The Dragon Engine

by Andy Remic

Talon and Sakora nodded.

  “When we get to that archway,” said Beetrax, pointing to the nearest point of cover. “Then the maggot can do whatever flying fucking horse shit he wants. Yes?”

  “As you wish.”

  They moved, hackles prickling, feeling like they were going to get a crossbow bolt in the back at any moment from an over-zealous human-hating guard. The mob crashed against the gates, and were warned, and ignored the warnings, and swords stabbed through gaps in the fence, stabbing dwarves through the throat, through the groin, through the eyes, through the heart. Blood trickled in the royal gutters. Dwarves were shouting. Dwarves were killing dwarves.

  “Come on,” growled Beetrax, and they ducked under a large archway, pausing. Beetrax’s fingers brushed against cold iron. It was finely sculpted, crafted with loving workmanship. But then Beetrax’s cynical side kicked in. Yeah. Built on the backs of slaves. Built on the backs of misery. Built on the crime of torture and death. The bastards.

  “I will wait here, then leave by another route,” said Danda. “When you escape the palace after... your mission, take the first left at the first alley you come across. I will be waiting down there at the house with a blue door with packs, maps, and provisions for your journey out of here.”

  “Don’t betray us,” said Beetrax, eyes gleaming. “Don’t make me come looking for you. I’m starting to get a taste for killing dwarves. You really don’t want me looking for you.”

  The stocky Educator swallowed, and nodded, and backed away.

  “Come on.”

  They ran down wide, high-ceilinged corridors. There were vast, intricate tapestries depicting ancient dwarf battles, many of them underground, fighting ancient monsters in the dark of the mines. They passed one, perhaps fifty feet long, showing a war scene where mining dwarves fought huge scaled beasts released from underground lakes. They made Dake and Talon shudder as they thudded past, weapons in sweat-slippery fists.

  They stopped at a junction of corridors.

  “It’s getting warmer,” said Jonti, panting, sweat dripping from her brow. “Is it just because we’re in the palace? Or is there… something else happening?”

  “Could be all the fires in the city,” said Dake.

  “They’re sure trying to burn this place to hell,” said Talon.

  Beetrax fixed him with a steely glare from his one good eye. “We’re already in hell, mate. No need for them to make it worse.”

  Jonti looked at the rough map supplied by Skalg. She orientated herself. “This way. Follow me.” And with curved sabre, sprinted down the obsidian tiles, soft boots near silent, sweat running down her face.

  There were two guards before twenty-foot-high gold doors, intricately decorated, sparkling with jewels. Talon’s arrow slashed into one throat, and the dwarf grabbed the embedded shaft, eyes wide, vomiting blood. Sakora’s hurled dagger took the second in the eye, and he dropped to his knees, staring at the group in disbelief, sword clattering to the tiles.

  Beetrax put his shoulder against the massive gold doors, and heaved. They swung inwards, silently revealing a truly awesome space. It was a throne room of incredible simplicity. A gold throne sat on a high dais at the far end of the chamber. A single fire-pit burned, illuminating King Irlax, who sat, slumped back in his throne, face filled with sadness, hands on his knees, fingers splayed wide. By his side was a near-empty crystal flagon of wine.

  Beetrax glanced around. The edges of the chamber were in darkness, although parts glinted with glass cases containing relics from the dwarves’ long past. He nodded at Talon, who sent a few exploratory shafts whining through the gloom, where they clattered and sent sparks showering from bare stone walls.

  “Where’s all the gold and jewels and shit?” said Beetrax.

  “A king of simple pleasures,” muttered Dake.

  “Come on,” said Beetrax. “Let’s get it done.”

  They moved warily across the large throne room towards King Irlax. His eyes were unseeing, as if he gazed beyond reality into another world; a dream world; a tomb world of his own creation.

  Beetrax led the way, the others fanning out, checking the shadows, peering into the darkness. Again, Talon sent several shafts humming to strike sparks from the walls. But there was nothing there. They were alone with Irlax, King of the Harborym Dwarves.

  Beetrax stopped, and rested his axe against his shoulder. He eyed the king, who seemed suddenly to come around; to awake, as if from a drunken dream.

  King Irlax eyed the six southerners, but his eyes showed no fear. Instead, his lip curled into a sneer and a look of hate passed across his features; not just a casual hate, but something deep, from the heart, from the soul.

  “So,” he said.

  “Irlax?” snapped Beetrax. “I’ll not give you any horse shit. We’re here to kill you. You got any last memorable words, or shall I just put my axe through your fucking dwarf skull right now?”

  “You expect me to beg?” growled Irlax. And he started to laugh, a deep bellowing that came up from his belly; he laughed, and laughed, laughed so hard it looked like he would puke, or maybe have a coronary. Beetrax scowled. The others looked warily about.

  “Here you go,” said Beetrax, scowling. “I’ll give you something to laugh about.”

  “Skalg surpassed himself,” said Irlax, finally controlling himself from his body-wracking mirth. “Slaves from the fucking mines? Really? Did he really think I would not expect an attack? Did he really think I wouldn’t work out that he’d worked it out? That fucking hunchbacked imbecile. The Church of Hate? I’d call it the Church of Basic Stupidity if I had my way.”

  “All this is academic,” rumbled Beetrax, and proceeded forward, axe raised.

  “Wait! What’s he paying you? What’s the little bastard offered you? That poisonous toad. I’ll have his bowels extracted an inch at a time over a period of fucking months. What did he offer you? Freedom? Do you know how many security checks you’d have to pass before here and freedom? You’re in the bottom, most wealthy city – Zvolga. You’d have to pass upwards, through Vistata, through Sokkam, through Keelokkos, and finally, through Janya, which, ironically, has the highest level of security despite being the poorest slag-iron bunch of poor bastard dwarves you’d ever not want to meet.” He started to laugh again, tears rolling down his cheeks.

  “I’ve had enough of this. Talon?”

  “Trax?”

  “Put an arrow through his eye. Then I’ll finish off whatever’s left, and we can get the fuck out of this shithole-cesspit-fucked-up dwarven whore-hole!”

  Irlax laughed even harder.

  And from the shadows, came his elite guards…

  There were thirty of them, emerging from hidden alcoves with sliding doors, and armed with swords and axes. Their faces were grim, and they wore light armour. They moved forwards, warily, fifteen to each side of the king.

  “Oh, you crafty, crafty bastard,” said Dake.

  “We’ve been set up,” said Beetrax.

  “Let’s do it,” said Sakora – and to the dwarves’ amazement, the Vagandrak warriors attacked.

  Arrows hissed through the air as Talon reacted, firing arrows as fast as he could slide them from the quiver. Every single shaft found its target, eye, throat, groin, and punched dwarves down in a quick flurry of death. Jonti Tal leapt in amongst the enemy, sword blocking, cutting, piercing, and she drifted through these elite guards, her sword causing chaos as it flickered like an eldritch wand. Sakora leapt forward bearing two knives, cutting and stabbing, aiming for eyes and groin, her mercilessness a rabid creature to behold. Dake fought like the efficient soldier he was, blocking, spinning, cutting, stabbing, his mind clear at last, his soul back on the battlefield of Desekra fortress, facing his greatest enemy, his greatest nightmare, the mud-orcs, and slaughtering them all. Lillith stayed back, watching the fight with care, whereas her lover, Beetrax, waded into the dwarves and made himself well known, axe slamming left and right, cutting arms and legs from bodies in vicious accele
rated slashing arcs, cutting heads from necks with thudding ease. A sword hissed by, slicing Sakora’s upper arm and making her gasp. She dropped to one knee and rammed a dagger up into the dwarf’s groin, twisting the blade and withdrawing it in one smooth movement. Blood pissed out and the dwarf keeled over. A short black blade cut into Dake’s side, and he grunted, feeling a rib snap. His own blade hammered down on the attacking weapon, knocking it from the dwarf’s grasp. The attacker lifted his hands before his face, pleading. Dake cut his sword down through thick fingers and into the face beyond, hacking him to the ground. He screamed. Dake stabbed the point of his blade into the dwarf’s throat, silencing him.

  Talon was happily firing away. Then, almost subliminally, he heard the twang of a crossbow. He flinched left through instinct, and the bolt cut a fine line across his cheek. Annoyed beyond belief, he drew a shaft, focussed through the darkness, drew back to his bleeding flesh, and released. The shaft took the crossbow wielder through the mouth, and he choked for a while, dropping to his knees, before he fell on his face and was quiet.

  Finally, Beetrax fought like a bastard possessed. Until he came to a big, dark-skinned dwarf with bushy grey beard and mean green eyes. They fought in grim silence for a while, as all around them the battle whirred like some deviant clockwork machine; but they were the epicentre of the storm, hacking, swinging, blocking, axes grinding together in spark showers, heads clashing, fists punching, boots kicking, but for once Beetrax had met his match and they fought each other hard, fought each other to a standstill.

  Gradually, all the other dwarves were killed and dead, their blood leaking onto the tiles of the palace throne room.

  Beetrax and the broad-shouldered dwarf veteran backed away, panting.

  “I’m going to gut you like a fish,” growled the dwarf, getting a good hold on his axe. “I’m going to feed you to the fucking dragons.”

  “You finished?”

  “Aye.”

  “Talon?”

  “Yeah, Trax?”

  “Left eye.”

  The shaft hissed, punching the dwarf from his feet. He lost grip on his axe, and his fingers scrabbled at his face, and were soon covered in blood, slipping and sliding on the shaft buried in his skull.

  Beetrax moved forward, and put his boot on the dwarf’s chest.

  “You bastard!” he was spluttering. “That was unfair! Unfair I tell ye!”

  Beetrax shrugged, and grinned. “Life’s unfair, cunt.” His axe swept down, cutting the veteran’s head from his shoulders.

  Silence fell like drifting ash.

  They turned, and looked at Irlax, still slumped on his throne, but who had now gone pale.

  “No,” he said.

  There came a cough. And a whimper.

  Focus changed. Shifted. Like sunlight through a blind, as the clouds cover it. The sunlight faded. Dust motes spun, like they would for an eternity.

  “Jonti!” yelled Dake, and sprinted across the tiled floor, skidding on his knees to her side. There was a rose petal of blood over her ribs. She was breathing, fast and shallow, a hissing sound like an attacking cobra.

  Dake pulled at her, uselessly, until Lillith arrived and smacked away his hands.

  “Jonti?” she said. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “The wound, is it deep?”

  “Yes. That bastard.”

  “But… you’re the ghost! You’re untouchable!”

  “Nobody is untouchable,” said Jonti, and smiled then, and coughed, and her eyes were gleaming, full of tears which released, and fell down her pretty high cheekbones like pearls down a coral reef.

  “No,” wept Dake, grabbing both her hands. Jonti coughed again, and blood speckled her lips. He looked down. “The wound cannot be much!” he said.

  “It is enough,” she said, and squeezed his fingers.

  “But I love you! We were going to grow old together! We were going to die together!”

  “You know that was never going to happen,” said Jonti, and coughed again, blood bubbling at her lips. “I had a few weeks left. At best. This cancer. It has made me weak. Made me slow. That’s why the bastard got me.”

  “But… but I love you!”

  “I know that, you idiot,” wheezed Jonti.

  “I don’t know what to say…” he bent and kissed her bloody lips, staining his own with her lifeblood.

  “Say you’ll remember me.”

  “I will remember you.”

  “Say you’ll light a candle for me.”

  “I’ll light a candle for you.”

  “Say you’ll drink a toast for me.”

  “I will drink a toast for you, Jonti, friend, lover, wife…”

  “Say you’ll never forget me.”

  “I will never forget you,” said Dake, tears coursing down his face.

  Jonti made a rattling sound, and went still. Her eyes glazed. Her trembling hands became porcelain. Her face seemed to lose its colour, becoming instantly ashen, cold, tinted with blue. Human marble.

  “No!” screamed Dake, tugging at her shirt, “No, I don’t believe it! This cannot be!”

  “Calm yourself,” rumbled Beetrax.

  “Why? Why the fuck should I calm myself? My wife is dead!”

  “Because,” said Beetrax, his voice steady, “there are thirty crossbows aimed directly at us.”

  “Lay down your arms!” screamed Irlax, leaping from his throne like an ignited devil.

  Slowly, the remaining Vagandrak heroes placed their bloodied weapons on the ground.

  “Bastards,” snarled King Irlax, stalking amongst them. Around him, his armed and armoured guards held steady crossbows. Thirty quarrels pointed directly at Beetrax, Dake, Lillith, Sakora and Talon. “You fucking scum, you came from Cardinal Skalg, and those here can bear witness, you came to kill the king on behalf of the church – and you slaughtered my guards! Well, now, hear this, I can promise you all a swift execution. Get down on your knees. I SAID GET DOWN ON YOUR FUCKING KNEES!”

  Slowly, they knelt, one by one.

  Dake was crying; uncaring.

  Sakora had a poker face. She had accepted her fate.

  Lillith lowered her eyes to the ground, filled with a great sadness.

  Talon was filled with despondency. The world had turned against him once more, and now he was to die in this godforsaken place.

  Only Beetrax stared up, defiant, a snarl on his face, hate in his eyes, hate in his soul. “Make it count, Irlax. Because I’m going to fucking slaughter you, in this life or the next! You hear me, you hateful piece of donkey shit?”

  Irlax gave a short bark of a laugh. A light of insanity shone in his eyes. “I find that… improbable. Because shortly I will rule the entirety of the Five Havens. Skalg will be dead – I will have seen to that. The Church of Hate will be under my control! And I will be all powerful. So, feeble axeman, enjoy your invectives, because I am immortal. I am the resurrection of the Great Dwarf Lords! I am in complete control! Now bow your shameful heads, and ready yourself for execution. Beetrax, Talon, Dake, Sakora, and Lillith – I hereby sentence you to death. Guards? Take aim, and fire when ready.” He smiled. “I want at least ten bolts in each fucking body. Just to make sure.”

  >

  Anarchy Rising

  SHE AWOKE.

  She’d felt the passing of ages; millennia, tumbling away like crushed ice as her mind filtered through the atmosphere, tiny, microscopic particles finally released from their Equiem magick imprisonment. They rush into her brain, and she gasped, and flames licked around her snout. She remembered.

  She remembered it all.

  The Chains of Skaltos.

  The Iron Betrayal, with those huge machines like jaws…

  The Great Dwarf Lords, those cunning bastards; and the fall of Wyrmblood, the isolation, the imprisonment, followed by thousands of years of half-remembered dreams, like so much black snowfall; fallout from a destroyed and burning city.

  She felt the rage course through her.


  She opened her eyes.

  And roared…

  The Dragon Pits. Three shafts of monumental proportions, drilled down through the deepest rock of the Karamakkos; perfectly smooth cylindrical walls rising for five hundred metres. At the top were massive steel collector bowls and various funnels, heat exchangers and hundreds of pipes – so that every time one of the three wyrms sang, their fire could be collected, harnessed, stored to heat and power the five cities above. And when they sang, they could sing for hours…

  Jael stood before the iron door, and another slave handed him a shovel. He was on a three-man shift to enter the base of the shaft and shovel the remains of former victims that had been fed to the great slumbering beasts, but also to scoop up their shit into thick sacks, so it could be transported away from this place.

  “You’ve come up in the world, lad!” laughed a slave, an old, bent human with blackened, rotting teeth. He slapped Jael on the back.

  “But – I’m just shovelling dragon shit, Hanno. How is that coming up in the world?”

  Hanno lowered his voice a little, and thumbed the slave warden who sat against the far wall, picking his nose. “Beats working with the other slave wardens in the mines. At least this one doesn’t whip us.”

  Jael nodded, and hefting his shovel and handful of rough sacks which stank worse than any cesspit he’d ever encountered, he climbed rough iron steps with Hanno and Yailem.

  “You have to listen for the beginnings of the song. If you hear them, then you know it’s not safe to enter.”

  “And what does this song sound like?” asked Jael, frowning.

  “You get used to it. I’ll teach you. Either that, or you’ll be burned alive and they’ll have to find another slave to replace you.”

  “You there!” rumbled the nose-picking slave overseer. “Get on with your business.” He grinned through his food-encrusted beard. “Get in there and shovel the shit like you’re supposed to.”

  “We’re just listening for the song, sir,” whined Hanno, voice rising several octaves in an affectation of submission. “After all, we wouldn’t want to get burned to a crisp.”

  “Well, one more dead slave matters to nobody down here,” the overseer grumbled, and went about inspecting his axe.