The Dragon Engine (10 page)

“I could walk away. Abandon this quest.”

Beetrax paused. “As you wish,” he said, voice incredibly gentle for such a big, aggressive man.

There came a moment of calm, of quiet. Beyond them, within the rocks, they could hear quiet conversation. A laugh. The crackle of burning logs.

“Can I ask you one thing? One favour? You may say no.”

“For old time's sake,” said Lillith, and ran her hands through her long thick hair, her face lifting, coming up to focus on Beetrax.

“Can I hold you? One more time? Please?”

Lillith considered this, her breath coming in short bursts. “You may hold me,” she said, her voice tiny.

Beetrax stepped closer, and reached down, and took her in his arms, encircling her. And he breathed in the aroma of her hair, and he breathed in the scent of her skin, and he tasted her again, tasted her for the first time in a million years, and a raging inferno roared through him, and she was everything, she was the world and the universe and life and death. Her arms encircled his waist and they stood there for a while, like young lovers in a first embrace.

When she pulled away, she realised Beetrax was crying.

“I am sorry, my love,” she said. “I never meant to hurt you in any way. I just chose a different path to follow; a different journey to the one which was forced upon me, by my parents, by my friends, the one I was
expected
to pursue. I have a craving in my heart, and I had to pursue that need.”

“I understand that. I respect you for that.”

“Will you let me go, now?” She looked up at him, at his face and beard, pale under the wan moonlight, under the dazzling starlight.

“No,” he said.

“Never,” he said.

“I cannot,” he said.

“You make it almost impossible for me to travel with you,” she said.

“Then that is something we both must suffer.”

“You will suffer more than I,” said Lillith, kindly. “And that is not something I wish to bear on my conscience.”

“I will bear it,” said Beetrax. “Go back to the fire, now.”

Lillith moved towards the circle of rocks. She stopped. She turned back, hair describing a floating arc. “Are you coming?”

“No. I will wait out here for a while. The cold air is good for me.”

Lillith disappeared, and Beetrax stared up to the stars, and then the massive black silhouette of the rearing, distant mountains. Tears were on his cheeks and he scrubbed at them savagely. He pulled out the remains of his brandy. He drank it in one vicious movement, then threw the bottle down in the snow where it shattered on a half-hidden rock.

“I'll miss you,” he said, and closed his eyes against the majesty of the vast, sparkling heavens.

J
ake Crade cracked his knuckles
, took up his bow, notched an arrow, and sighted down the shaft. His men, most of them lounging on the ground, or on fallen trunks in the deep silence of the velvet forest, gave a low ripple of heavy, cynical laughter.

“Try not to kill him,” growled one.

“Anyway, not right away, Jake, please!”

Jake shrugged off their mumblings, and steadied his aim. It was quite difficult after a full flagon of wine, and he was aware of the tip of the arrow wavering, moving from the lad's head to his groin and back again.

“For the love of the Seven Sisters,” wailed the young man, “why are you doing this?”

“Shut it, before I shoot an arrow through your ball sack!”

“Please, let me go! I won't tell nobody…”

The bandits laughed, and passed around the grog, and watched this evening's entertainment with dark eyes and savage smiles. There was no compassion there. No humanity. Just pleasure in watching a fellow human being suffer. Some men were like that. Some men enjoyed the badness.

“You don't have to do this! I'm an honest woodsman…”

“Shoot him through the quim. That'll stop the bitch whining.”

Jake released the string, and the arrow whined through the air, missing the lad's head by a hand's width and rattling off through the trees.

“Damn,” muttered Jake, and accepted another flagon. He took a long drink.

A hundred feet away, a fern shivered, and the forest slowly regained composure.

“
T
here's sixteen of them
,” said Talon, squatting down before the group. “Nasty bastards, by the look of them. Ex-soldiers, I'd wager. They may lounge around like scum drinking wine, but their weapons are clean and oiled, their kit packed and ready to move in a moment. Professional.”

“We'll plot a way round,” said Beetrax, scratching his beard. “If we move a quarter league east, then head north again, that should keep us out of their immediate territory.”

“There's a complication,” said Talon, glancing up. His eyes met Beetrax's.

“What's that, lad?”

“They've captured a young woodsman. They've tied him to a tree. I fear he is their evening of entertainment.”

Beetrax stared at Talon. “Like I said. We move a quarter league east, head north, plot around them.”

“But they've captured a young lad.”

“So? They've captured a young lad. He should have been more careful.”

Talon scowled. “Is this what the great Beetrax has become? A coward, frightened of standing up for the innocent in need?”

“How do you know he's innocent?” countered Beetrax. “Maybe he's a pig thief and they're teaching him a lesson?”

“Horseshit,” snapped Talon. “They were drunk and toying with him. Hurting him.”

“I've seen you toy with and hurt many people.”

“This is not about me!” snapped Talon. “This is about doing the right thing!”

Dake put his hand on Beetrax's shoulder. Beetrax looked up. Then he looked at Jonti, and Lillith, and Sakora.

Sakora was shaking her head, and Lillith turned away.

“What?
What
? We're on a fucking mission here, or hadn't you noticed?”

“Yes, for gold and your fucking immortality,” said Sakora, face a snarl. “And every moment we sit here arguing with an idiot, a young lad is being tortured by forest brigands. Well, I'll go on my own if I have to.”

She stood, and clenched her fists.

Talon moved beside her, and strung his bow.

“Ha!” Beetrax stormed upwards, unhitched his axe, and scowled. “How many did you say?”

“Sixteen,” said Talon, quietly.

“Well, they're in our way, then. Let's go clear us a path.”

T
he forest sighed
, like a satisfied lover. The trees shifted, conifers settling pine needles into the carpet. A gentle wind eased between solid boles, shifting ferns, as if the forest itself was breathing.

Beetrax emerged from the trees, and the head of his axe made a
clunk
as it hit the forest floor. The brigands turned towards him, as one, and he saw their eyes narrow, then move around, searching the forest to see if he was alone.

“You all right, lads?”

“What do you want?”

The leader foregrounded himself immediately. He was a big man, scruffy and professional at the same time. He held himself upright, broad chest protected by an old silver-steel breastplate. His hair was knife-cut short to the scalp, greying at the temples, a five-day shadow bearded his face, and his eyes were dark and calculating.

Beetrax glanced at the captured lad, slumped against bonds which secured him to the ancient oak. The lad had passed into unconsciousness, and his blood showed bright on his face, alongside bruising and a split lip, blackened eyes. Possibly a broken nose.

“Who's that?” Beetrax gestured.

“None of your business.”

Beetrax gave a broad smile, and pushed back his shoulders. His axe came up, to rest comfortably in his hands, and he rocked back on his heels to give himself balance; the balance of a warrior.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Amaze me,” snapped Jake.

“I am Beetrax the Axeman.”

“Never heard of you. All I see is a fat old man with broken teeth and a ginger beard that needs a trim. Now fuck off, before we fill you full of arrows.”

“Old man, is it?” said Beetrax.

The axe left his hands with some force, and made a
thrum thrum
sound as it turned end over end, and split the bandit's skull and breastbone down the middle. The man was punched backwards, where he quivered on the ground for a full minute, his blood and brains leaking out to soak the forest carpet.

Beetrax put his hands on his hips, scowling. “Any other cunt think I'm a fat old man?”

The bandits surged to their feet as Talon, Dake, Jonti and Sakora drifted from the trees like ghosts. One bandit ran at them, screaming, sword raised. Talon's arrow smashed through his eye, the steel tip emerging from the back of his skull in a shower of brains and skull shards. He hit the ground, fitting, frothing pink, legs kicking.

There was a moment, where everybody was poised. Balanced scales. Nobody shifted. Then the bandits, fancying their odds, screamed and charged, swords hissing from oiled scabbards. Beetrax stood at the forefront, with Dake on his left, Jonti on his right. Jonti's sword snaked from her scabbard and she smiled.

“Just like old times,” she said.

“Let's break some skulls,” said Beetrax, cracking his knuckles.

They leapt forward. Jonti's sword took a man in the throat, cutting out his bobbing Adam's apple. Blood flushed down his chest accompanied by a silent, necessary scream. Dake ducked a sword swing, moving like an athlete, fast, supple, sure, and rammed his blade into his attacker's groin. A bandit leapt at Beetrax, who had both hands wide apart, like a preacher, unarmed, easy meat. A sword hacked down. Beetrax shifted, arm lashing out, deflecting the flat of the blade. He grabbed the man's tunic, pulling him onto a savage headbutt which dislodged teeth and cracked a cheek bone. Three times Beetrax headbutted the bandit, into unconsciousness, took his sword like sweet cakes from a child, and hacked off his head in two hard savage blows. They clashed together, and Beetrax, Dake and Jonti surged forward, weapons rising and falling. Talon fired off a dozen arrows, shafts punching into chests, legs and throats. Sakora waited patiently in the wings. A bandit charged her, sword raised, blackened teeth emitting a foul stench. She slid away from his three, four, five strikes. Her hand struck out, flat blade connecting with his windpipe. He staggered back, choking, dropping his sword, falling to his knees. Sakora watched impassively as he choked, and turned blue, and gradually toppled onto his face, dead. His windpipe was crushed by a single blow.

In a few moments it was over.

Beetrax strode forward and pulled his axe from Crade's skull and caved-in chest with a crunch. It took three tugs, and he had to put his boot against the dead man's ribs, but it came at last, and Beetrax observed the blood on the blade – like a hundred thousand times before – and gave a narrow smile which had nothing to do with humour.

“Bad choice,” he muttered.

“Any injuries?” shouted Lillith.

Beetrax cast around. Dake nodded. “We're good,” said Beetrax, and turned his attention from the slaughtered bodies to the young lad tied to the tree. Beetrax sighed. He shook his head.

The lad was watching them, analysing the slaughter. He looked green.

Beetrax sighed.

“Talon, go see to him.”

“You go see to him. This became your slaughter the minute you stepped from the forest!”

“I was trying to avoid a bloodbath!” roared Beetrax.

“No. You were milking your ego. You
encouraged
a bloodbath.”

“What? WHAT? So, you fancy fucking archer, what would you have done?”

“Picked them off one at a time from a safe distance.”

“What? You fucking brought us here! I wanted to sidestep this whole mess.”

“Well, it's a mess now all right,” said Lillith, moving past the arguing men and walking to the tied youth. She used an arrow blade to saw through the ropes and he slumped against her, blood drooling from his mouth. Gently, Lillith laid him on the ground and made a pillow for his head. She lifted his tunic and winced at the bruising.

“He's been badly beaten,” she said.

Beetrax ambled over. He'd pulled free a strip of dried beef and was chewing on it thoughtfully. “Will he die? And I'm being hopeful here. We don't need no dead fucking baggage on this quest.”

The lad's eyes opened. He smiled, then winced, and his hand went to his broken ribs. “You're Beetrax. From Desekra Fortress. The hero!”

Beetrax's face brightened. “Yes! Did we fight together?”

“No. I learned about you in school. We had a picture book.”

Beetrax frowned. “I was in a picture book?”

“Yes. You were slimmer. And more handsome. But it was you.”

“By the Seven Sisters!”

The lad coughed, and spat blood on the ground. “To answer your question, no, I won't die.”

“Er. Good.”

“My name is Jael.”

Beetrax shrugged. “So what, lad? Tell me again in a month's time. If you're still alive, then I'll make the effort to remember it.”

E
llie had built
a fire in the hearth, and as the flames flickered, outside the small cottage, distantly, a wolf howled. She gave a shiver, as if suffering a premonition, but shrugged it off and stood, knees creaking, to smile at little Ailsa, in her pretty red and white dress, sat in her special high chair and kicking her legs as she waited for supper. Janny was sat staring at a small wooden puzzle on the table before him, brow creased in concentration, his seven year-old fingers turning the pieces over and over as he tried to work out how to fit them together.

“Are you hungry, little ones?” said Ellie, smiling, tugging her shawl tight. Outside a frost had peppered the land, and until the fire was roaring, she could now feel the effects of the creeping winter.

“I hung, hungree,” grinned Ailsa, eyes shining, and Ellie crossed, rubbing the little girl's mop of golden curls.

“When Dada gets back.”

As if invoking her husband, Troma, the door opened and a large man stepped through, arms piled with logs, his bearded, kind face glowing red with the cold. He kicked shut the door and deposited the logs beside the hearth to warm, before turning and hugging Ellie, like a bear enveloping a child.

“By the Seven Sisters, I swear the snow will be here tonight.”

“You look freezing, my love. Come, sit by the fire.”

“In a moment.” Troma crossed to his little boy, and picked up the lad, hugging him deeply. Then, carrying the giggling boy in one arm, he plucked Ailsa from the high chair and snuggled into both his children, eyes closed for a moment, Ailsa pulling at strands of his bushy beard.

Ten minutes, the fire was roaring and the small cottage filled with heat. Ellie had slow cooked a beef broth during the day whilst Troma was out cutting firewood for what they both knew would be a long winter ahead. Now, as Troma mopped up the last of the gravy with a thick slice of coarse bread, a contentment settled on the family like warm honey. Troma laughed at Ailsa's stew dribble, and set to working out the wooden puzzle – which he had carved himself – with Janny, who was complaining it was too difficult, and even the teacher at school in the village had been unable to solve it, and he was an expert at maths.

“Kabor called round today,” said Ellie, voice gentle as she nibbled her slice of bread.

Troma looked up. The big man's eyes narrowed. “What did he want?”

“He said there was work for you on the firewood team. He said he'd never seen a man work so well with an axe.”

“Well.” Troma took an old worn bread knife, which had once belonged to his mother, and his grandmother, the wooden handle worn smooth with decades of use, and slowly sliced himself a chunk of bread. “I don't care for many of the men he employs. Rough types with vulgar mouths. Always yapping. They give me a headache.”

“Troma.” He looked into Ellie's beautiful dark eyes. “We'll struggle. We cannot afford to live if you have no work. I know you broke that man's jaw, but Kabor can see past that. He's willing to put the past behind you.”

Troma toyed with the bread, but did not eat. “I don't like that man coming to the house. I will have words.”

“Please don't threaten him. One day we may need his coin.”

“Don't you worry about money, my love. I will get work in the quarry over in Hisbeck. My back and shoulders are strong, and you know I am as powerful as a Shire horse.”

Ellie opened her mouth, then closed it again. The cupboards were starting to look exceedingly bare, and Troma, despite being a gentle giant, could display a fierce temper if any man made comments about his wife or children, as had been displayed several weeks back when his fury overtook him and he had lost his job.

Troma sat in thought for a while, as Ellie cleared the dishes and wiped Ailsa's face with a damp cloth. His contemplation was disturbed by another wolf howl, closer this time – which was suddenly cut short.

Troma frowned. Ellie glanced at him.

“That was odd.”

“Maybe a woodsman killed it?”

“Perhaps. But at this time of night?”

Troma stood, and strode to the door. “I will go and check around the cottage. Stay inside. Bolt the door behind me.”

“What do you think it is?”

Troma shrugged, and pulled on a thick bearskin jerkin, once his father's. He strode outside, carefully closing the door and waiting, listening for Ellie throwing the bolts. Just so he knew his family was safe.

The moon was out near-full, casting a cold, pale glow. Troma moved to the woodshed, where his large axe squatted, steel head embedded in a huge log. His hand curled around the polished shaft, and he tugged it free with a smooth, practised action. He turned and walked slowly down the slope to the lane, which led further down to the village. Walking up the lane, one carrying a shovel, the other an iron bar, came Jeg the Smith, and Woolard, a self-appointed busybody who masqueraded as the village councillor now he had retired from proper work. They stopped, offering narrow smiles.

“We think there's a pack on its way over,” said Jeg. “You want to lend a hand?”

“I reckon yonder way.” Troma pointed, and he saw both village men's eyes drop to the axe carried in his free hand.

“So, you're expecting trouble as well?” said Woolard.

“Maybe.” Troma gave a single nod.

They trekked up a narrow track, the mud frozen solid now, and within minutes hills rolled to either side. Woodland to the left was a dark ink blot under the light of the moon, and where it was a place village children played during daylight, now it seemed eminently foreboding.

“Don't normally get wolves this far south,” said Troma, after a while.

“Maybe it's slim pickings, what with the early frost?”

“Maybe,” said Troma.

They came to a steep section of track, and began to climb. Woolard was panting hard; an unfit man, and greying, it was well known he liked his ale, and since the death of his wife some years previous, the councillor had increased his drinking pace and consumption. He paused halfway up the slope, bending, hands on his knees, then shook his head at Troma, and pushed himself up and onwards.

They breached the rise, and stopped.

Ahead, through the darkness, under pale moonlight, came a… creature. It was large, bulky. Almost a horse. Almost. Its gait was uneven, curious, as if it were lame. But one of its shoulders also moved… oddly. As if its bones had been broken and reformed… wrong.

Troma stared, and licked his lips.

“What the hell is that?”

“It's a horse,” squinted Woolard.

“That's like no bloody horse I've ever seen!” snapped Jeg the Smith, and hoisted his solid iron bar.

The creature saw them. A deep growl rumbled across the coarse, knee-high grassy folds that separated them – a distance of perhaps a hundred yards. Suddenly, it accelerated into a gallop, a twisted, broken gallop, and Woolard made a strangled noise, turned, and ran for it, disappearing over the brow of the hill and away from view.

Troma and Jeg exchanged glances. Jeg licked his lips.

“When it's on us, we separate, strike from both sides.”

“What in the name of the Holy Mother…”

“And watch that bloody horn!”

The sounds of the beast's hooves thundered across the grass, indicating the beast's weight. As it grew near, Troma blinked, suddenly appreciating just how
big
it was. Much, much bigger than a horse. He swallowed dry, and realised his hands were slippery with sweat on the axe. The great, broken horse head reared, quivering lips pulled back over black fangs, and it was nearly upon them. Suddenly it jacked back its shoulders, rearing up as Troma and Jeg snapped apart, their weapons slicing through the air – to bounce off the creature's hide. It screeched, hooves pawing the winter air, then slammed down at Jeg, huge mouth engulfing his head and twisting sideways, wrenching the head free trailing neck tendons, flaps of torn skin, a shower of blood and a tail of his broken spinal column. Jeg's knees buckled and his corpse hit the long grass. Everything was ghostly pale under the moonlight, Jeg's blood black as ink.

Troma staggered back, mouth open, filled with a total, all-consuming shock and terror. Then the beast whirled on him, and he lifted the axe which felt like a toy in his big hands. It leapt at him, moving faster than anything that size had a right to move. He slammed the axe sideways in a savage, tree-felling cut, and it embedded in a thick band of corded muscle; the beast shifted sideways under the impact, and the axe was dragged from Troma's slippery hands. He staggered back again, unarmed now, and the beast glanced right, down the slope, then lowered its head and started to walk towards him.

Troma stumbled backwards, his hands coming up.

“What, in the name of the Seven Sisters,
are you
?” he gasped.

The beast suddenly stopped. Those eyes fixed on him. The twisted equine lips, black and slick and quivering, seemed to be laughing. And it spoke. The creature said, “I am… your dark… ness.”

It leapt, head slamming down, twisting sideways, and the horn skewered Troma through the chest, erupting from his back in a shower of blood and broken chunks of rib. His hands slammed down, grasping the tusk which had impaled him as the beast lifted him easily from his feet, gasping, choking out blood, and shook him like a doll.

Troma was blinking rapidly.

This was all a dream. A bad dream. A nightmare.

And he pictured Ailsa's face, covered in sweetcake. And Janny, fumbling with the puzzle his Dada had made for him. Tears filled his eyes. Rolled down his cheeks. And he remembered meeting Ellie. She had flowers in her red hair, and was sat under the Marriage Oak in the Lower Meadow, waiting for him, for their first date, for their first kiss. She had looked so, so beautiful…

T
he beast grunted
, and tilted its head, and the steaming corpse slid from its horn.

It turned, and limped to the summit of the hill, gazing down the slope at the white-haired man who was running away, as fast as he could, panting and grunting. He had dropped his shovel halfway down the slope, and there were several muddy skid marks where he must have fallen and slid.

The beast reared its head, and a huge, screeching, twisted whinny erupted, cutting through the night like a razor.

The man turned, saw the beast silhouetted against the moon, screamed something, then stumbled, falling flat on his face. The creature galloped down the slope after him, and he heard its approach, rolled onto his back, saying, “No no, please no, please no,” as those great, uneven eyes watched him with something akin to amusement.

Then he stopped his muddy scramble, and lay still, and watched, and waited, and piss stained his pants.

The beast took a step forward, lifted one front leg high in the air, and planted an iron hoof through the centre of Woolard's face.

“
W
hen will Dada be home
?” asked Janny. Ellie helped him into his woollen pyjamas, an arm, another arm, then a leg, and another leg, as he giggled and sat on the edge of the low bed which Troma had built. Janny then crawled into bed next to Ailsa, and Ellie pulled up the blankets to ward off winter chill.

“He won't be long, my darling,” she said.

“I miss him already. Will he be going back to work soon?”

“I am sure he will,” said Ellie, with a smile.

She tucked the children in tight, then moved to the door, only half closing it so the light from candles and fire would give them comfort. Ailsa was sucking her thumb, eyes closed tight. Dreaming the dreams of an infant.

Ellie crept around the cottage for a while, listening for the return of Troma. When a half hour had passed, she frowned and moved to the window, drawing back the curtain. The moonlight turned her garden into ink and shadows, dancing softly. Her eyes strained, searching for her husband, but to no avail.

She closed the curtain. A chill wind blew over her soul.

Outside, there came a
thump.

Ellie turned and stared at the dual bolted door. The bolts were thick iron, made by Jeg the Smith. They were not toys, not playthings, but heavy duty, fitted during the siege of Desekra Fortress when rumours told of the country being near-overrun by mud-orcs.

Again, there came a
thump.

Ellie backed away, grabbing a hand-sharpened bread knife from the rack.

With a tearing sound, wood being ripped asunder, and a screeching of twisting, separating iron, the door – in its entirety – was ripped free from the doorframe and tossed backwards. What stooped and stared in at Ellie was a twisted horse creature from cheese-fuelled nightmares. Blood stained its broken hooves and quivering black lips. The eyes bore through her with an alien intelligence she found both amazing and terrifying to her core.

The creature pushed, but its bulk was too big for the doorframe.

“Get back, you evil scourge!” she hissed, brandishing the bread knife. It trembled violently in fingers that shook.

The creature rumbled, in what could have been a deviation of laughter, then heaved its bulk through the gap, breaking the doorframe which crumbled to either side like tinder, and taking out several stones from the wall. The roof beams shook, and dust floated down, twirling patterns by the lights of the flickering candles.

A cold breeze flowed in, buoyed on a current of stench. The stench of rotting meat, of carrion crows feasting on a long-deserted battlefield; the stench of maggots in eye sockets, of opened bowels long coagulated, of part-digested flesh vomited back to the earth by those who feasted on death.

The beast advanced, hooves shaking the floorboards.

“No,” whimpered Ellie. “No, wait, stop! I know you. I know what you are!”

The beast halted. Steam rose from its wide open maw. Great fangs gleamed, stained with blood, caught with little strips of skin and muscle.