by Andy Remic
Beetrax followed. Like a dog. Like a slave. He had no control. He had left that behind with his sanity.
It was cold away from the fire, and the shadows lengthened into black velvet as she led him through the darkness of the old barracks in the mountains. Despite the alcohol in his blood, or maybe because of it, Beetrax felt he was floating. Lillith moved before him, her hand reaching back, holding his large, solid, scarred and tattooed fingers. The walls around them were cobwebbed, ancient stone, and Beetrax breathed in their history like perfume, revelled in every image that stuttered before his panic-reeling brain. And then they were there, at the doorway leading to… her room.
“Come in,” she said, voice husky, pushing at the old timber door. It creaked open, and they stepped through the portal. Stepping behind him, she closed it again.
A single candle burned, its light flickering like a beacon.
Beetrax felt as if he moved through honey, a spectator watching his own dream. She moved to him, pressing herself against him, and he smelled her, and remembered the taste from inside her. It was sandalwood. She tasted of sandalwood. It drove him wild.
“Kiss me,” she instructed.
He kissed her.
“Hold me.”
His arms encircled her slim waist, edging up her shirt, connecting with her naked flesh, savouring her warm skin. Their lips brushed once more, and Beetrax gave a low groan, and Lillith bit his lip, her tongue sliding into his mouth, her arms around him now, her naked flesh under his fingers. They fell back to the bed, which creaked, and where the blankets smelled of her.
“You’re in my room, now,” she said, voice husky.
“I am your slave,” he said.
“I know,” she said.
“I am your prize,” he said.
“I know,” she said, and she undressed him, and he let her, for he had lost all his freewill, misplaced his control, and had ultimately fallen under her dark witchcraft spell – again. Or so he told himself. In reality, he allowed himself to be mesmerised. Welcomed the abuse, the pain, the pleasure, the guidance, the mastery.
They were naked together, and the room was cold, but neither felt the chill for their flesh was tingling, their minds spinning. They kissed, lying side by side, and her hand touched his chest, and travelled down, taking his cock, squeezing it gently, dropping down to his balls, and squeezing them as well.
“Tell me if I hurt you.”
“You won’t hurt me,” he said.
And she kissed his lips, and kissed his neck, and kissed his chest, and dropped lower, taking him all in her mouth, taking him deep, and his hips pushed forward and his mind went bright as if fever had torn his mind free; her hair fell like a curtain onto his belly, and he reached down, pushing it to one side, so he could see her beautiful face, see the work of her lips and tongue upon him.
He came, suddenly, an explosion that ripped through him, and she swallowed him, drank him all down inside her, took every drop for herself. And then they lay together, and he stroked her breasts, stroked her belly, his hand dropping further, his fingers moving in slow circles. His fingers slid inside her, and he crawled down the blankets, and pushed his face into her quim, and worked on her with a delicate passion as she writhed beneath him, and he tasted sandalwood, just like before, and now it was his turn to drink her down, and these images, this passion, merged with what once had been; and he remembered, remembered it all as Lillith’s passion rose before him, and his hand reached out, took her breast, squeezed the nipple, and she moaned and her fingers curled through his hair and he felt her shuddering, shuddering, vibrating like a tight-wound machine, lost in another world, a world of pleasure, and memories, and unity.
Later, they fucked, and she lay beneath him, enraptured face framed by her dark hair, and they gazed into one another’s eyes and joined together, worked together, came together. And everything focussed on a pin-prick moment of absolute intensity; and she clutched him until it was over, and the stars died, and the world died, and finally, the sun went out.
They lay under the blanket, curled together, a perfect fit. It was near dawn, and cold light filtered through window shutters.
“Come on. I want to show you something,” she said.
They dressed, and Beetrax pulled on his boots, watching Lillith cover her nakedness with regret. He did not speak. For a few moments speech had left him, for this impossible dream had come true, and she was back here, with him, like he thought would never happen. His mind felt fractured. He did not understand. But he welcomed it all the same. It made him more gentle. Lillith calmed the savage beast in his soul. She tamed his primitive nature with an inculcated instinct; by a presence of will, of possession, of dominance.
They walked through the deserted barracks holding hands, past the embers of the fire, and outside into the snow. More had fallen. It was crisp and grey, the sky smeared with blue. The far horizon of the mountain walls was rimmed with a copper glow. A cool draught drifted down the White Lane, bringing promises of ice and death from the north.
Lillith stared to the south. She ran a hand through her luscious hair, then turned to Beetrax. “We could turn back. Turn away from this foolish, pointless journey. We could head back to Vagandrak. Forget the Karamakkos. Forget this pointless quest for riches and immortality. It will never happen, you realise? There is no immortality.”
Beetrax shrugged. “What about Jonti? This has grown bigger than our simple quest. There is a greater need, now.”
Lillith sighed. “I know,” she said, staring south, lips narrowed into a grim, resigned line.
The breeze stirred the fresh powder of snow on the ground.
Beetrax took her in his great arms from behind, encircled her, pushed his face into her hair. “I’m glad you came back to me. You have made me whole again.”
“I have made myself whole.”
Distantly, far south, drifted a long, drawn-out, mournful sound; it was a howl, but stuttering, as if formed by a throat and lips that were far from animal. It was quite possibly the most terrifying sound Beetrax had ever heard, and he felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck, felt goose bumps race up his arms.
“A wolf?” said Lillith, going rigid in his arms.
“That’s no wolf,” said Beetrax.
“But if it wasn’t a wolf…”
Beetrax let go of his woman. She turned to him. His face was grim.
“I know exactly what it was. I just hope, by the Seven Sisters, it’s not looking for us. Let’s wake the others. We need to move.”
“Beetrax? What is it?”
“It’s a splice,” said Beetrax, voice the lead of a tomb door. “Left over from the war. One of Orlana, the Horse Lady’s, terrible, deformed creatures; one of her weapons. They hunt, and they kill. That’s what they do. That’s all they do. Now come on!”
The Engineers
SKALG FOCUSSED ON the black blade. It had become the centre of his world. The centre of his universe. Everything that was left, all his dreams of power and conquest, all his wealth, it all devolved into nothing more than a tiny thrust from a sharpened point. How did it come to this? How the fuck did this happen? And where are my fucking Educators? What do I fucking pay them for?
Suddenly, a terrible anger infused Skalg. He had worked so hard, scrambled and clawed and bit his way up the pyramid pile of vanquished enemies, amassed a fortune in gold and jewels, riches which, technically, belonged to the Church of Hate’s coffers, but in reality formed financial wells for Skalg’s own private and personal use.
And now this? To end it, like this?
“Don’t kill me,” he managed, voice hoarse.
Echo seemed to consider this. His dark eyes were bright. Finally, he spoke. And Skalg deflated a bit. For words – words were better than sharpened steel in his throat. “Do you want to hear what I have to say? Do you want to listen to the words of the Army of Purity?”
“Well you answered one question. Who sent you?” He saw Echo’s face, and held out both hands. “W
ait, wait! Let me assure you, I can pay you a whole lot more than those church-burning radicals. Ten times more!” No response. “Fifty times more! But for this, I must remain alive. You understand, Echo?”
“Ah, so you recognise me. Good. That saves time. I have a message. So you need to listen good, First Cardinal Skalg, for as you have just seen, we can get to you. I could kill you right now, if I so desired. But I will not.”
Skalg relaxed back a little. His eyes hardened. He allowed himself to breathe, and even the pain in his hunched back could do nothing to detract from this moment.
“I thank you for that,” said Skalg, voice gentle. “What is your message? What will it take for the Army of Purity to stand down their attacks on my churches and wardens? What is it they actually want?”
“They want the three Dragon Heads,” said Echo.
“You know those are not mine to give.”
“But you have access.”
“Even I cannot remove them from the Iron Vaults in the Sacred Pit of the Cathedral of Eternal Hate. Not even King Irlax himself would be allowed to remove them, for they were placed there by the Great Dwarf Lords themselves.”
Echo considered this.
“Then you must allow us access,” he said. “And we will find a way to steal them.”
“You will perish in fire,” said Skalg, voice hard.
“Then we will perish in fire, trying,” said Echo.
Skalg stared at him. The sounds of battle had come closer. Echo’s eyes glinted.
“Why, in the name of Skaltelos, do you want them? You seek immortality? It is not true, Echo, the legend is false…”
“We will make that decision!”
Razor came leaping over the carriage, crashing into Echo and they both went down in a flail of limbs and slashing steel. Then they were up, and spun apart. A cut bled across Razor’s upper arm, and her good eye was bright, alive with the thrill of battle, with the thrill of killing.
“I know you,” she said.
Echo attacked, a blistering assault with two long knives. Razor fought back, her own weapons similar, and they clashed in the air striking sparks. They spun apart once more, like dancers, and leapt to the attack with more clashes of steel and showering sparks from razor edges. Skalg watch with a mixture of awe, and horror, at this wild and primal dance, at this display of almost unbelievable skill. Suddenly, Echo delivered a side-kick that caught Razor in the chest, powering her backwards with a grunt, to land on her arse on the cobbles.
And then Echo was gone, sprinting up a side street through long shadows, knives sheathed… vanished.
Razor climbed to her feet, wheezing, holding her chest. She came over to Skalg and helped the cardinal to his feet with some difficulty. Skalg smiled, and patted her on the shoulder.
“You did well today, Razor.”
“Than…k yo…u, Cardinal.”
Skalg looked up the road. His wardens had formed a cordon. There were forty or so corpses in the street.
“What about Blagger?” he said, as pain came flowing back into his body now the adrenaline of the moment was wearing off; an old friend; a returned lover.
Razor shook her head. “He didn’t mak…e it.”
“That’s a shame. I liked him. There was one dwarf who did what he was told.”
Chief Engineer Skathos stood on an arched bridge of gold above the Central Cavern of the Great Mine, and looked down in wonder at what they had achieved. What the Harborym Dwarves had achieved.
The vast space of the Central Cavern could fit an entire city within its massive hall, and had been the First Dig, that is to say, the first excavation when the dwarves originally tunnelled down looking for precious metals and jewels. Since then, they had been working their way upwards – creating the newer cities, also known colloquially as the slums, and also further down, deeper down.
“Time to check the pits, Chief,” said Jengo, his Second Engineer, and the small, neat figure of Skathos nodded, stroking his combed beard. They moved across the perfectly smooth, stone-engineered surface of the bridge, dropping down through various levels of the Central Cavern. Around them was a constant bustle, as engineers moved about their shift work. Normal mining was undertaken by the Harborym Dwarves themselves, and they were proud to follow in the footsteps of their ancestors. However, new safety measures brought in by King Irlax meant that in dangerous tunnels, toxic mines and life-threatening digs, only convicted criminals (and by this he meant criminal dwarves convicted by a court, as opposed to some random unfortunate who got in the way of Cardinal Skalg) were forced into slavery to work the more dangerous sections of mine. Convicted criminals, and outsiders. The dwarves had eighteen different words for “outsider”, or “not of dwarf origin”. Many of the words doubled with enemy, traitor, or simple foul language difficult for a human throat to recreate. It had to be said, the dwarves were not keen to expand on human dwarf relations.
Reaching the base level of the Central Cavern, they moved onto a nearby platform where a series of underground trains ran, powered by steam hydraulics and chains. The steam was super-heated by the dragon engines, which, interestingly, was where Chief Engineer Skathos was heading for the ritual twice-a-day Dragon Pit examination.
After all, without the dragon engines, the entire mining system of the Harborym Dwarves would grind to a halt.
The platform was smooth black granite, and Skathos peered down onto the tracks, as he always did. The iron rails were polished on their surface, the rest of the track grime-smeared and littered with pebbles, rocks and old, black oil.
At the centre of the track, suspended at waist height, was a thick chain – about the width of a dwarf’s thigh. It vibrated softly, and then suddenly burst into life as points changed, gears engaged, and a train was due.
The chain hissed past, humming. It seemed to go on forever, and then a series of carriages zoomed past, loaded with chunks of mined rock. Skathos counted, despite knowing how many there were; he observed this scene ten times a day.
With clanks and thunks, the carriages whizzed and hummed, iron wheels rattling on iron tracks. Skathos stood, impassive, but Jengo, as always, was suitably impressed.
“I will never get over our feats of engineering,” he said.
“We have excelled ourselves,” admitted Skathos.
“Our jobs would be a million times harder without the network.”
“I agree. And a billion times harder without the dragon engines.”
The chains suddenly halted, flexing and humming. Three minutes and one second later, they started again, from a different direction, flying past at an incredible speed. The scent of steam and hot oil came to Skathos, and he closed his eyes for a moment. To the Chief Engineer, this was a hot oil perfume; not just the scent of the mountain, but the incense of the mines, the aroma of machines, the fragrance of engineering.
The next carriage slammed to a halt, rocking slightly. Steam curled. It was the same design as one of the mining carriages used to transport rock, ore, mined silver; except this one had been fitted with bench seats for transporting miners, engineers, convicts, slaves. The entire stretch of carriages was empty, as it should be. This was the middle of a working shift.
Skathos and Jengo stepped onto the carriage and sat down. Jengo clicked shut the door. They set off at instant high speed, flowing down the rails, through narrow tunnels then wide halls, through wide tunnels and narrow halls. Rock flowed past, fractured by precious lodes. Marble, granite, diorite, basanite, nephelinite, obsidian, quartz, scoria, basalt, harzburgite. This section of mountain was igneous, former volcanic, and Chief Engineer Skathos was an expert, as was only right. Sight, texture, smell, he could detect every variant from a hundred paces. Or so it was rumoured by the under-engineers. This made him smile and rub his neat beard. He liked ridiculous stories like that.
They sped on, occasional pools of fire from the furnaces lighting the way and providing a little heat in this deep, dank, cold place. This bowel of the mountain. This underground dep
th which, some said, should never have been mined.
The tracks moved up and down, twisting on different cambers as they sped on this insane journey through leagues of tunnel. Suddenly they stopped, carriage rocking, excess steam ejecting from hydraulics with spurting hisses. Both Skathos and Jengo jumped out. It did not do to wait, or be slothful, with the network system. As the saying went, “the chains wait for no dwarf”. And seeing a miner cut in half by the power of the chains only ever happened once. In such a powerful automated system, it was a very real danger.
The carriage sped off, clanking. Chains vibrated. And finally, stopped.
This was it.
The Dragon Pits.
“Come on,” said Skathos, and led the way. They moved down huge tunnels – more curved halls than tunnels, so vast were their polished heights. Fire-bowls stood at regular intervals, allowing long shadows to rule between pools of light.
They walked, boots echoing, and came at first to a massive iron gate. It was guarded by ten dwarves in full hardcore battle armour: The Dragon Guards. They allowed Skathos to pass, and he was stopped at five more gates, each one with bars as thick as a dwarf’s arm. Each time Skathos was allowed to pass, and Jengo stared at suspiciously by bulky guards between slit-helmed battle-dress. All weapons were unsheathed and sharp and oiled. These were not unpractised guards, but veterans. The toughest of the tough, their regiment put in place – so it was claimed – by the Great Dwarf Lords themselves. They were insular, almost masonic, and answerable to neither the king nor the church. After all, they protected the dwarves’ greatest treasure.
The Dragon Engine.
On moved Chief Engineer Skathos, and came to the first viewing portal. Jengo was still early in his training, so was made to stand outside. Skathos, on the other hand, stepped into the capsule and pressed the button operating hydraulics. The capsule was slung across on steel cables, and Skathos peered out of the small window… and as always happened, felt his heart climb up his throat and perch in his mouth.
