by Andy Remic
It was dark, lit eerily by the flickering fire brand he carried. The steps went ever down, and he limped, and hobbled, and moaned, and whined during the long, long, long descent. Halfway down from the halfway block, First Cardinal Skalg of the Church of Hate paused, leaning against the rough-cut wall, sweating, swearing, and allowing just a little bit of piss to dribble down his leg. Pain rioted through him, and tears stained his cheeks. His drugs were back in the Blood Tower – but when he’d arrived to grab necessary provisions and possessions, a dragon was busy taking apart the top floors of his home with furious anger – and so he’d left in a hurry, slinking away like the threatened rat he was.
Now, however, down here, he would be safe.
He’d left his Educators at the halfway point, called The Block. They, probably, would be safe. But Skalg was saving the best hideaway for himself. Here. Now. Deep, deep under the Cathedral of Eternal Hate. Deep down. Entombed in the bedrock of the mountain. Buried, deep within the Iron Vaults.
Skalg continued, stumbling, cursing, sweating, pissing, pain his mistress, fear his lover.
The Iron Vaults.
Built by the Great Dwarf Lords.
Down, he continued. And noted when the steps turned from rock to iron. And his boots made hollow clanging sounds. And he reached the first vault door, and trembling hands shook with the keys. He unlocked it, went through, and locked it behind him. And this happened another six times. Seven doors, seven sub-chambers, all leading to the vaults.
Finally, he started to feel secure. Deep down. Buried. Even the fucking dragons couldn’t get to him. Nothing could get to him.
Finally, he was safe.
Eventually, a long tunnel led to a massive chamber. In the gloomy chamber was every kind of precious metal and jewel and mineral. The huge, huge chamber, with high-vaulted ceilings, thousands of years old, was a museum. It was an archive. It was a vault. And, at the far end, on a low stone table of rock, there stood the Dragon Heads. Three fist-sized, colourless jewels, on simple plinths of basic rock; ancient, hand-carved, and priceless.
Skalg walked slowly towards the three jewels. They glinted, altering the light in a strange way. An impossible way.
Skalg smiled, then. He reached out, and touched one, and closed his eyes, and felt the ebbing throb which ran through his fingers. It calmed him. It soothed him. It made him feel… in control.
He breathed deeply.
His eyes opened.
“The Mountain gives,” he said, his smile broadening, “and the Mountain takes away.”
And First Cardinal Skalg, of the Church of Hate, considered the future.
EPILOGUE
Time to Burn
THE KARAMAKKOS MOUNTAINS. Untamed, vast, eternal. Ice-locked, brutal, merciless. Friend to no man, dwarf, or elf.
On the peak of Makkos, the sun sank, a huge red orb dominating the horizon and sending liquid blood shadows spilling through the valleys, the crevasses, the frozen tarns, blood shadows creeping across snow-locked slopes, across rocky, ice-encrusted peaks, across ancient ravines and rocky ledges as old as the world. Here, three shadows were outlined in black.
They sat, motionless, ink paintings cut out from the sky.
And then one moved, uncurling slowly; great wings unfurled, and gave a heavy, slapping wham, as it leapt up, and soared, banking, to drop fast and straight and vertical, deep into a valley where a snow lion hunted reindeer.
The snow lion, coat thick and shaggy due to the harsh winter conditions, felt a premonition and crouched back at the last moment. A shadow fell over the huge beast, great jaws fastened around its mewling, screeching body, and then it was kicking and clawing as the dragon, the wyrm, carried it high into the sky and returned to the solitary peak of Makkos, landing with a thud, claws gouging ancient rock, and chewed for a few moments, before swallowing the snow lion, her teeth shutting with a final, terminal clack.
“What now?”
“There are still many dwarves beneath the mountain.”
“We have all the time in the world for those bastards. I want them to wait, as we waited in our Dragon Pits. I want them to feel fear, as we felt desolation in the knowledge our children had been destroyed. I want them to build their futile defences down in their fucking stinking holes, as they survey the carnage we have already inflicted, and pray for the day we will never return. They will plot and plan, and seek to destroy us. They will come to understand Wyrmblood, and they will seek to stop us returning.”
“And now?”
“For now,” breathed Volak, flames curling around her snout, “for now, we will enjoy the fresh mountain air; we will enjoy the succulent meat the world provides; we will enjoy the freezing wind on our scales; we will free our minds, give ourselves space and time to think; we will explore the land we once knew as our own, the valleys and rivers, the forests and mountains, we will see what cities the men and dwarves and elves have deemed fit to build in our absence.”
“You think our domain has much changed?” said Kranesh.
“I think we have been written out of history,” said Volak. “I think,” and her lips curled into a black grin, “I think we have been forgotten.”
“Then we must remind the world we exist,” said Kranesh, frowning.
“We must show the world that we are dominant,” said Moraxx.
“Yes,” breathed Volak, with joy. “We will do all those things, my sisters. We will fly, and we will feed, and we will explore, and we will burn, and we will destroy. Are you ready? Are you ready to see what a mockery they have made of our world?”
“We are ready,” whispered the mighty wyrms.
And as one, the blood-dark silhouettes detached from the Makkos peak, and with lazy, long wing-beat strokes, these ancient dragons, free at last, headed south… gliding towards Vagandrak.
Acknowledgments
As ever, lots of people (and a monkey or two) have helped with the creation of this book, and I give love and thanks to you all! You know who you are! Have a banana on me. Ook.
