The Dragon Engine

by Andy Remic

  The voice was an echo deep within him. Deep within his embryo of bone.

  Would you have become First Cardinal Skalg without the constant pain to fuel you? I think not, brother of bone, brother of flesh, brother of spirit.

  “Shut up,” muttered Skalg, and finished the goblet in a single swallow, sending fire scorching down his throat. His belly ached. His head thumped. He groaned, and his groan merged with a gentle knock at the door.

  “You may enter!”

  It was a young lad in the royal livery of King Irlax. He gave a modest bow, then met Skalg’s questioning gaze.

  “The Great King Irlax commands you attend him immediately.”

  “He does, does he?”

  The young dwarf coughed. Then he suddenly lowered his eyes, remembering exactly whom he addressed. “He, er, that is, King Irlax, demands an update on progress towards the apprehension of the Army of Purity, who, er, he states, have been targeting his churches.”

  The messenger risked a glance up. Skalg’s gaze was ice cold and fixed on him filled with razor daggers.

  “Er.”

  Skalg gave a short cough. “You may inform His Majesty that I have received his request, and I will attend his court in due course.” Skalg gave a narrow smile. “Now run along, before this silver decanter,” he gestured, vaguely, “connects repeatedly with your fucking face.”

  “Taking my leave, Cardinal.” The messenger hurried out.

  In foul mood, Skalg began to dress.

  Methodrox sat in the corner of The Slaughtered Warrior, a flagon of ale in his grip, his dark, intelligent, glittering eyes watching the ebb and flow of tavern patrons. The Slaughtered Warrior was situated in the darkest, most undesirable quarter of Langan’s Dock, affectionately known to its inhabitants – with dark irony – as The Pit. The Pit was not an actual pit, but a metaphor for perhaps how low it had sunk in a social context; here, nothing was contraband. In fact, every contraband was available, and only The Pit was the safest place to buy and sell. Even Skalg’s Educators were wary of travelling The Pit. It amused Methodrox greatly to see them enter in threes or more.

  Now, Methodrox waited for his contact. He sipped his ale, barely taking any in, despite the intoxicating and addictive flavour. Ale was part of his blood, but not today, not on this night, not with this mission. This mission was everything.

  Methodrox watched the dwarves in the tavern, and some watched back. All were armed, many armoured. By the bar there came uproarious laughing, which erupted immediately into violence. Fists were flying, at least five or six people involved in the sudden vicious brawl. An axe flashed in the lamp light, and a head was detached from shoulders with a sodden thump. In a few minutes it was over, and two dwarves dragged the headless corpse from The Slaughtered Warrior and dumped it in the street.

  Methodrox watched, hand on his own knife, eyes narrowed lest he in some way become dragged into the fight. Unlikely, but always a possibility. Fights in The Pit had a way of getting out of hand extremely quickly.

  A slim figure slid in through the door. He was hooded, nothing suspicious there, and tall for a dwarf. He had to stoop a little to avoid bumping his head on the beams. He moved quickly, neatly, a dwarf who was a master of his own actions.

  Methodrox leaned back a little, eyes following the newcomer who made his way to the bar, good boy, and ordered a flagon of ale. The man glanced around with interest, and Methodrox felt his eyes glance over but show no emotion. And yet the connection was there.

  He took his ale from a rough-looking barman with arms the width of most dwarves’ thighs, and tattooed heavily with blurred images of female dwarves showing breasts and open quims. He sipped, casual, and moved through the raucous crowd until he reached Methodrox’s table.

  “You have a spare seat. Can I sit?”

  “Be my guest.”

  He sat. Sipped ale. Pretended to not be interested in Methodrox.

  “You enjoying your evening?”

  “Good fight before. Shame the dwarf had to lose his head.”

  “Occupational hazard.”

  “In a tavern?”

  “In Zvolga. In The Pit.”

  Methodrox nodded. “I’ll second that.” He paused and studied the newcomer. “You seem like a handy fellow. Are you looking for work?”

  “A labouring dwarf is always looking for work.”

  “I have a delicate task. How are you with precious stones?”

  “I have a delicate hand.”

  “For this, you will need to be delicate and yet brutal.”

  “I can be both of those things.”

  Methodrox finished his ale. “Count to a hundred and meet me outside.”

  The streets were warm, the cobbles dry. It was five minutes since the last Dragon’s Song, and warm air still pulsed, lantern flames bright.

  The newcomer emerged, and Methodrox set off, not checking behind himself. He moved into a narrow maze of four-storey high, leaning slum buildings, the left-hand side carved from the mountain, the right free-standing at a variety of shifted angles. Cheap. Dangerous. Abandoned. Dwarves crowded the streets, dressed in poor garb, many clutching bottles. The Pit was nothing if not a den of poverty, violence and alcohol. Young dwarves with scabbed faces, dressed in rags, sat in doorways, begging, daggers with dried blood in their boots. Whores stood in other doorways, promising they were clean, lips painted bright red, eyes dead like those of a corpse.

  Through all this Methodrox weaved, hand on his knife, axe on his back. He made a series of complicated cut-throughs, down narrow dark alleys, under bridges, over stinking, open sewers which got worse, more polluted, the deeper into The Pit one travelled.

  Eventually, they came to an old DumpShaft, from a time before “civilisation” was brought to the Harborym by the Great Dwarf Lords. It was a wide well, a low wall of stone defining the perimeter – perhaps thirty feet wide, a natural shaft deep, deep down into the bowels of the Karamakkos. It had been used as an industry tip for centuries; now it was used more to dispose of unwanted corpses. It saw a lot of business. Most DumpShafts had been sealed by the church; here in The Pits, nobody seemed to care.

  Beside the DumpShaft stood a warehouse. Big. Old. Falling down. By the narrow entrance leaned two serious-looking dwarfs, both carrying evil, well-worn maces. Methodrox stopped beside these two individuals and looked back. The dwarf following did not pause, but came in close, trusting, confident, eyes meeting Methodrox’s.

  “Watch the street,” he said, and ducked inside. The newcomer followed.

  They moved through various corridors, eventually coming to a small room. Again, there were five large and very serious-looking dwarves. Their eyes glittered, their faces grim slabs. Here, Methodrox finally stopped and dragged up a chair, sitting himself down. The newcomer was left standing.

  “State your name.”

  “Echo.”

  “Can you prove this?”

  The newcomer shrugged, and looked at the five dwarves who spread out before him, pushing in front of the seated Methodrox. A wall of muscle. A wall of bristling weapons.

  “Do you need me to?”

  The five stocky dwarves attacked in a sudden rush. Echo ducked a club, dropping to one knee and delivering a right-hand straight that broke the dwarf’s knee. He screamed, rolling to one side as Echo rolled to the left, grabbing a second attacker’s groin and dragging down on his balls. Another scream.

  They backed off for a moment, finding new positions. Echo was relaxed, features neutral. Then he attacked. Three strikes in three seconds, leaving them rolling on the floor with various breaks and dislocations, groaning the way only big, tough killers can groan from an unexpected violence.

  Echo glanced up. “You wish me to kill them?”

  Methodrox stood, and held up a hand. “No. Follow me.”

  More corridors, more narrow apertures to squeeze through. They came to a big space, bright with a thousand candles. A thousand dwarves were seated around tables, food and drink before them. As they ente
red through a side door, Echo looked genuinely surprised. “The Army of Purity?”

  “A sample,” smiled Methodrox. “We grow stronger every day.”

  “The Church of Hate truly has something to fear.”

  “A wise observation. Follow me.” They moved between the tables, where serious faces regarded Echo and he returned their stares, face neutral. Finally, they came upon a table at the far end of the chamber, around which were arranged eight grave-looking dwarves, with neatly trimmed beards and black, polished armour. They stood, and nodded at Echo, and then they all sat – except Methodrox who gestured to an empty seat. Echo sat, looking around at each face slowly, as if memorising the features for future reference.

  “You want me to kill Skalg?” said Echo once more, quietly, placing both hands flat on the table. The backs of his hands were crisscrossed with narrow white scars.

  “No,” said Methodrox. “We want something… a little more elaborate.”

  Slowly, Methodrox outlined his plan.

  “There is… considerable risk.”

  “And we offer considerable reward.”

  “I require no payment.”

  Methodrox looked taken aback, and he rubbed at the bristles of his beard thoughtfully.

  “You would do this out of principle? To free the dwarves of the tyrannical rules of the Church of Hate?”

  Echo shrugged, and looked off, as if into the distance. “Let’s just say that bastard Skalg and I go way back; and I have an old score to settle.” His eyes were gleaming and he locked his gaze to Methodrox. “Let’s say I do it for the memory of my sister.”

  Skalg sat in his plush, donkey-drawn carriage. The curling ironwork was gleaming black, edged with gold as befitted the First Cardinal of the Church of Hate. As they rattled through the dark streets of Zvolga, the carriage was flanked by six Educators, which kept the pace slow. This pleased Skalg, at the thought that every passing second would be infuriating King Irlax to the point where Skalg could be guaranteed an argument. As Skalg’s father used to say, the only good king is a dead king.

  As they moved their way through the streets, some dwarf citizens stopped to stare at the carriage. Skalg’s procession often had this effect on people, after all, he was the First Cardinal, and as such, demanded the respect of the populace. On this occasion, however, the six Educators also probably helped to draw stares; it wasn’t often such brutality was openly courted.

  They rattled down various side streets, and flicking back a curtain, Skalg glanced out; Razor was walking, her body fluid, her head turning continually as she searched for any possible danger.

  The other Educators also looked fearsome, with their collection of unsheathed weapons, scars and no-nonsense faces. Skalg felt quite proud at that moment, that he could summon these – and hundreds of other – psychopaths.

  They reached the gates of the Palace of Iron, a towering, black iron structure, all spikes and towers and turrets. The fence surrounding the large, paved grounds was twenty feet high, with body-thick iron bars, each capped with a sprouting of razor spikes. Two guards stood on sentry duty outside the gates; inside were two squat guard houses, in which Skalg knew another ten guards waited.

  Recognising Skalg’s transport, the gates were opened on smooth, silent hinges, and the carriage rolled through as the guards stood to attention. They trundled down the smooth central causeway, the Palace of Iron looming eerily above them against a backdrop of the savage, jagged rock of the mountain’s carved and shaped interior.

  The carriage halted, donkeys stamping, and Razor opened the door for Skalg with a tiny click. He struggled out, leaning heavily on Razor and feeling the solidity of her muscles. Then he straightened, as much as a man with a bent spine could straighten, and hobbled towards the great iron doors.

  The Educators followed in silence, and the huge door swung open showing a long corridor, lit by roaring fires on large, iron stands. Skalg was met by a small, neat dwarf, clean shaven and looking very odd for it. Rumour had it the dwarf was also a eunuch; indeed all of King Irlax’s male personnel got the snip, in order to protect his collection of queens, mistresses and casual lovers.

  “Welcome, First Cardinal Skalg. The King is most urgent to share your counsel.”

  “Lead on, then. He should have called upon me sooner.”

  Skalg followed, limping, and shortly was presented before King Irlax. The hall was large and impressive, with glass cases surrounding the vast space containing a thousand artefacts of Harborym heritage. From weapons of war to clever mining devices; from items of formal regal dress and precious stones, to items which, historians claimed, had once belonged to the Great Dwarf Lords themselves!

  King Irlax was leaning forward on his throne, and Skalg could sense his impatience. As a result, he slowed his limping approach yet more, grinning a little beneath his beard. Finally he stopped, and glanced around, and finally alighted his eyes on his king.

  “Well met, King Irlax. Apologies for the delay. I had some short business to which I had to attend.”

  “You kept me waiting more than a fucking hour!” hissed the king, his eyes flashing with fury.

  “Excuse me,” said Skalg, meeting his monarch’s gaze, “but I think you forget to whom you speak.”

  Irlax stared at Skalg, his right eyelid twitching, and this gave Skalg time to study the King of the Harborym Dwarves. He was big, for a dwarf, and barrel-chested – very, very powerful, as he liked to prove in wrestling tournaments where he would get drunk and pound some unfortunate into pieces. He had a bushy black beard, run through with streaks of silver, and his hair was a mane, again black, again showing evidence of his progressing years. His hands were big, heavy, powerful from wielding a battle-axe, and he wore black iron armour under his regal robes of kingship.

  Irlax took a deep breath, and Skalg was humoured to see him attempting to control himself.

  Irlax peered down from his raised platform, but Skalg did not let this worry him. He knew, in terms of power, in terms of popular support even, that he wielded just as much authority as the king. In many ways, the Church of Hate was even more feared, for in many forms it pre-dated even the Great Dwarf Lords, and it had been the church that helped subdue the three dragons, Moraxx, Kranesh and Volak, using long-lost spells of Equiem magick from the elder days. From before the wars of men and dwarves.

  The Church of Hate also had a reputation for being… nasty. Thanks in no small part to its sadistic First Cardinal.

  “Cardinal Skalg.”

  “King Irlax.”

  “I believe we got off on the wrong foot.”

  “I believe so,” said Skalg, with a narrow smile. “Please, sire, let us begin again. You requested I attend you to discuss…?”

  “Let’s begin with the church fires you’ve been so recently suffering. What information have you come up with concerning the perpetrators?”

  “I believe they call themselves The Army of Purity, or some such nonsense. Although how they believe their purity can come about by burning priests to death and causing sacrilege against the altars of the Great Dwarf Lords, I cannot quite fathom.”

  “I believe you have a suspect?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is he now?”

  Skalg smiled. “He expired.”

  “He expired?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “In what way did he expire?” There was an edge to King Irlax’s voice; an edge that Skalg knew well. An edge he did not care for.

  “My Educators attempted various forms of persuasion in order to extract information about the fire, and indeed, the Army of Purity itself. After all, we cannot have thugs running around the streets burning down churches. Maybe soon they would turn their attention to the monarchy, and you yourself, sire, might find yourself on the blunt end of their anarchic fire-starting behaviour.”

  Irlax stared at Skalg. “Tell me he confessed.”

  “He did not confess.”

  “Did he tell you anything?”
r />   “No. I believe he was innocent.”

  Irlax stood, then, a sudden movement, and began to pace before Skalg. His fists clenched and unclenched once.

  “Cardinal Skalg, can I remind you – with respect – that you cannot go around my city torturing suspects. Especially when they turn out to be bloody innocent! What about this dwarf’s family? His children? His friends?”

  “It was a necessary act.” Skalg cleared his throat. “I would also like to remind Your Highness – with respect – that the Church of Hate acts externally to the monarchy. We – and I – are not answerable to Your Highness in any way whatsoever. It could be said we are symbiotic.” He smiled.

  Irlax’s face darkened. “You may operate outside my rules,” said Irlax, his voice suddenly soft and laced through with poison, “but I am an honourable king, and I will not stand, will not fucking stand for the murder of innocent citizens. Do I make myself clear?”

  “You make yourself crystal clear,” said Skalg. “As clear as a mountain sky. However, you are not in a position to tell me what I can and cannot do, and in pursuit of these… these villains I will use every technique at my disposal in order to discover their identities. Do I make myself clear?”

  Irlax turned to face Skalg. He stepped in close. “You play a dangerous game with me, Cardinal.”

  “This is no game, Your Highness. This is a group of your so-called precious citizens challenging the church with all-out war. I will not stand for it, do you hear? I will not have the Church of the Great Dwarf Lords desecrated in such a manner – and any who stands in my way is a heretic. Surely, you do not challenge the Will of the Three Gods, do you, King Irlax?”

  Irlax smiled, and relaxed back. “Of course I do not challenge the Will of the Three Gods. As you say, that would be foolish indeed – especially for one in my position.” He moved back to his throne, and seated himself, his eyes turning on Skalg with a cold, calculating steadiness. “Why, if this sort of madness progressed, then our population might find they had to make a choice between church and king. And that would rip our world asunder, would it not? There would be a bloody civil war. That eventuality would benefit nobody.”