Twilight of the Dragons (28 page)

D
ek remembered his first tattoo
.

It was just before General Dalgoran summoned the young soldier to his office at Desekra to outline his plans for a new elite squad: the Iron Wolves. Dek remembered that day proudly, stood to attention, spring sunlight spilling through the lead-lined windows across Dalgoran's oak desk; but he remembered it
more
because of the tattoo.

“You have to have one, Dek, old boy.”

“I don't know if I fancy it.” He'd grinned, sheepishly, his young lad's face boyish and ruggedly handsome, hair close-cropped in the military style, his eyes shining with an innocence of youth.

“Come on,” said Brozo, “I'm having one done after the party tomorrow night. You
are
coming to the party, aren't you?”

Dek frowned. “Well, Sergeant Regander is taking me through some boxing combinations. You know I have that fight coming up.” He looked around to check nobody could overhear. “Regander has a lot of money riding on it,” he whispered, rubbing his chin. “And you know I've been training for this fight for the last three months. It's against that big bastard from Seventh Battalion. Trax, or something, he's called.”

“Aye, Beetrax. I've heard of him. Apparently he's incredible with an axe.”

“Well, this time he'll have to use his fists.” Dek winked. “Reckon I'll give him a black eye or two.”

“Still, you can come to the party after your training, right? And we'll nip down to the Ink Barracks, see if Skoffo will put us under the needle.”

“We'll end up locked up, if we get caught,” said Dek, appearing a little worried.

“Ach, fuck it man, live a little, will you?”

T
he party was
over at Chicken Barracks, so named because one mad soldier there kept three chickens and supplied the other men with fresh eggs to supplement their rations. Cruel jokes were made about Chicken Barracks, and the obvious association with
chickens
,
hence cowardice. But one thing was for certain – anybody who got an invite never turned it down, because Hujo Krant was housed in Chicken, and he made the finest illegally distilled vodka anywhere in Desekra. Three times he'd been up on a charge, even done time in solitary, but the bastards just could not find his still – which was a minor miracle. There weren't that many places to distil spirits in a fortress!

Dek and Brozo made their way through the night air. Despite being spring, it was still chilly, and they blew into their cold hands and rubbed them together as they trod the frost-crisped grass of the killing ground, heading for Chicken Barracks. Brozo gave a complicated knock, and a big fucker with a bushy beard and shaved head opened the door a narrow crack and peered out.

“Yeah?”

“Brozo and Dek. We're on the list.”

The huge shaved soldier checked his list, peered behind the two men to see if they were being observed, then opened the door to allow entry. They nipped inside, to find all the bunks had been moved away and tables set out with cards and knuckle-dice. Many men were standing around, with tankards of ale or the tell-tale small glasses of neat vodka.

Dek was aching from a hard workout at the fists of Sergeant Regander, and he still had a sore jaw from a savage right hook, but the young Dek was used to taking his punches, and even more used to giving them, so he didn't grumble, he just peered around the room, nodding at a few friends he knew, until Brozo returned with a glass of Hujo Krant's finest. “Get this down you. It'll put hairs on your chest!”

Dek sniffed the liquor. “I heard about this one guy… Zastarte, his name is, fucking
shaves
his chest! Can you believe that?”

“I heard about him as well. Likes his men, as well as his women.” Brozo winked.

“How's that, like?”

“You know. He'll go to bed with men.”

Dek stared at Brozo. “Really?”

“Fuck, Dek, are you really the backward village idiot you pretend to be?”

“Well, I ain't experienced no city life, like you, Bro,” Dek said, and frowned. “I'm not used to the same sort of people as you!”

Brozo drank his drink, and choked, gagging, eyes watering, his breath wheezing out. “Well you get that down you.” His voice had changed, and become husky, as if a fist were inside his lungs. “It's good stuff! Then we'll go get this tattoo done… ”

Dek knocked back the vodka. He choked. His eyes watered. “Fuck me,” he said, wheezing, “what's he distil it from, fish oil?”

“Come on!”

T
en minutes
later saw Dek lying on his belly, chin on his hands, the back of his shirt up, the waistline of his trews lowered.

“Now you sure you want it there, village boy?” grinned Brozo, his words slurring just a little. Four of Hujo Krant's gut-rippers had left him the worse for wear. Dek, also, had drank too much, and he nodded, grinning.

“It's a good place. And an incredible design!”

“What is it again?”

“It's a demon, ain't it?” said Skoffo, streamers trailing from the pipe he smoked. Skoffo had wild hair and a wild beard. He also had wild, mismatched eyes and shaking hands, but Dek couldn't see that because he was drunk and on his belly.

Brozo sat propped on a chair, watching Dek's face. “Go easy with him, Skoffo. It's his first tat.”

“Ha,” snapped Dek. “How much can it fucking hurt? I've five bare-knuckle fights under my belt, won the lot, took punches from all them lads, jaw, temple, belly, ribs – I'm telling you, I have the highest pain threshold you've ever come across.”

“Proud words, son,” said Skoffo. “Now keep still. Wouldn't want to fuck it up now, would I?” His shaking hand dipped the thick needle into the ink-pot, and he stabbed it into Dek's flesh.

“Ow, ouch, you fucking son of a bitch!” he snapped, trying to turn.

Skoffo started stabbing at speed, then scratched out part of an outline that fair made Dek want to turn round and break his jaw. Brozo leant over, and patted his arm.

“
How much can it fucking hurt? I've five bare-knuckle fights under my belt, won the lot
,” mimicked a grinning Brozo, looking into Dek's scrunched up face. “You believe me now when I say Skoffo is the quickest in the business?”

“He might be the quickest,” said Dek through gritted teeth, “but soon he might just end up the deadest!”

T
he deadest
.

Dek grinned to himself, and then groaned. It was a good memory. A fine memory. What had brought that back? It was pain. Pain across the back of his hips, as if some great weight was pushing down on him.

Where the fuck am I?

What the fuck hit me?

Was it a Pit Fight?

Everything was hazy, blurred, like the morning after the most incredible night out he couldn't ever remember.

Was I drinking? Fighting? What?

His mouth was full of dust, and he spat, and tried to bring his hand up to rub his lips – which was when he discovered he couldn't move his arm. He started to tug, to pull, to flex his powerful muscles, but it was stuck. Panic entered his breast. Shit. Fuck. Was he the victim of some kind of rockfall?

And then flickers of images began to return.

Staccato. Fuzzy. Unreal.

The big, black dragon.

The tower.

A sound like a never-ending earthquake, groaning and rumbling around him.

“Oh, gods,” he muttered, “did that really happen?” He shook his head a little, and wiggled his toes. But his back was pinned down, across his hips, pain emanating across that first tattoo which had burned him so bad in those early days. Dek grinned to himself. “By the Seven Sisters, I'm truly fucked here, aren't I?” And he boomed out more laughter, blinking dust from his eyes,
after everything I've ever seen in my life, after all the trials and tribulations, all the punch-ups, sword battles, mud-orcs, elf-rats and now a fucking dragon, to be taken out in a fucking tower collapse
…
well, that just puts a ridiculous sour full stop at the end of my worthless fucking life.

Suddenly, there came a crashing sound. Something shifted above Dek, and grunting, two silhouetted figures lifted a stone lintel and cast it to one side, where it clattered down a pile of rubble. Hazy firelight came in, along with rainfall that cooled Dek's face.

“Is that you, Dek lad?” boomed Narnok, his scarred face suddenly coming into focus like some horrific nightmare.

“Aye, it is. What fucking took you so long?”

“You cheeky, cheeky bastard.”

Kareem was helping, and they lifted a wooden beam from Dek's hips, and hauled him out of his hole. Dek stretched, and groaned, as a thousand aches and pain prodded and punched him. He blinked, rubbed dust from his eyes, turned his face to the rain, allowing it to cool his tongue, then took a second look around. This area of the city had been demolished. The collapsing tower had seen to that, wiping out most of the close surrounding buildings, and decimating many of the others. Fires burned. Down one square, a group of maybe two hundred armed guards had gathered.

“I thought I was dead,” said Dek.

“So did we.”

“Where's Mola?”

“Down there, looking for Trista.”

“Fuck! She's still missing?”

“Yes, lad,” rumbled Narnok, and his scarred face was filled with apprehension. “Come on. We have to keep searching.”

“Where's the fucking dragon gone?”

“Over there.” Narnok gestured vaguely. “Group of archers took her on, she's chasing them up towards the North Gate breathing fire up their arses, no doubt.” He grinned, a quite savage look. “Glad we found you.”

“Now we need to find Tris.”

They started calling her name, and moved down the rubble pile towards Mola. Mola's eyes were red-rimmed, and he had the most savage look on his face.

“What's wrong with him?”

“Don't fucking ask!”

“Hey, Mola, what's up with you, big lad?”

“It's my dogs,” he said, voice wretched. “I can't find my dogs. I've been whistling for ages. They're gone, Dek. Gone and crushed.”

Dek bit his lip, wondering what to say. In the end, he said nothing. He knew how much Mola loved his mutts.

They started calling for Trista once more, occasionally looking to the sky. But there was no sign of Volak, and after a while, they busied themselves moving rocks and calling her name. Until a growl rumbled out from the shadows.

Atop the rubble of the tower, Narnok, Dek, Mola and Kareem straightened from their labour. Narnok still had his axe, but the others had had to scavenge for weapons, either in the fall or in nearby houses. None were happy with what they had found.

“Is that one of your dogs?” said Narnok, carefully,

Mola shook his head. “No. I know their growls anywhere. That,” he gestured to the dark insides of a half-collapsed town house, “that's something different.”

“It can't be the dragon,” muttered Kareem, hoisting a half-rusted short sword that looked too small for his large hands. “She wouldn't hide in a bloody house and growl at us. So what is it?”

“Remember,” said Narnok, single eye glinting, “just before the tower collapsed? There were shapes. Dark shapes. Running through the streets. Some across the rooftops.”

“I know what I thought,” said Dek, and his words were terribly soft.

“What's that, lad?”

“I thought they were splice,” he said, eyes fixed on the dark, sagging opening to the house. Something was definitely in there, peering out at them. He could just distinguish a section of outline; it was big. Too big.

“That's fucking impossible!” boomed Narnok, slapping him on the back and making him cough. “Those fucking things died with Orlana the Changer.”

Dek shook his head. “No. I've heard stories. About rogue ones, out in the countryside. Rogue
splice.
Gangs of villagers get together to hunt them down. There have been some shocking casualties.”

“Dek lad, you're talking a whole load of donkey bollocks… ” Narnok grinned, as from the shadows emerged a splice, limping, great rigid muscles tensed and ready to spring, its long head turned away, so the equine muzzle was almost on its side. A big red eye bulged, and open wounds across its face oozed black blood.

The Iron Wolves took a step back, and brandished their weapons.

“Fuck me!” said Narnok.

“I… don't believe it,” muttered Kareem, stroking his beard.

“Right,” hissed Narnok, eye not moving from the beast. “They're tough fuckers, these ones. We'll have to attack from different sides.”

Kareem stared at him.

“What?”

“I was on Desekra,” said Kareem.

“Were you?”

“I fought against the mud-orcs,
old man.
”

Narnok opened his mouth to retort, as another growl came from the left, where a huge, splintered beam lay propped against a wall. It was surrounded by crushed rubble. Limping sideways, came another splice. Narnok's mouth shut with a clack.

Then, from behind them, a third growl rumbled out.

“Oh, you've got to be fucking joking!” wailed Narnok, and turned slowly as a third creature came from the shadows. And the Iron Wolves realised, with rising horror, that there were more… more splice, crouching in the shadows behind these first ones…

“This is turning into a really shitty day,” said Kareem, turning slowly, short sword weaving before him.

“One is hard enough to kill,” snapped Dek. “What are we supposed to do against… ten? Eleven?”

They'd stopped, a short distance away, lips curled back, deep rumbles emerging from twisted throats.

“I think we have a problem,” said Mola.

“Yes, I can
see
the fucking problem!” moaned Dek.