Read Online The Dragon Engine by Andy Remic - Free Book Online

wasn’t the sort of rough-and-tumble headcracker who fretted about nothing; and yet here he was, mumbling to himself like a teenage virgin at the first sight of ready moist quim.
    Damn, what’s wrong with you, Axeman?
    Shut up. It’ll be all right! They’ll come! Trust in your friends.
    I trust in no man, woman or god. They might not turn up!
    Damn…
    â€œYou staring at us?”
    Beetrax blinked, and looked up. The young man was clearly the worse for wear, swaying and holding a flagon of ale, most of which appeared in an inverted V down his tunic. It was the material of the tunic which made Beetrax narrow his eyes. Vagan silk, edged with silver thread. A noble’s tunic. Ah, but damn. Beetrax took in the pockmarked face, the neatly trimmed hair – not done with a freshly sharpened short sword, like Beetrax’s own shaggy mop, but with a proper razor – and small goatee beard which sheared neatly into curved sideboards.
    Gods, that sort of facial sculpting, that kind of narcissistic blade-work, it must take him ages! What’s the point, eh lad? When you have a face like it’s been trampled by a diarrheic donkey?
    Beetrax smiled, shook his head in the negative. “What, little old me? No, friend, I’m simply sitting here minding my own fine business, like. Thanks for calling over to say hello, though. I appreciate your attempt at brotherhood.” He beamed, and waited.
    â€œMy lady friend, Jallenta, she reckons you were staring at her.” He gestured vaguely behind himself with his flagon, to where a woman who had the extruded face of a horse, was lying across a table, head resting on one arm, snoring. She, also, wore a fine embroidered dress of red and purple. Beetrax’s eyes dropped to her boots. Fine soft leather. No scuffs. No mud.
    Beetrax took a deep breath, eyes searching for the landlord. But The Fighting Cocks was filling up fast and he was lost somewhere in the throng at the bar. By the Seven Sisters, how do I manage to attract trouble all the time? Eh? Why does it come looking for me like a bull after a flapping, slack-jawed idiot?
    â€œLook, friend, turn around and go away. I don’t want no trouble.”
    â€œShe said you were staring at her bosom.” The man bared his teeth, in what Beetrax thought was a snarl.
    â€œRight. For a start, I can’t even see her tits from here. And if her face is anything to go by, I’d be more after grooming her horse mane than trying to fumble with her nipples. But that’s by the by, friend. You need to turn around and fuck off before I break your stupid nose. Then your jaw. Maybe a few fucking teeth.”
    Beetrax stood, suddenly, and loomed over the well-groomed youth. The man looked up, swaying a little, and Beetrax was annoyed that his sheer size didn’t make the little scamp run for his mother’s milk tits.
    The man wagged his finger, and belched. “My name is Daron. I’ll be back.” He turned and slid into the crowd.
    â€œRight,” mumbled Beetrax. “Time for a swift exit.” He downed his flagon, belched, rolled his neck and pushed his way through the throng.
    This was the end of the working week for most, and the Cocks was full of mostly labourers, smiths, hard-working men ready for a few ales after a week of breaking their backs. They were boisterous but mostly friendly; Beetrax’s sort of men.
    He passed the table with the snoring woman wearing fine boots, and then made for the stairs. They had a long journey ahead of them on the morrow, last thing Beetrax needed was a belly full of ale, broken knuckles and three nights in the city cells. He passed the bar, shouldering a couple of rough-looking men out of the way with a muttered apology, down a narrow corridor, then right to the stairs leading up to the accommodation on the floor above. He started up, wincing a little as his knee and hip twinged with pain, legacy of an old injury, a fall from a