangled himself, and pulled free the dagger from the bloodied eye-socket, and dragged himself to his feet. Two dwarves still stood in the tunnel, fixed with fear, and Beetrax grinned at them with bloodied teeth, face a crimson mask.

“Class,” said Talon, stepping forward, brushing back his long hair. “Could you have even produced more blood?”

“I didn't see you fucking stepping in, pal!”

The remaining two dwarves turned and started to sprint down the short tunnel. Talon unhooked his bow, knocked an arrow, and fired. It took the left dwarf in the nape of the neck, slamming him stumbling into a fast-forward run until he fell on his face, which cut grooves through his flesh.

Talon looked sideways at Beetrax. “Am I earning my bread now?”

“There's one left, cock-head.”

Talon drew, fletch to cheek, and fired. The arrow hissed, rotating, and punched the dwarf in the back. He hit the stone floor and started to scream, reaching around, trying to pull the shaft out, legs kicking. Then he went suddenly limp, but continued to scream like a man on fire.

Talon had severed his spine.

“Savage,” said Beetrax, quietly.

“But now we've got him for questioning, yes?”

Beetrax looked at Talon. And smiled. “Neat. Remind me never to cross you. Or at least, never to turn my fucking back on you.”

Talon unstrung his bow. He smiled, but it was a cold and unfriendly smile. The smile of a man who had made his peace with God and the Seven Sisters, and was happy to settle down in his grave.

“You remember that, Axeman,” he whispered.

“
Y
ou can't do this
,” said Lillith.

They'd dragged the dwarf back to the chamber, and propped him up, like a limp eel, like a half-slaughtered lamb, on a stone bench. He was weeping, tears running down his cheeks and into his beard, staining his leather jerkin. His eyes darted around swiftly, in fear, surveying Beetrax, Lillith, Dake, Talon, Sakora and finally Jael.

When he saw Jael, despite his tears, despite the fact his hands were like flopping fish on the bench, he gave a narrow smile.

“Krakka's bitch,” he spat, and spit drooled from the corner of his mouth.

Beetrax frowned, and leaning forward, slapped the dwarf hard, knocking his head from right to left, and cracking his skull against the wall.

“You'll talk.”

“I won't, southern scum.”

“Talk, or I'll saw off your legs.”

The dwarf looking into Beetrax's eyes, observed his blood-caked face, and remembered the spectacle with the warrior dwarf back in the tunnel. His breathing was fast and shallow. Beetrax worried he didn't have long left to live.

“What do you want to know?”

“You were hunting us?”

“No.”

“How did you find us then?”

“We were in a side mine when you passed. We heard you clattering about like fucking amateurs.” The dwarf smiled then, but his face was torn with pain. A little blood drooled from his mouth and stained his beard.

“You sure you weren't hunting us?” Beetrax slapped him again, a hard, open-handed slap that rocked the dwarf's head against the rock. He sat, stunned, and then blinked a few times regaining his senses.

“No. Why would we?”

“You tell me.”

“But you
were
in the mines, weren't you? I saw you. With Krakka.”

“Well, I killed that cunt.”

“Yes. I was surprised. You were only saved because Cardinal Skalg needed your help.”

Beetrax frowned. “How do you know that?”

“It was the talk. In the mines. After you were betrayed.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“You were betrayed. One of your group was helping Krakka. He told them about your escape plan – with the cauldron. That's why there were a hundred dwarves on hand with primed crossbows. You didn't think it was a coincidence, did you?”

Dake leant forward. “He's lying.”

“Why would I?” The dwarf cackled, blood dribbling down his chin. “You know I speak the truth. You know there was no reason for those bastards to be there, fully armed, waiting for you to make your escape attempt.”

Beetrax rubbed his beard.

“Who was it?”

The dwarf grinned. His eyes shifted, past Beetrax. Beetrax turned.

Jael was backing away, his face pale, looking as if he might puke any second.

“You?”

“No,” said Jael, and the young lad stumbled.

Beetrax frowned. “You told Krakka about our escape plans? After we rescued you from those forest bandits? After we saved you from certain death? After I tried to teach you the secrets of the axe? After we fucking
helped you
.”

“It wasn't my fault!” wailed Jael, and turned to run, but Lillith was there, and he fell into her arms, buried his head in her bosom, and started to weep, dropping to one knee. “It wasn't my fault,” he wailed.

Beetrax stood, slowly, like a lumbering bear. He gripped his axe tight.

“No,” said Dake, grabbing Beetrax's arm. Beetrax pushed him aside as if he were broken branch, a leaf in the wind. Dake fell against the wall and collapsed. Beetrax strode forward, face forming into a maelstrom of violent thunderstorms.

“You betrayed us?” he said, reaching forward.

“No,” hissed Lillith, slapping his hand away. But still Beetrax came on.

“You fucking
betrayed us
?”

“I didn't mean to,” Jael said, mumbling from Lillith's bosom.

“How the
fuck
did you not
mean to
?”

“I was forced!”

“How?”

“By Krakka. The Slave Warden.”

“
How
?”

“He threatened to torture me.”

Beetrax stood, staring in disbelief at Jael. Then he spat on the stone. “He fucking had us
all
tortured, you whining little cunt. We all went through weeks of agony. And you squealed like a whiny, back-stabbing little piglet.”

Beetrax turned and strode back to the paralysed dwarf. His axe sang out, a song of death, and cut the dwarf's head from his shoulders. The head rolled down the corridor vomiting blood.

“No,” hissed Lillith. “Stop!”

Beetrax pointed with his bloodied axe blades. His words were so filled with emotion and disgust he could hardly speak. “Jael – lad – if you
ever
come near me again, I will surely kill you.”

Jael nodded, and hid in Lillith's embrace.

T
he group travelled
in silence for what felt like weeks. With the death of Jonti-Tal, and now this revelation over Jael's betrayal, their morale was seeping away faster than water from a battered sieve.