The Dragon Engine

by Andy Remic

  “What? You fucking brought us here! I wanted to side-step this whole mess.”

  “Well, it’s a mess now all right,” said Lillith, moving past the arguing men and walking to the tied youth. She used an arrow blade to saw through the ropes and he slumped against her, blood drooling from his mouth. Gently, Lillith laid him on the ground and made a pillow for his head. She lifted his tunic and winced at the bruising.

  “He’s been badly beaten,” she said.

  Beetrax ambled over. He’d pulled free a strip of dried beef and was chewing on it thoughtfully. “Will he die? And I’m being hopeful here. We don’t need no dead fucking baggage on this quest.”

  The lad’s eyes opened. He smiled, then winced, and his hand went to his broken ribs. “You’re Beetrax. From Desekra Fortress. The hero!”

  Beetrax’s face brightened. “Yes! Did we fight together?”

  “No. I learned about you in school. We had a picture book.”

  Beetrax frowned. “I was in a picture book?”

  “Yes. You were slimmer. And more handsome. But it was you.”

  “By the Seven Sisters!”

  The lad coughed, and spat blood on the ground. “To answer your question, no, I won’t die.”

  “Er. Good.”

  “My name is Jael.”

  Beetrax shrugged. “So what, lad? Tell me again in a month’s time. If you’re still alive, then I’ll make the effort to remember it.”

  The Hunt

  ELLIE HAD BUILT a fire in the hearth, and as the flames flickered, outside the small cottage, distantly, a wolf howled. She gave a shiver, as if suffering a premonition, but shrugged it off and stood, knees creaking, to smile at little Ailsa, in her pretty red and white dress, sat in her special high chair and kicking her legs as she waited for supper. Janny was sat staring at a small wooden puzzle on the table before him, brow creased in concentration, his seven year-old fingers turning the pieces over and over as he tried to work out how to fit them together.

  “Are you hungry, Little Ones?” said Ellie, smiling, tugging her shawl tight. Outside a frost had peppered the land, and until the fire was roaring, she could now feel the effects of the creeping winter.

  “I hung, hungree,” grinned Ailsa, eyes shining, and Ellie crossed, rubbing the little girl’s mop of golden curls.

  “When dada gets back.”

  As if invoking her husband, Troma, the door opened and a large man stepped through, arms piled with logs, his bearded, kind face glowing red with the cold. He kicked shut the door and deposited the logs beside the hearth to warm, before turning and hugging Ellie, like a bear enveloping a child.

  “By the Seven Sisters, I swear the snow will be here tonight.”

  “You look freezing, my love. Come, sit by the fire.”

  “In a moment.” Troma crossed to his little boy, and picked up the lad, hugging him deeply. Then, carrying the giggling boy in one arm, he plucked Ailsa from the high chair and snuggled into both his children, eyes closed for a moment, Ailsa pulling at strands of his bushy beard.

  Ten minutes, the fire was roaring and the small cottage filled with heat. Ellie had slow cooked a beef broth during the day whilst Troma was out cutting firewood for what they both knew would be a long winter ahead. Now, as Troma mopped up the last of the gravy with a thick slice of coarse bread, a contentment settled on the family like warm honey. Troma laughed at Ailsa’s stew dribble, and set to working out the wooden puzzle – which he had carved himself – with Janny, who was complaining it was too difficult, and even the teacher at school in the village had been unable to solve it, and he was an expert at maths.

  “Kabor called round today,” said Ellie, voice gentle as she nibbled her slice of bread.

  Troma looked up. The big man’s eyes narrowed. “What did he want?”

  “He said there was work for you on the firewood team. He said he’d never seen a man work so well with an axe.”

  “Well.” Troma took an old worn bread knife, which had once belonged to his mother, and his grandmother, the wooden handle worn smooth with decades of use, and slowly sliced himself a chunk of bread. “I don’t care for many of the men he employs. Rough types with vulgar mouths. Always yapping. They give me a headache.”

  “Troma.” He looked into Ellie’s beautiful dark eyes. “We’ll struggle. We cannot afford to live if you have no work. I know you broke that man’s jaw, but Kabor can see past that. He’s willing to put the past behind you.”

  Troma toyed with the bread, but did not eat. “I don’t like that man coming to the house. I will have words.”

  “Please don’t threaten him. One day we may need his coin.”

  “Don’t you worry about money, my love. I will get work in the quarry over in Hisbeck. My back and shoulders are strong, and you know I am as powerful as a Shire horse.”

  Ellie opened her mouth, then closed it again. The cupboards were starting to look exceedingly bare, and Troma, despite being a gentle giant, could display a fierce temper if any man made comments about his wife or children, as had been displayed several weeks back when his fury overtook him and he had lost his job.

  Troma sat in thought for a while, as Ellie cleared the dishes and wiped Ailsa’s face with a damp cloth. His contemplation was disturbed by another wolf howl, closer this time – which was suddenly cut short.

  Troma frowned. Ellie glanced at him.

  “That was odd.”

  “Maybe a woodsman killed it?”

  “Perhaps. But at this time of night?”

  Troma stood, and strode to the door. “I will go and check around the cottage. Stay inside. Bolt the door behind me.”

  “What do you think it is?”

  Troma shrugged, and pulled on a thick bearskin jerkin, once his father’s. He strode outside, carefully closing the door and waiting, listening for Ellie throwing the bolts. Just so he knew his family was safe.

  The moon was out near-full, casting a cold, pale glow. Troma moved to the woodshed, where his large axe squatted, steel head embedded in a huge log. His hand curled around the polished shaft, and he tugged it free with a smooth, practised action. He turned and walked slowly down the slope to the lane, which led further down to the village. Walking up the lane, one carrying a shovel, the other an iron bar, came Jeg the Smith, and Woolard, a self-appointed busybody who masqueraded as the village councillor now he had retired from proper work. They stopped, offering narrow smiles.

  “We think there’s a pack on its way over,” said Jeg. “You want to lend a hand?”

  “I reckon yonder way.” Troma pointed, and he saw both village men’s eyes drop to the axe carried in his free hand.

  “So, you’re expecting trouble as well?” said Woolard.

  “Maybe.” Troma gave a single nod.

  They trekked up a narrow track, the mud frozen solid now, and within minutes hills rolled to either side. Woodland to the left was a dark ink blot under the light of the moon, and where it was a place village children played during daylight, now it seemed eminently foreboding.

  “Don’t normally get wolves this far south,” said Troma, after a while.

  “Maybe it’s slim pickings, what with the early frost?”

  “Maybe,” said Troma.

  They came to a steep section of track, and began to climb. Woolard was panting hard; an unfit man, and greying, it was well known he liked his ale, and since the death of his wife some years previous, the councillor had increased his drinking pace and consumption. He paused halfway up the slope, bending, hands on his knees, then shook his head at Troma, and pushed himself up and onwards.

  They breached the rise, and stopped.

  Ahead, through the darkness, under pale moonlight, came a… creature. It was large, bulky. Almost a horse. Almost. Its gait was uneven, curious, as if it were lame. But one of its shoulders also moved… oddly. As if its bones had been broken and reformed… wrong.

  Troma stared, and licked his lips.

  “What the hell is that?”

&nb
sp; “It’s a horse,” squinted Woolard.

  “That’s like no bloody horse I’ve ever seen!” snapped Jeg the Smith, and hoisted his solid iron bar.

  The creature saw them. A deep growl rumbled across the coarse, knee-high grassy folds that separated them – a distance of perhaps a hundred yards. Suddenly, it accelerated into a gallop, a twisted, broken gallop, and Woolard made a strangled noise, turned, and ran for it, disappearing over the brow of the hill and away from view.

  Troma and Jeg exchanged glances. Jeg licked his lips.

  “When it’s on us, we separate, strike from both sides.”

  “What in the name of the Holy Mother…”

  “And watch that bloody horn!”

  The sounds of the beast’s hooves thundered across the grass, indicating the beast’s weight. As it grew near, Troma blinked, suddenly appreciating just how big it was. Much, much bigger than a horse. He swallowed dry, and realised his hands were slippery with sweat on the axe. The great, broken horse head reared, quivering lips pulled back over black fangs, and it was nearly upon them. Suddenly it jacked back its shoulders, rearing up as Troma and Jeg snapped apart, their weapons slicing through the air – to bounce off the creature’s hide. It screeched, hooves pawing the winter air, then slammed down at Jeg, huge mouth engulfing his head and twisting sideways, wrenching the head free trailing neck tendons, flaps of torn skin, a shower of blood and a tail of his broken spinal column. Jeg’s knees buckled and his corpse hit the long grass. Everything was ghostly pale under the moonlight, Jeg’s blood black as ink.

  Troma staggered back, mouth open, filled with a total, all-consuming shock and terror. Then the beast whirled on him, and he lifted the axe which felt like a toy in his big hands. It leapt at him, moving faster than anything that size had a right to move. He slammed the axe sideways in a savage, tree-felling cut, and it embedded in a thick band of corded muscle; the beast shifted sideways under the impact, and the axe was dragged from Troma’s slippery hands. He staggered back again, unarmed now, and the beast glanced right, down the slope, then lowered its head and started to walk towards him.

  Troma stumbled backwards, his hands coming up.

  “What, in the name of the Seven Sisters, are you?” he gasped.

  The beast suddenly stopped. Those eyes fixed on him. The twisted equine lips, black and slick and quivering, seemed to be laughing. And it spoke. The creature said, “I am… your dark… ness.”

  It leapt, head slamming down, twisting sideways, and the horn skewered Troma through the chest, erupting from his back in a shower of blood and broken chunks of rib. His hands slammed down, grasping the tusk which had impaled him as the beast lifted him easily from his feet, gasping, choking out blood, and shook him like a doll.

  Troma was blinking rapidly.

  This was all a dream. A bad dream. A nightmare.

  And he pictured Ailsa’s face, covered in sweetcake. And Janny, fumbling with the puzzle his Dada had made for him. Tears filled his eyes. Rolled down his cheeks. And he remembered meeting Ellie. She had flowers in her red hair, and was sat under the Marriage Oak in the Lower Meadow, waiting for him, for their first date, for their first kiss. She had looked so, so beautiful…

  The beast grunted, and tilted its head, and the steaming corpse slid from its horn.

  It turned, and limped to the summit of the hill, gazing down the slope at the white-haired man who was running away, as fast as he could, panting and grunting. He had dropped his shovel halfway down the slope, and there were several muddy skid marks where he must have fallen and slid.

  The beast reared its head, and a huge, screeching, twisted whinny erupted, cutting through the night like a razor.

  The man turned, saw the beast silhouetted against the moon, screamed something, then stumbled, falling flat on his face. The creature galloped down the slope after him, and he heard its approach, rolled onto his back, saying, “No no, please no, please no,” as those great, uneven eyes watched him with something akin to amusement.

  Then he stopped his muddy scramble, and lay still, and watched, and waited, and piss stained his pants.

  The beast took a step forward, lifted one front leg high in the air, and planted an iron hoof through the centre of Woolard’s face.

  “When will Dada be home?” asked Janny. Ellie helped him into his woollen pyjamas, an arm, another arm, then a leg, and another leg, as he giggled and sat on the edge of the low bed which Troma had built. Janny then crawled into bed next to Ailsa, and Ellie pulled up the blankets to ward off winter chill.

  “He won’t be long, my darling,” she said.

  “I miss him already. Will he be going back to work soon?”

  “I am sure he will,” said Ellie, with a smile.

  She tucked the children in tight, then moved to the door, only half closing it so the light from candles and fire would give them comfort. Ailsa was sucking her thumb, eyes closed tight. Dreaming the dreams of an infant.

  Ellie crept around the cottage for a while, listening for the return of Troma. When a half hour had passed, she frowned and moved to the window, drawing back the curtain. The moonlight turned her garden into ink and shadows, dancing softly. Her eyes strained, searching for her husband, but to no avail.

  She closed the curtain. A chill wind blew over her soul.

  Outside, there came a thump.

  Ellie turned and stared at the dual bolted door. The bolts were thick iron, made by Jeg the Smith. They were not toys, not playthings, but heavy duty, fitted during the siege of Desekra Fortress when rumours told of the country being near-overrun by mud-orcs.

  Again, there came a thump.

  Ellie backed away, grabbing a hand-sharpened bread knife from the rack.

  With a tearing sound, wood being ripped asunder, and a screeching of twisting, separating iron, the door – in its entirety – was ripped free from the doorframe and tossed backwards. What stooped and stared in at Ellie was a twisted horse creature from cheese-fuelled nightmares. Blood stained its broken hooves and quivering black lips. The eyes bore through her with an alien intelligence she found both amazing and terrifying to her core.

  The creature pushed, but its bulk was too big for the doorframe.

  “Get back, you evil scourge!” she hissed, brandishing the bread knife. It trembled violently in fingers that shook.

  The creature rumbled, in what could have been a deviation of laughter, then heaved its bulk through the gap, breaking the doorframe which crumbled to either side like tinder, and taking out several stones from the wall. The roof beams shook, and dust floated down, twirling patterns by the lights of the flickering candles.

  A cold breeze flowed in, buoyed on a current of stench. The stench of rotting meat, of carrion crows feasting on a long-deserted battlefield; the stench of maggots in eye sockets, of opened bowels long coagulated, of part-digested flesh vomited back to the earth by those who feasted on death.

  The beast advanced, hooves shaking the floorboards.

  “No,” whimpered Ellie. “No, wait, stop! I know you. I know what you are!”

  The beast halted. Steam rose from its wide open maw. Great fangs gleamed, stained with blood, caught with little strips of skin and muscle.

  “What… am… I?”

  “You are splice,” said Ellie, voice trembling, tears running down her cheeks. “You were created by Orlana the Changer – the Horse Lady! She merged you, a man, with a horse, to create this terrible thing you have become.”

  The beast tilted its head, listening to her. Its great chest rose and fell, and steam oozed from its nostrils.

  “It’s not your fault,” said Ellie, taking another step back. “But you… you don’t have to do this!”

  “I need… to feed.”

  Hating herself, Ellie whispered, “Find others. Not here. Not my children. Not my babies. There are others in the village.” She gestured with the shaking knife. “There are… old people. Near the end of their lives. Take them! Not my children.”

  The creatur
e shifted, its head turning in the direction she pointed. For a moment, an eternal moment, which took just the single beat of her heart, she thought the splice was going to retreat, take her advice, and seek older, sour meat. Those who were already dead. Condemned by the cages of their aged frames.

  Then its head swung back to her on bulging, uneven muscles. It shook its head, as a horse shakes its head and mane, then lowered its great maw a little and those terrible eyes met Ellie’s.

  “I am cursed. I am… sorry. But you have seen me.”

  The splice leapt, crashing through the table and chairs and ending Ellie’s life with a single bite. Blood surged across the boards, dripping between gaps, staining splintered chairs. A terrible silence fell, and the splice tilted its head again, listening, its breath snorting from its horse snout.

  “Dada?”

  Janny stood at the door in his woollen pyjamas. His hands came to his mouth.

  The splice met the little boy’s frightened gaze.

  And it started forward

  Karamakkos

  IT WAS THE night following the fight with forest bandits. Beetrax and the group had made camp after pushing hard, riding north, distancing themselves from collected brigand corpses. The lad, Jael, doubled up with Sakora on her mount, as she was the lightest, her horse less burdened and thus able to suffer two lighter riders.

  They made camp in a quiet woodland, where the wind whispered seductively between brown leaves and pine. After Dake had built a fire, Jael lay beside the flames, wincing, murmuring, and Lillith tended him, administering powdered pain killers which she ground with a small pestle and mortar, and mixed with warm water.

  “Drink this.”

  Jael sucked it from the bowl, and scowled at the flavour, a bigger scowl than even his injuries had produced.

  “That is, truly, the worst thing I have ever put in my mouth.”

  “Widow Pouch, Snukkit and Dark Root. They will ease the pain and help in the healing and building of bones.”

  “Thank you. You are very skilled.”

  “Very experienced. I’ve had lots of practice.” Lillith smiled, and started pottering, packing away her equipment.