The Dragon Engine

by Andy Remic

  Skalg breathed deeply, and stepped out into the hall.

  A dwarf ran at him, sword drawn, and for a moment Skalg stood, stunned into motionless disbelief. How can they attack me? I AM THE FUCKING CARDINAL OF THE CHURCH OF HATE!

  He aimed the crossbow almost casually, and pulled the trigger. There was a low click, precise, and a whine. A bolt shot out, cut through the dwarf’s chainmail vest, and destroyed his heart. He ended his run sliding across the floor on his back, blood pumping in little fountains from his chest.

  Skalg took a deep breath.

  “Shit,” he said, and for some reason, even after everything he’d seen, everything he’d witnessed from the grassroots street level and up in his eyrie, from the balcony, all the torture he’d inflicted, all the deaths committed in his name, now, it felt real for the very first time. Like first love. Like losing his virginity. Like killing his first victim. Like his first gold coin stolen from the church treasury. Like his first verbal abuse of the king. The king. That fuck.

  Skalg ran down the sweeping, swirling staircase, hobbling past various dead guards, each one of whom he’d interviewed himself, whom he trusted personally, had vetted personally – after all – how much faith could you put in cunts you hadn’t vetted?

  No more attacks came.

  Skalg still paused. Cautious. He edged towards the next set of steps. And peered… down. Down went a long way through the inside of the Blood Tower. A long way. A cool breeze drifted up, chilling his flesh.

  Normally, he’d have slaves lift him in the brass carriage, but all of a sudden, he did not trust a fall of a hundred floors. He was pretty sure he’d be a dead Skalg by the bottom. Crushed and pulped into chunks. Cubed Skalg! Ha ha!

  He began the descent, and wished for the hundredth time that there was an alternative. Amazingly, no other attack came, and Skalg’s lips curled a little. What? I’m so fucking easy to kill, am I? Four cunts to take out the First Cardinal of the Church of Hate? What a fucking insult!

  He hobbled down the steps, taking them one at a time. His destroyed back would allow no more, and he was panting on the descent. He grinned to himself, then. Irlax, you are a fucking disgrace to everything that being a dwarf stands for. Broad-chested. Powerful. Loud. Brave. Raucous. Rowdy. Ale-drinking. Narcissistic. He grinned. And look at who ended up ruling the Church of Hate? Crippled Skalg. Weak Skalg. Ugly Skalg. Well, surprise, fuckers, because this fucking hunchback taught your society a thing or two about humility, and begging, and torture, oh yes, the fucking torture. Any civilised society can only operate with a decent secret police in place. A dirty, backdoor, nasty fucked-up organisation willing to do whatever the fuck has to be done, just to get the job fucking done. Every society had one, whether they fucking admitted it or not. Only now, now, that cunt Irlax was trying to close him down. Close down the church. Take it over. The bastard. The BASTARD!

  He reached the bottom of the massive stairwell.

  A big dwarf stepped out in front of him, and the Krakkok & Stulliver clicked and whined. A bolt in the belly. The dwarf fell to his knees, blood drooling from his lips. Skalg cared little whether he was friend or foe. He was simply –

  In. The. Way.

  Distantly, there were sounds of civil unrest.

  Looking around, Skalg hobbled off into the night.

  Hard Labour

  THE MINE RAN like a well-oiled machine, and the slaves who worked it were the integral cogs that kept the machinery turning. The whips the dwarf overseers used with relish were the mechanisms that forced the cogs to turn. This large section of mine was permanently lit by fire-bowls, piped through an intricate brass system fuelled by the imprisoned dragons themselves, and connected to the main furnaces and boilers which indeed powered the five cities above.

  Beetrax hoisted the sledgehammer, and brought it down with a crack. Another five blows split the large rock into lumps, which Talon then lifted, throwing into a cart which sat patiently on rails; the dead-eyed donkey in the traces had its head lowered and was unmoving, a beaten, broken beast of burden.

  “BREAK!” bellowed a hefty dwarf named Gulga, sporting a perfectly round pot-belly, like a small, hard pregnancy, and wandered off for ten minutes to chat to the other whip-wielding overseers.

  Beetrax, his brow lathered in sweat, lowered himself onto a rock with a wince and lowered the head of his sledgehammer to the ground with a thud. He glanced at Talon, whose face was grey and grim, his frame thinner now, harder, after three weeks of solid manual labour down in the mines.

  Talon saw the look and forced a smile. “How you feeling, Big Man?”

  “I don’t feel so big anymore.”

  “I mean… down there.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Talon, running a hand across his still-bruised face, came and dropped beside Beetrax. He untied his long blond hair, repositioned it and tied it back up. Then he gestured to Jonti, who was bringing round a bucket of water, the wooden sides sporting hooks from which several cups wobbled.

  “Beetrax, Talon, I hope you’re well,” she said as she approached, nodding, and halted, boots scraping rock. “How you feeling, Beetrax?”

  “As I keep saying, I don’t want to fucking talk about it. Don’t you people listen?” He shifted, with a jangle of shackles and chains.

  “There’s lots of things we all would rather not talk about.” She gave a thin-lipped smile. “But we’re here now, and this is the way it is; you know, Beetrax, you bloody know we’ll have to get used to and support one another. You know that.” She pointed, catching his gaze. “So stop being a bloody martyr, and talk to me.”

  Beetrax looked at her, then looked away. “I’m fucking sore, is all. It’s better than it was, but a long way from where it should be.” He turned back, and glanced past Jonti to where the overseers were laughing over some joke probably relating to the pain of the slaves, or a particularly fine crack of the whip. His voice lowered. “We have to do something to get out of this mess.”

  “You know what they promised to do to you?”

  Beetrax shrugged. “Better they castrate me then, because this ain’t no existence for a man like me. Or any man.” He turned to Talon and elbowed him rudely. “You still getting the beatings?”

  Fury raged across Talon’s face for a moment, before disappearing, to be replaced by something close to despair. “Yes,” he said, quietly. “Not every night, but I don’t even sleep anymore; I jump at every fucking sound I hear. I agree, Trax, this is no way to live. I’d rather die. Truly. I’d rather die.”

  “Problem is, they have us locked down tighter than any other slaves.” Jonti filled two cups and handed them to her friends. “They know exactly who we are. You’ll note Beetrax is the only sledgehammer wielder to still wear shackles? They know who we are, and what we’re capable of. If we can work out how to remove the irons, then we’re one step closer.”

  “I have this,” Beetrax rattled the sledgehammer.

  “And what would you do with that?” said Talon.

  “You put your hands on a rock, and I’ll break open the shackles. Hit the pin, break it open.”

  Talon stared at him. “You really believe you’re that accurate?”

  “Yeah, lad, course I am.”

  “And if you miss, you crush both my wrists and guarantee my death?”

  “Er. Yeah, I suppose I do.”

  “Not the best plan you’ve ever had.”

  “You got a better one?”

  Talon thought. “Not at the moment,” he said, voice hushed, eyes lowering to stare at the rocky floor of the mine.

  “Tonight,” said Jonti, taking back the cups and refilling them, “is Meat Night. We’ll get longer before lights out.” Meat Night was the one day of the week when, as a “morale booster” the dwarf overseers dragged a large iron cauldron into the middle of the barracks compound and cooked up a foul stew of rancid off-cuts; the only meat the slaves received on a weekly basis. The stew took longer to cook than the usual rations of blac
k bread and mouldy cheese, and was usually accompanied by alcohol for the overseers which relaxed them and allowed the slaves a little more time to interact. “Now that…” she fought to choose careful words, “those who were injured have started to make some kind of recovery, at least enough recovery to start thinking about escape, then we need to start talking. See, Beetrax? That’s the first time you’ve come up with a plan. I confess, I thought they’d kicked it out of you.”

  “Crushed it out of me, more like,” he said, voice low. Images flickered through his mind, scenes from his torture which came back again and again and again. The cackling face of Tallazok Mentir, his naked flesh with its tattoos of pain and horror, the eyes which showed nothing but genuine pleasure at plying his trade. These images came back to haunt Beetrax, usually when he was lying on his own bed, alone, in the small hours, shivering with fear. But he’d come to realise over the last few nights that there was only so much fear he could take; after a while, a man begins to fear the fear itself, and either has to do something about it, or allow his mind to break. Beetrax would not allow his mind to break. If it was the last thing he did with his breath on this planet, he would teach Tallazok about proper fucking pain; closely followed by Val, the dwarf who had abused Lillith. Beetrax cracked his knuckles as frustrating images of non-explored violence shimmered in his mind. Gods, there was going to be a reckoning one day.

  Beetrax realised his breathing had accelerated and he forced himself to be calm. He looked up at Jonti then, and she was thrilled to see a new light shining in his eyes. “I have a better idea.”

  “Yes?”

  “Instead of talking about it tonight, let’s do it.”

  “How?”

  “I have a plan. And it involves the cauldron. Can you get word around?”

  “I’ll warn everybody. Just… don’t do anything stupid, Beetrax.”

  He scowled at her with his one good eye. “Do I look like the village idiot?” he growled.

  Lillith was on the sorting benches, her fingers moving deftly between the small crushed rocks, analysing and dividing into different categories by potential metal content. As she worked, her mind blotting out the clanking of pulleys and chains that drove the conveyor surface which was constructed from polished iron slats, tears stained her cheeks. Jonti tried to console her, hugging and kissing, holding her whenever she had the opportunity; but it did no good. All Lillith had to do was picture his evil face, grinning down at her. That narrow, evil face, with close-cropped beard and emotionless eyes. Like the eyes of a dead fish. It was a face that would haunt her until her dying day.

  Jonti approached with her bucket of water, and they looked at one another in silence, and Jonti reached out, her hand closing over Lillith’s, and Lillith looked away, biting her lower lip, more tears springing to her eyes.

  This trip was a voyage of discovery. It was a reawakening of an old flame; an old soul mate whom I should have never let go in the first place. And yet now, this journey has turned from amusing jaunt, exciting exploration, into a living nightmare. And I am not the same person. I can never be the same person again. I have become tainted. I am filled with darkness.

  I will kill. I will kill. I will kill again… like I said would never happen.

  “Are you well, Lillith?”

  “I am not, Jonti.”

  “You need to be brave, my love. Tonight, we will work on an escape.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Beetrax has a plan. He has had enough. We have all… had enough.”

  Lillith’s face hardened, and her eyes met Jonti’s. “I am ready, and I am willing. And I will fucking die trying. I will fucking die.”

  “Good girl,” said Jonti, without an ounce of condescension.

  Jael sat by the edge of the barracks, watching the others idly, or so it appeared. They moved at random, going about various tasks, and yet he saw them, talking, passing messages, collaborating. Collaborating. Jael licked his lips.

  You are not one of them, reminded his conscience.

  You are alone in this, said his soul. It is your survival that matters.

  He watched items changing hands; from Beetrax to Talon, from Dake to Talon. And he watched as Beetrax moved to a certain, planned, position, and lean his sledgehammer against the wall of the barracks.

  He watched Talon, sat with his back to the barracks, rubbing something on the rocky ground.

  He watched Dake, chatting to Sakora, whose newly carved face bore fresh, pink, stitched wounds. When she smiled, it brought a wince of pain, and Jael’s heart went out to this once beautiful, noble woman, who now carried the blade-slices of slavery on her face. She would never be the same again. None of them would.

  His eyes wandered past the compound, over to the overseer barracks. He could see Krakka there, and his heart leapt into his mouth, as it always did when he saw the squat, powerful dwarf. The bastard had done his work well on Jael; infected his mind with a powerful fear, with a clever control mechanism. Jael watched Krakka walking around, issuing orders, ever-fearful the dwarf would turn and lay eyes on him, or even worse, approach him. And then, the torture would begin…

  Jael turned his attention back to Beetrax. There was definitely something suspicious going on, something which was out of the ordinary. The question was, did he approach Krakka and tell him? Try and save his own worthless hide by condemning his friends?

  His friends.

  Were they his friends? Truly? They had saved his life, yes, but Beetrax had made it clear he had no enjoyment in teaching the young man the Way of the Axe. But then, why should he? In all reality, Jael was a stranger to him. Known for barely a few weeks. Why would he give up his important free time?

  But Lillith and Jonti, they had been the kindest. Especially Lillith with her amazing healing powers, her knowledge of herbs and medicines. She had cooed over him like a mother over a wounded son. It had been a great kindness, and she’d helped rebuild him mentally as well as physically.

  But if you don’t tell Krakka, he will break you. He will torture you beyond all recognition. You won’t be a human being any longer; you will be a stripped and broken shell. And then Death will come for you, long claws hooking into your soul and dragging you down to The Furnace, where all evil souls are tortured…

  Jael covered his face with his hands, and realised he was shaking. What to do? Betray his friends or lose his soul?

  “Are you okay, Jael? You look… terrified.” It was the soft voice of Lillith, of all people. She reached out, her hand touching his shoulder with great gentility.

  “Yes, yes, as well as I can be in this place.” He shuddered. Then his eyes met Lillith’s. “Is something happening here, Lillith? Something I haven’t been told about?”

  A strange hard veil fell over the woman’s face then, and her eyes narrowed a little. “Do you realise what is happening to me in this place, Jael? Do you understand what humiliation and what abuse is being heaped upon me? I have never felt so low. I have never felt so degraded. It is the sort of thing that breaks a woman; breaks her mind, sweet, young Jael. And something needs to be done. Something important. But I fear allowing you to know would put you in very grave danger; best to let us deal with this.” She smiled then, and the hardness leaked away.

  She is protecting me, realised Jael. They are keeping me out of the plan so that I cannot be held accountable. And yet I am here, and I am part of their group. His mind teetered. He was not sure whether he felt flattered or humiliated. Did they not trust him? Did they think he’d go running to Krakka and puke out their plan?

  And he realised, with great shame, that they were right. He was the weakest link in the chain.

  “I accept that,” he said eventually, and Lillith smiled, and moved away, talking to Jonti in serious low tones.

  Jael watched Beetrax approach the cauldron, where various dwarf overseers were taking great pleasure dropping miserable grey chunks of bone and meat into the “stew”. He started talking to one, and there seemed to be some light-hear
ted banter. Jael could hear the jangle of Beetrax’s shackles, and the big axeman boomed his trademark laughter across the barrack compound. He seemed in very good form for somebody who had been so recently tortured by these bastards. Maybe he was adapting? Or maybe it was some kind of trick…

  Jael turned and Krakka was watching him. Jael felt his heart skip a beat. Krakka lifted his hand, and from across the large space, gestured for Jael to approach.

  Jael started walking, and felt both Beetrax and Dake observing his travel. They know, screamed his mind. They know I’m going to tell Krakka everything, tell him even the smallest detail of what I’ve been watching them do, just in order to save my own skin, to save my own potential future pain and worthless fucking hide…

  He passed five armed dwarves. One was sharpening his axe with great, sweeping downward strokes, the whetstone making a metallic hissing sound with which Jael was extremely familiar from his days helping his father fell trees. The five dwarves watched him pass with suspicious eyes, their brows creasing; one moved his hand to the hilt of a long knife below his mail shirt. Jael shivered.

  Jael’s boots thudded on rock. He glanced right, past the compound, to the slope which led to the underground lake. The water was like black glass. Motionless. His nostrils twitched at a slightly metallic smell.

  Krakka was waiting, his face in a broad grin.

  “Jael!” he boomed, and slapped the young man on the back. Jael winced, for his ribs were still sore from his beating back in the forest. “I see that your Vagandrak friends seem… upbeat. Maybe we didn’t torture them enough, eh lad?” He boomed with laughter, and slapped Jael on the back again, nearly pitching him to his face. Krakka was powerful indeed, his hands like shovels.

  “I don’t believe in torture,” said Jael, lowering his eyes.

  Krakka loomed close. His breath stank like the final exhalation of a corpse. “Well, lad. I think you have some information for me,” he said, and patted Jael on the arm.