By the time he reached the body, the other men were hard at work. The movers had unfurled their nets and were in the process of spreading them out on the ground, the cutters had assembled their large saws and were beginning the arduous task of slicing open the ribs and some of the skinners were wedging their levers under the scales and prising them upwards while others were slicing through the tendons that held the large armoured plates to the body.
The teams clambered over the dragon like a swarm of ants, cutting and slicing their way through flesh and bone to harvest as much of it as possible. Bow-saws and axes were used to remove teeth and large shearers and clippers aided in the removal of claws, with the crows and gulls fighting to get into any new areas of the carcass that the men had exposed.
Meanwhile, Nobo and two of the other members of the team watched the sky for signs of dragon activity, although every so often, Nobo allowed himself a glance at the body.
He had seen dragons before, but had never been this close to one. Looking at the beast’s huge body, now smashed and broken, he could not help but have a feeling of sadness. Dragons had always fascinated Nobo; as a young boy he had often watched them, filled with excitement, flying between the islands of Umberöc, hunting for food.
Nobo always knew he wanted to be part of a scavenger crew and his uncle had called in several favours to get him on to one. The men knew this, they also knew that it was unheard of for someone as young as him to join the best crew in the city of Dragonov.
Through the pouring rain he watched as two of the larger members of the cutters used the bow-saw to cut out another of the creature’s giant teeth before passing it to one of the movers who put it into the net with the others. Usually the crews spent their time searching the rocks for discarded scales or teeth so to have the full body of one fall on your doorstep like this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Steadily the nets filled up with dragon parts: scales, teeth, bones and claws were tied up in bundles ready to be moved down the tunnel to Dragonov, where they would either be used in the creation of magical items or traded to the other islands of Umberöc, or to cities on the mainland of the Northern Realms.
The men worked relentlessly, disregarding the rain pelting down upon them. There was a real camaraderie among them and Nobo hoped that one day he could be part of that.
Something in the corner of his eye caught his attention.
To the north, around a mile away, he could have sworn that a shape had passed between the clouds.
His heart beat faster and his mouth went dry with fear. He could not be sure of what he had seen and so did not want to raise the alarm. If he were wrong then he would surely incur the wrath of the senior members of the crews, and after the fiasco of barely being able to make it up the tunnel that was the last thing he wanted.
So he watched, and waited.
It was not long before his fears were confirmed.
The huge, dark-red shape glided silently down out of the clouds, rippling the air and causing a vortex with its wings that pulled wisps of mist with it before spinning them off at the end of each wingtip. Everything seemed to slow down as Nobo stood and stared at the beast as it dropped down from the heavens, oblivious to everything that was going on around him, his state of mind was almost serene.
‘Dragon!’ one of the other spotters shouted and everyone looked at where he was pointing.
Panic broke out among the scavenger crew and they gathered their equipment, ready to make a break for it back to the shaft.
The cutting team instantly pulled their saw from the dead dragon’s jawbone and the skinners stopped pulling up the scales and both sets of men threw their tools into one of the large nets before helping the others close it up, lift it and start running for the tunnel.
The men ran towards the shaft, hauling the bulging nets and shouting instructions.
Some slipped and fell on the wet rocks and were trampled on while some let go of their nets due to the pain of the rope biting into their fingers, causing the scales and teeth to spill out onto the top of the sea-stack.
Nobo helped fallen men get to their feet and pick up tools or dragon parts that had dropped out of the nets, running alongside the struggling men and lobbing the objects back in.
Still the dragon drifted through the winter sky with its wings fully outstretched, moving rapidly towards the scavenger crew.
While carrying the load towards the shaft, Nobo saw Thrargo steal a glance over his shoulder at the beast that had struck such fear into everyone’s hearts. From the expression in the older man’s eyes, Nobo could tell it was Bulros.
At over one-hundred-yards long from nose to tail, no other dragon in the pack had his size or strength.
When any of the male dragons in Umberöc got to a certain size, Bulros drove them away, forcing them to either leave and search for new hunting grounds, or stay and pay the price.
Dragons lived for centuries and they only stopped growing once they reached a millennium. At over eight hundred years old, Bulros was the oldest and fiercest of all the red dragons; he had survived challenges to his leadership and had slain hundreds of men. And, unusually for a dragon, the people of Umberöc had learned his name.
He flapped his wings powerfully to slow himself down before landing. He came to rest, just as the scavenger team reached the shaft.
Thrargo and the other men ripped the winch from its top and bundled the nets into it, dropping them down the tunnel before climbing in after them.
The scramble to get onto the ladder was chaotic, and fighting broke out as the larger members of the crew pushed their way to the front of the queue.
‘Form a single file.’
Thrargo thumped one of the cutters who had tried to skip the line.
One by one the men hurried down the iron rungs of the shaft until only the spotters and Thrargo were left.
‘Right, down the ladder with you, fast as you can,’ he said as he ushered them into the tunnel before getting into it himself.
Climbing down a few of the rungs, he looked at the rusted metal plate embedded in the wall.
The metal key protruded from a hole in the middle of it, and a piece of string was tied through a loop at one end, which Thrargo wrapped around his wrist. He gripped the key and yanked it from the plate causing the grille above him to snap shut with a clang.
Thrargo put his head against the cold rung he was holding and breathed a sigh of relief.
From above: a thudding, getting louder.
The rock trembled.
Thrargo watched as the shadow on the wall of the shaft got larger before a huge head appeared just above the grills.
The rain fell against Bulros’s rows of horns and dark-red scales before cascading onto the bare, rocky ground. His glistening white fangs protruded over the edge of his bottom jaw, some as big as swords and sharp as spears, while his piercing yellow eyes surveyed the surroundings for signs of life. Exhaling through his nose, he blew the rain from the tip of his snout and looked at the grille.
Thrargo clung to the ladder motionless, staring at the huge beast.
Bulros was gigantic: a man on horseback could ride into his mouth. The dragon sniffed the top of the shaft before looking through the gaps in the grille.
‘No one move,’ Thrargo said through gritted teeth.
He had been told that a dragon’s sight was based on movement and that remaining stationary was the best way to remain undetected.
Had the other men in the crew been similarly educated they would probably have followed suit, but as it was they ignored his instruction and carried on clambering down the rungs as quickly as possible, screaming loudly at those below them to hurry up and yelling in a blind panic.
The vertical slit-shaped pupil of Bulros’s eye narrowed.
He lifted his head and opened his great maw, taking in a lungful of air and expanding
his chest.
Thrargo threw off his backpack with one hand, pressing it tight up against the grille to cover as much of it as he could and then closed his eyes.
Bulros dropped his head back down to the grille and spewed forth a jet of flame, starting from deep at the bottom of his throat and building until it reached his mouth.
The flames rolled down the shaft, washing over the men of the Dragonov scavenger team.
Thrargo’s selflessness in trying to block the flames merely bought him and his men a few more seconds.
Bulros was not renowned for his merciful nature. He sent blast after blast down the shaft, filling it with liquid flame that clung to the walls and washed over the men, causing the climbers at the top to let go of the rungs and fall. As the temperature of the shaft jumped by two-thousand degrees, they were all incinerated.
Only when the screaming stopped did Bulros cease his onslaught, taking to the air again and continuing his graceful flight.
The section of ring-linked chainmail was around a foot square; it was spread out on the rack, pulled taut by ropes at each side.
Ermithdin examined the stretched-out armoured sheet. He plucked the sides of the metal links and listened to the twanging sound.
From his workbench, he picked up a metal sword and held it out in front of him. Its polished blade emitted a purple hue and metal shavings clung to it from the tip to the hilt.
He shook the sword but none of the shavings fell off, stuck fast by the sword’s unearthly properties. Wrapping a cloth rag around the blade, he dragged it up the length of the sword and removed the iron fillings and shavings. The tiny shards of metal that had been attached to the blade became lifeless and limp, falling to the ground, as soon as they were out of range of the sword’s magical aura.
Ermithdin lifted the sword above his head with both hands, adjusting his feet so that he faced the middle of the chainmail. Moving the sword back and forth, he counted to himself.
‘Three, two, one,’ he muttered, before bringing the sword down upon the chainmail, slicing through it.
But it looked undamaged.
Holding the blade up to the light, Ermithdin examined it before staring at the chainmail once again, wondering why it was not ripped apart. He propped the sheet of chain links against the solid oak surface of the workbench so that half lay above the wood and half below. Getting into position in front of the armour once more, Ermithdin raised his sword and brought it down on the chainmail with his full force.
This time, instead of going straight through, it got halfway before burying itself in the top of the workbench, the force reverberating through his hand and forcing him to let go.
Ermithdin got up close to the armour and adjusted his glasses to get a better look, running his fingers through his greying hair and scratching his head in confusion.
It appeared to him as if the leading edge of the blade had forced open the first of the links, allowing the rest of the sword to pass through, but something else was happening: as the blade passed through a given section of chainmail, the trailing edge of the sword was pulling the links back into their original position, coupling and bending them back into shape.
He realised that the sword was cutting open the chainmail before knitting the metal ringlets back together, leaving the armour seemingly undamaged.
Rubbing his beard he stared at the sword, half-buried into the top of the workbench and protruding through the section of armour.
Walking to his writing desk, he dipped his quill in a pot of ink, opened a leather-bound journal and noted his findings under the section on rare metals.
Substance: magnentium
When crafted into the form of a blade, magnentium yields astounding results; it pushes the metal rings in chainmail apart when it strikes them, only to pull them together with the same force. This magical repulsion is similar to the effects witnessed when it is crafted into arrowheads or spear-tips, although this is the first time I have observed the attractive properties of the metal. Save for collecting shards of metal from my work area, I am not sure of what use this would be as damaged armour can be repaired by any competent blacksmith. Forging the blade also used up over half the city’s remaining supply of magnentium.
There was a knock on his workshop door.
Ermithdin set the quill down, closed the journal and opened the door.
It was Protius, looking flustered and out of breath.
‘There’s been an incident in Shaft Five,’ the young man gasped. ‘It’s a bad one.’
Ermithdin could see the severity of the situation from the look on the messenger’s face. He knew what the consequences would be as well.
‘Calm down, Protius, and tell me what happened.’ Ermithdin calmly commanded his young apprentice.
‘The scavenger team, they went to the surface, to collect as much of the dragon as they could,’ Protius said.
‘I know they went to the surface, Protius, I sent them there.’
Ermithdin spoke softly and slowly to try to reassure the young man.
‘Bulros. It was Bulros. He caught them, out in the open. They’re all dead,’ Protius told him, shaking.
Ermithdin closed his eyes.
‘The king’s called a meeting of the guilds; he wants to see all of us. We’re in trouble, aren’t we?’
‘Let us not worry about things that have not yet happened, eh?’
Ermithdin put on his red-and-black robes before stepping outside and locking the door to his abode.
Protius followed him as he headed down the dark, narrow corridor towards the hustle and bustle of the city’s central promenade.
Dragonov was the capital city in the realm of Umberöc, a group of islands to the east of the Northern Realms. Home to over eighty thousand people the city was burrowed out of the islands’ soft chalk and limestone and boasted some of the finest artisans to be found anywhere in the world.
Umberöc was different from the other realms; its royal household was more of a token gesture than a ruling monarchy; it was the people who set the tax levels, made the rules and punished those who broke them. Composed almost entirely of tradesmen and craftsmen, Umberöc’s four cities were hives of activity; forges and foundries littered its porous islands and workshops and laboratories stood on every subterranean street corner, manufacturing goods that would be shipped throughout the land. The men who worked there would often say that if the Northern Realms were a furnace, Umberöc was its red-hot embers, and with its countless ore-smelting and mineral-roasting facilities, it was easy to see why.
Similar to the effect that a candle has on a moth, the islands attracted specialists from the four corners of the map; blacksmiths to stonemasons and alchemists to woodworkers, they all came to Umberöc to ply their trades and, if they were lucky and good enough, to join one of the guilds.
It was the guilds who held the real power – they controlled the realm’s cities. Each trade had a guild made up of the oldest and wisest members of that profession, men who had studied for years and learned all there was to know about their given craft. These guild leaders sat on a council, along with the ruler of the royal household, and were responsible for the decisions that affected the entire realm.
Of all the leaders there was one who had led his guild longer than any other. A man, born without a shadow, who had studied his art for over five hundred years. He was the leader of the Cult of the Fire Forge, Ermithdin Ulroch.
Ermithdin and Protius made their way through the city, across its high rope bridges and suspended platforms, down its stone stairwells until they reached the Fulcrum, the central section of the city that served as the royal residency and where the headquarters of each guild was based.
The middle of Dragonov was a huge open hall that had formed naturally in the limestone over thousands of years; wooden walkways and passages criss-crossed the upper levels like strands of a web,
and tunnels branched off from it in every direction, some leading up to the surface and some delving even deeper into the bedrock. Light flooded in via shafts that led to the top or sides of the island, and was reflected and diffused throughout the city using prisms and beam splitters.
As the two climbed the steps of the Fulcrum, the armed men guarding the large doors stepped aside and one knocked on the wood with a gauntleted fist.
A heavy bolt could be heard sliding across, then one of the ten-foot-high doors began to edge open.
Ermithdin and Protius slipped inside and walked down the dimly lit corridor until they came to an open doorway. Raised voices could be heard from within the room, light spilling out of it. The large meeting hall was clearly packed with people. As they got to the door a hush fell within the chamber.
In the centre of the room was a large black onyx table with five people sitting at it: the heads of four of the other guilds and King Gilrin III, the head of the Brueil family. Behind each of them stood their aides, advisers, chiefs and confidantes, there to give advice and supply information as and when required.
Ermithdin moved to the far end of the table where the crowd of men dressed in black-and-red robes were stationed and took his seat.
‘Good of you to join us,’ King Gilrin said.
‘I came as soon as I heard.’
‘We told your apprentice about the meeting almost an hour ago.’
Protius leaned forward and whispered into Ermithdin’s ear.
‘I had to go to the apothecary’s chamber first and identify some of the bodies.’
Ermithdin rolled his eyes and then sighed silently.
Now he tells me, he thought.
On the table in front of him was a parchment. He scanned it quickly, reading of the events that had supposedly taken place in Shaft Five. Without any eyewitnesses, the information was vague and incomplete. The door was closed and the king stood.
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