The Dragon Engine

by Andy Remic

  “Hello,” he said. “My name is Nak. If you would follow me, please, I will take you to your wife, Jonti.”

  “Really?” gasped Dake, breathing deep. “You will let me see my wife again?”

  “Oh yes,” said Nak, frowning. “Just because we are dwarves, does not make us some kind of barbarians!”

  He backed away, and Dake stumbled from the room. Nak led the way and Dake followed, shackled hands before him, ankle-shackles making him stumble. Behind followed the three big, silent dwarves, their dark eyes fixed ahead, hands on sheathed swords, faces emotionless.

  They walked to the far end of the barracks, and moved into a large, bright chamber, well lit by many firebrands. The floor was tiled, the walls lined with gleaming steel benches, and racks gleamed with a variety of tools.

  “What is this place?” said Dake, confused.

  “This is the hospital,” said Nak, smiling. “After all, prisoners, slaves, guards, all grow sick, or can be injured. So we have this facility here in order to deal with such eventualities.”

  Suddenly, Dake realised that on the wooden bench at the centre of the chamber lay Jonti. He raced over to her, and grabbed her and she smiled, but her eyes were distant, as if drugs had been administered.

  “Jonti! Jonti, it’s me, Dake! Oh, it’s so good to see you…”

  “What’s happening, Dake?” Her words were dreamy. “I had this terrible nightmare, that we had been captured. But now I am in the hospital, and the surgeon says he is able to operate…”

  “Surgeon? Operate?” Dake was frowning, mind working like a clockwork engine, and he whirled to see Nak, still smiling, pulling on a grey gown. However, despite the smiles, his face was deadly serious.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I am Nak. They call me The Surgeon. I am about to perform an operation on your good lady wife…”

  “What? No! No! She cannot be healed!”

  “You wish me to allow her to die?” Nak looked confused.

  “No, yes, what I mean is, the best doctors in Vagandrak have examined her, she has been cut open on three occasions and all are in concurrence; Jonti cannot be healed, not by surgery, not by medicine, not by magick!” He was weeping openly now, and took hold of Jonti’s hands, squeezing them tight.

  “You know what we want here, don’t you?” said Nak, and the smile dropped and he turned, gesturing to the three big dwarves, who came over swiftly, grabbing Dake, dragging him back, restraining him in powerful grips.

  “Yes, yes, you want us to work in the mines…”

  “And we need your total obedience.”

  “Yes, of course…”

  Nak pulled back the sheet covering Jonti. She was naked. Her body was athletic, perfectly formed, and appeared in the best of health. And that was the irony; for despite outward appearances, she was disintegrating from the inside out.

  “What are you doing?” screamed Dake, suddenly, as Nak moved to the edge of the room and the steel benches. He picked up a small iron table, bringing it back with him to stand beside Jonti. On it, Dake saw the gleam of saws, knives, and a host of other intricate steel equipment.

  “No, no, what are you doing?” he screamed, again.

  “We want your obedience,” said Nak quietly. “We overheard you. In the carts on the long journey here, to the Five Havens. We know that Jonti is ill. Seriously ill. We know you came here to find…” he smiled, “the Dragon Heads in order to save her, to heal her; to make her immortal? Possibly. I am simply offering to operate on your good lady wife.”

  “But… the cancer is in her bones?”

  Nak smiled. With a thin piece of charcoal, he drew a line across Jonti’s left wrist, then a long line up the centre of her arm, forming a very long, extended T. “Precisely. I am offering to remove her bones.”

  Dake started to struggle, but the solid dwarves pinned him back, securing him. “Don’t you dare,” he snarled. “Don’t you dare harm her, or I’ll…”

  “You’ll what?”

  “I will not be responsible for my actions.”

  A silence followed, where Dake and Nak stared at one another, Dake with open animosity. Then Nak selected a scalpel from the small table, and placed the razor edge against the flesh of Jonti’s arm.

  “NO!” screamed Dake, struggling again with all his might. But the dwarves holding him were simply too powerful – and experienced in the art of restraining others with minimal fuss.

  Firelight gleamed from the small scalpel in Nak’s powerful hand. The silver shone, as the blade pressed down just a little. A pin-prick of blood appeared, a tiny crimson bead. Dake was weeping, and slumped against his captors.

  “No,” he said again, less forcefully.

  “Is that an instruction, or a request?” said Nak cheerfully.

  “It’s a request. Please. Don’t hurt her. I’ll do anything. We will do anything.”

  “The outcome for which I was hoping,” said Nak, dark eyes fixed on Dake. “After all, she has very little time left to live, so these, your final moments together, must be precious indeed. It would be such a shame to perform a life-saving operation like this, the removal of cancerous bones, because as we know well in the medical profession, these things can often go horribly wrong, and the patient is dead before she, or he, leaves the table.”

  “You will have our obedience,” said Dake, tears coursing down his cheeks.

  “Good,” said Nak, and removed the scalpel.

  Sakora paced in her cell, waiting for the inevitable. Each movement of her tall, elegant frame was gracious and powerful. Although she still wore her travelling clothes, a silk scarf was wrapped around her throat, and her long brown hair was tied back, tightly now, with various ribbons. In readiness, she kicked off her boots, allowing her bare feet to touch the cool soil deep under the mountain. She closed her eyes, steadying her breathing, and her beautiful face, pale like porcelain, was composed as she recited various mantras and ran through a series of stretches. They would not take her without punishment.

  The door opened, and a broad-chested dwarf entered. He was wide of shoulder, narrow of hip, unlike many of the Harborym she had so far witnessed, who seemed more portly, like barrels. He wore a simple cotton tunic, and his hair was tied back tight, braided with beads, his beard trimmed close to his face. He closed the door behind himself, and gave a short bow.

  “You are Sakora?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am Jakkanda. You are Kaaleesh. We trained under the same yallan yend’hah. Your reputation precedes you.”

  She stared at him, stunned. “A Harborym Dwarf has trained in the art of the Kaaleesh? I find that very hard to believe. In Vagandrak, your race is thought to be extinct. Nobody knows you exist!”

  Jakkanda smiled, and walked sideways, across the room, pacing. He placed his hands behind his back, like a professor about to perform a lecture. “Look closely at me, Sakora. I am what they call half-breed. I am Harborym in blood, yes. But my mother was a woman, just like you. And whilst this puts me at a disadvantage in many areas of the Five Havens, it means I am more… aesthetically human than you give me credit for. Look closely at me, Sakora, and tell me what you see? A slender, tall dwarf, or a…”

  “Smaller, slender man.” She nodded. “You move amongst our people?”

  “Some of us, a select few,” said Jakkanda. “We work under direct supervision from the Church of Hate. Our leader, Cardinal Skalg, does not like surprises. And Vagandrak is close enough to, maybe, one day offer us very nasty surprises. We like to be informed. We like to be well prepared.”

  “Why would the people of Vagandrak offer you hostility?”

  “Because of our incredible wealth,” said Jakkanda, words gentle. He stopped, and she noted he wore soft shoes, not boots like the other dwarves. He faced her, and placed his hands together before him, almost as if in prayer. “Now then. To business. You are here as a slave. And yet I know you, because we are the same, you and I. You will not back down. You will fight.”

&
nbsp; “Yes, I will fight.”

  “If I challenge you to hen’yah combat, if I win, then you become my subordinate, as is Kaaleesh Law.”

  Sakora frowned. “Nobody obeys the hen’yah rulings. They were outlawed hundreds of years ago, for those not honourable to our traditions would and did abuse them.”

  “It’s trial by combat, Sakora; or something much worse.”

  “Shock me.”

  “They know your training, and they know how to hurt you.” His face looked compassionate. “They would hobble you, Sakora. They will break your ankles with sledgehammers, and strap you up whilst you work. But you will never walk properly again. You will need sticks. Your balance will be destroyed. And it will break your spirit, for your body will be ruined. You will no longer be a practising Kaaleesh.”

  Sakora paled a little, but lifted her face; her pretty face. “Then I will kill those who come at me.”

  “They said,” and here, Jakkanda appeared almost as a conspirator, the human part of his half-breed biology taking over to help this, a fellow human, “they also said, if you did not comply, they would put out your eyes.” It was delivered as a whisper, accompanied by great regret. “I am sorry. All I could do, to help a fellow Kaaleesh was offer this chance at trial by combat. Your choice.”

  He stepped back, ending the discussion.

  “What if I win?”

  “You will not win.”

  “Arrogance is not a trait of our kind.”

  “It is not arrogance, but simple fact.”

  “What if I win?”

  “If you win, then you will be released; back into the mountain. You will not be given aid, but at least you will be free to find your own way from the Five Havens.”

  Sakora stared at him. Her lips compressed in a narrow line. She did not believe him, but then, what choice did she have?

  “Hen’yah. So be it.”

  “Prepare yourself,” said Jakkanda, and approached, warily, both arms extending forward, fists clenched, left foot forward, head lowered a little, eyes fixed on Sakora as if his very life depended on it. Which it did.

  Sakora attacked, in silence, like a striking cobra. A quick succession of horizontal and vertical blows, hands moving in a blur, then leaping back as Jakkanda blocked and performed a low sweep.

  “You are fast,” he said, and smiled.

  Now Jakkanda attacked, and Sakora blocked with left and right forearms, a series of heavy quick smashes and slaps that had her backing away. A side-kick came at her, but she twisted, grabbing the leg, levering up. Jakkanda leapt, twisting, wrenching his leg from her grasp and landing lightly, then springing back as a front-kick ended where his face had been.

  Sakora charged, and for long minutes they fought, neither landing a blow other than against defensive blocks. Punches, side-kicks, sweeps, round-house kicks, a stunning display of perfect timing, superior training, years of expertise thrust into that tiny room deep within the mountain lair of a hidden race.

  Suddenly, Sakora landed a chop to Jakkanda’s throat, and he staggered back several steps. She leapt in, blows raining down, and a side-kick caught him in the chest, hammering him back against the wall. He managed to ward off the next few blows, but a punch to the temple dropped him to one knee, and a knee to the nose laid him out flat.

  Sakora stood, light-footed, a narrow smile taking hold of her face…

  The door opened, and a group of armed dwarves stormed in. Krakka followed, his face hard, and he halted beside the unconscious body of Jakkanda.

  “He said I would be released. Back into the mountain.”

  Krakka looked up, and his eyes were dark. Sakora could not read his intent. Then, slowly, he drew his short sword, which hissed as the oiled blade cleared its scabbard. The iron was dark, and inlaid with three tiny emeralds. They shone.

  Sakora took a step back. She glanced at the other guards, and licked her lips.

  Krakka plunged the blade into Jakkanda’s chest, and his legs kicked, body spasming. His eyes opened for a moment, meeting Sakora’s, and then he twitched and went still. Krakka pulled the blade out, wet with blood, a dark stain of death.

  “Why?” she hissed, eyes wide.

  “He could not control you. Fucking half-breed was useless to us. Now, we have to use a different tactic.”

  “What tactic?” She started to back away, as the guards rushed at her. She started fighting, but a club caught her temple and she went down hard. When she came to, the dwarves were pinning her down, and Tallazok Mentir stood demurely to one side, watching her.

  “You have ideas?” growled Krakka.

  Tallazok nodded, and unpacked a small velvet roll, which he laid out on a small steel table beside him. “She is a pretty one, all right. But does a woman really need so much skin?” He unrolled the cloth, and selected a scalpel.

  “What are you doing?” cried Sakora, struggling madly. But the guards held her tight, their weight, and strength, pinning her down.

  Tallazok knelt by her side, and the blade came towards her, glinting like sunlight. She flinched, turning away.

  “Now keep still, pretty one,” he said, smiling kindly. “This is as delicate as peeling a grape. And I wouldn’t want to put out your eye.”

  Outside, across the busy mine, Sakora’s scream cut through the air like a serrated dagger.

  Talon was seated on his low bed when the three dwarves entered. They were hefty, and armed with slender black clubs. Their eyes looked hungry, and Talon stood with a smooth movement. He had to admit, his nerves were crumbling. He had heard many shouts and screams over the past few hours, and it would appear he had been left until the last… it certainly felt that way. He had identified the screams of both Beetrax and Sakora. Now, his heart hammered in his chest like it was made of iron.

  “My turn, is it, chaps?” He gave a narrow smile, and nodded to the clubs, his eyes shining.

  “Shut up, bastard. I am Kelda. This here is Lungir,” Kelda gestured, “and Stone.” The swarthy dwarves grunted, all eyes fixed on Talon.

  Talon shrugged. “You all look the same to me. Maybe if you washed and shaved, I might be able to tell you apart.” His eyes narrowed. His hands and feet were still shackled, and the chain jangled as he shifted. He nodded to the clubs. “What you going to do with those, lads?”

  “You’re a pretty boy, ain’t you, Talon? A proper noble warrior, respected by everybody. Well every man, even a delicate little girl like you, has a breaking point. So we thought we’d show you a bit of, you know, Harborym hospitality, so to speak.”

  They rushed him, and Talon’s hands flashed up to protect himself, but were beaten out of the way. Three blows saw Talon slammed backwards, but the dwarves followed in, clubs beating down relentlessly, forcing Talon to his knees, arms up trying to protect himself. This went on for a minute, then the dwarves took a step back. They were grinning. Talon was panting.

  “Well, you’re harder than you look. But let’s see how much you can actually take, you human bastard,” growled Lungir. “Because we can give you a lot.” The beating continued. And it went on. And on. And on. Until a welcoming black blanket of unconsciousness took him.

  Eight guards sat in the barrack’s central room. There was a long iron table, and various chairs, all fashioned from iron. They were broad, heavy dwarves, with a range of beard styles and armour, each wearing his own preference of mail or plate armour, and a mish-mash of different styled helmets. They were playing a game using cards, small squares of flattened alloy, and knuckle bones with inscribed numbers. There was a great deal of coin on the table, along with flagons of wine and ale.

  “Your turn.”

  “Fifty! That’s you fucked.”

  “I’m not as fucked as those human scum.”

  “Go, Degs, it’s your fucking turn, you halfwit.”

  “Call me a halfwit again, and I’ll crack your fucking skull!”

  “Calm down, there’s enough fighting up in the city, don’t want to be risking your job down here, eh? Go on,
fifteen slates; you putting the same in? Watch him, he’s a slippery bastard when it comes to bets.”

  “Go on.”

  “Brilliant throw! For me, har har.”

  “What about the other one?”

  “Which other one?”

  “The young lad they brought in.”

  “Ach, he won’t last a fucking week. He’s frail, like a chicken wing. Weak. They’ll crack him open like they cracked open Talon’s arse, you mark my words.”

  “But he’s only a young ’un; isn’t that a bit cruel?”

  “The Scriptures of the Church of Hate speak of a time when we were abused by the southern bastards known as men; enslaved, we were, treated like animals, forced to work the mines – our own fucking mines! – not as free dwarves, free spirits – but as animals, earning wealth for others, for those of non-dwarf persuasion. We were beaten, whipped, tortured, raped and murdered. They abused us for centuries. They fucked our females, our wives and daughters, and we were not allowed to marry, not allowed to have relationships, they tried to breed the dwarf out of the dwarves with their deviant fucking ways.” He took a long drink, and smacked his beard, down which a goodly amount had poured. “I tell ye, comrades, we were slaves to these bastards for centuries – so don’t go getting all soft on me, and on them, when you think about a bit of pain they might be going through. They did it to us first. We are supported by the Church of Hate and the Great Dwarf Lords in this matter. So don’t you ever forget it.”

  There was silence for a while, with only the hiss of sliding metal cards and the rattle of rolling bone dice.

  “Did they say what they were going to do to the young one? To make him comply?”

  “Yes.” He grinned, showing black teeth. “It’s highly amusing.”

  Jael lay shivering on his bed, wondering how they hell he’d managed to get himself caught up in so much trouble. His life, he realised, had simply gone from bad to worse. Whilst growing up, times had been extremely tough, and he knew he was a lad of simple pleasures. All he’d wanted out of life was a job good enough to put food on the table, and one day, hopefully, he’d meet a lass, young, plump, large breasted, with child-bearing hips; and they’d be wed under the Storm Oak, and she’d bear him proud strapping sons and he’d bake them bread, or make leather belts and boots, or work with his father out in the woods, felling trees to build up the winter stores for the village.