The Dragon Engine (19 page)

“That was fucking close,” snarled Dake, sheathing his sword on the third attempt. “Why did the bastard come after us? They're usually primed to hunt.”

Jonti edged forward, peering down.

“I hate to piss on your fire,” she said, “but it's not dead.”

“What?” snapped Beetrax, and moved forward. Jonti was right. Perhaps a third of the bridge, huge chunks of jagged ice, had landed on the road-wide ledge below. Beetrax followed this ledge with his eyes, and it passed around, hugging the mountain, disappearing into a large cave with an entrance like a dark mouth. Amidst the chunks of rock, the splice was moving feebly.

Amongst the mountains, there came a terrible, deep, booming sound.

More ice and snow came falling from above. A white, coruscating waterfall.

“We need to get off this ledge,” said Lillith, looking up.

The splice roared, and the mountain roared back, and several huge chunks of rock, each the size of a cottage, came tumbling down from above – and with them, an avalanche of snow that roared and screamed, thundering down from the higher slopes. Huge billows of snow, like smoke, blossomed outwards, like the vast white petals of some titanic rose unfurling.

Snow showered the ledges, and took out the remaining Ice Bridges of Sakaroth, destroying them utterly and casting them down into the bottomless chasm.

Eventually, the roaring and shaking subsided. The tumbling of snow slowed, and then became nothing more than trickles of powdered white sliding down over newly formed slopes.

On the ledge, the company had gone.

B
eetrax had a recurring nightmare
. He would awake, to find himself in a coffin. He'd open his eyes, but nothing changed; everything was black. He would reach out, but find his arms pinned by his sides. He would try to move his legs, but find them similarly restricted, so that all he could move were fingers and toes. His breathing would become shallow, chest rising and falling rapidly as he felt panic build quickly within him, feel his entire body and mind become a pressure cooker as the world spun around him and he realised he was
trapped
he was fucking
trapped underground
, buried alive, and he'd open his mouth to call for help but no words would come out, nothing would come out, and he tried to speak or cry or wail or scream, but
no sound would come out
and he was mute. “Help me!” he wanted to scream, “I'm not dead, help me!” But nobody was there to help him, because he was six feet under the soil. And as panic flooded him like a shower of red hot razors flowing through his veins and brain, and panic welled in his throat like a fist, he would awake, into a cold grey morning, bathed in sweat, panting, fists clenched, sometimes with piss staining the sheets. It had always been this way. Ever since he could remember. And though he would never admit it, Beetrax was afraid of the dark.

Now, here, in reality, as consciousness finally came to him, at first he thought – believed – he was trapped back inside his nightmare. It was little comfort, being buried alive, but at least some small recess of his brain
understood
; yes, he would go through the usual agony but at least at the end he would wake up, change his bed sheets, burn his pissy mattress, and get on with his life.

This time, however, it was different. It
felt
different.

This time there was no black. Just a fuzzy white; an off-grey.

His eyes flickered open, and he was hot, and yet the world tasted cold. He turned his head to the left, and tried to move his arms. The left was trapped, but his right one came up before his face and he stared in wonder, in confusion, at his rough, tattooed fingers, with their chewed, broken, dirt-ingrained fingernails.

“What?” he mumbled, and his voice emerged as a cracked croak. “What happened?” Nothing more than a whisper.

Why has the dream changed? What is this new place? What is this new terror sent to mock and haunt my deepest nightmares?

And then he realised. And it chilled him to the very core of his soul.

He was buried.

He
really was
buried alive…

Beetrax started to scream, struggling, his right fist pounding the snow around him, the compact white shell which had formed like a protective cage to bury him,
bury him
, and everything was a swirling rage which growled like raging fire through his brain, and this was it, this was the end and his death would come and he would suffocate or be slowly crushed into a thin platter of pulped bones and leaking blood which would freeze, and he would spend forever here.

Eternity, under the ice.

He thrashed, struggling, head slamming from side to side. His arm beat until it could beat no more, and then he lay, paralysed in terror, his mind spinning away into oblivion, and he lay for what felt like eternity, although it was probably only an hour or two, and gradually he fell into an exhausted sleep where he dreamed they were lowering his coffin into an eternal pit, deep underneath a mountain where the dragons slept; and then it was blackness, and then there was no more.

D
aylight
. Sunlight. A weak, watery grey sky. Movement. A swaying.

Blackness.

T
he clank of chains
. The stomp of hooves. Water on his lips, dribbling cold down his neck. He coughed and spluttered. White light. Gritty darkness. Swimming down into a welcoming ink pool of unconsciousness.

H
e could smell horseshit
. It troubled his nostrils. The world was swaying, as if he were on a ship. It made him want to heave, and he groaned, and leant to one side, and tried to vomit but nothing would come out.

He realised there was a rhythmical clacking sound only when he stopped. A trotting horse? Was he on horseback?

He opened his eyes – into darkness.

Firelight came close, an intensely bright flare that made him shuffle back, his bound hands before him, chains digging into his flesh.

He looked down, focussed on those chains; there were black iron manacles, clamping his hands together. Confusion entered his mind, along with a low-level panic. They had been… on the bridge. Fighting the splice. And then an avalanche, bridge collapse, buried alive. Now manacles?

“Hello?” he managed, at the wavering, flicking firelight which came even closer, as if somebody was examining him. Yes, Beetrax got the definite feeling he was being observed.

“Why manacles?” he managed through dust-dry lips.

“Shut your mouth!” came a harsh, gravelled voice.

“But, I…” The blow was unexpected, and shocked Beetrax into silence. His head was spinning, and he felt blood dribbling down his nose.
Gods, that hurt; what was it? A fist? A club?

The fire retreated, leaving Beetrax totally blind. He heard movement up ahead, then a cracking sound. Hooves clopped on stone, and they began to move.

His senses swimming, Beetrax struggled to get up, and managed it into a sitting position. He looked about, but all he could make out was some kind of underground tunnel. He dabbed his nose with the back of his hands… and suddenly felt movement beside him. Another body. Another human being.

The figure wriggled, until it was up close against him, and he leant sideways instinctively as lips pressed towards his ear. “Beetrax,” whispered the voice, tickling him and making him shiver, “this is Sakora. The others are unconscious. Don't speak aloud, or they'll beat us with clubs.”

Beetrax turned his head, putting his mouth to Sakora's ear. “Who will?” he whispered.

“The dwarves who dug us free of the snow,” she replied, voice a gentle murmur. “There were ten of them. With axes, helmets, battle armour.”

“Where are we now?”

“The ledge on which we fell; beside it was a tunnel. We have been taken into that. Taken under the mountain.”

Beetrax sat back, his head throbbing, his mind reeling.
We have been rescued? By dwarves? But the dwarves in these parts are extinct! They haven't been seen for thousands of years! All the academics agreed, the Five Havens were abandoned, the Harborym Dwarves long dead and bone dust in the massive tombs they had built. Hadn't Riorthrax the Taylor gone on a privately funded expedition and come back with tales of abandoned mines and mountains of jewels? He'd written a book about it. And Falanor Greeves, who gave me the map leading us here… why, he believed it enough he would have travelled with us, if Yoon hadn't wanted his head on a spike.

Beetrax considered this as they trundled along. He could hear the squeak of an axle now, and the stomp of boots up ahead, beside the clopping of the – donkey? Mule? Surely a horse wouldn't survive down here in the…

In the mines?

Beetrax shuddered. Realisation sank in, like a corpse through the oil swamps of Laleska.

If the Harborym Dwarves still existed, and the Five Havens were real – how friendly would they be towards a group of Vagandrak heroes intent on robbery?

His mind turned grim, and he rubbed at his beard, tasting blood there, and calmed his breathing, and gathered his strength; he had a feeling it would be needed soon.

T
hey emerged
into a small circular chamber, the walls coarse and bare except for two brackets on the walls, in which weak-fires burned. It was as if even fire had no energy in this place. As if all the life had been sucked out.

The series of carts, for that was what carried Beetrax, Sakora, and the unconscious bodies of Dake, Jonti, Talon, Lillith and the young lad, Jael, laid out as corpses – gods, maybe they
were
corpses? – came to a stop, rocking on wooden wheels bound with rims of iron.

Beetrax and Sakora turned, staring up ahead, into the chamber. There were about ten dwarves, short, stocky, swarthy, just as Sakora had described. In full black and grey armour, and carrying weapons in meaty fists.

The dwarves seemed to be arguing about something, and then squatted down in a circle, rooting in packs.

“Are the others all right?” whispered Beetrax, gesturing to the figures of their companions. His chains jangled and he frowned, for shackles were something abhorrent to him; he would rather die than be captured; would rather be a corpse than a slave.

“I don't know,” said Sakora, and he met her gaze, and Beetrax read the agony in her face. They had been so cocky, so confident, so sure of their own abilities; and at the first hurdle, it would appear they had failed.

Dake groaned, and stirred. He came to life gradually and Beetrax shuffled as close as he could get to his friend. “Shhh,” he soothed, as Dake's eyes flared open in sudden panic. His chains jangled, and Beetrax turned. One of the squatting dwarves glanced back, then said something to his companions. They laughed, booming, harsh laughter that made Beetrax's heart sink further down into his boots.

“What's going on?” said Dake, coughing, and sitting up.

“We have been taken prisoner,” hissed Beetrax. “And our captors don't like us making any noise!”

“Why?” snapped Dake, rubbing his face with both his shackled hands. “What the fuck are they going to do about it?
Trax
? Come on, let's teach them a fucking lesson.”

“You there!” The voice was harsh, rough, deep. A dwarf stood up, and approached them. He carried an evil-looking black club, which he waved in Beetrax's face. “You all shut up, you hear? No talking amongst the prisoners.”

“Listen,” said Dake, “there has to be some mistake. We are heroes of Vagandrak! Take us to your masters, and…” The club struck him across the nose, a lazy, back-handed sweep that sent Dake crashing onto his side. The dwarf squared himself against the cart wall, and leaning forward, smashed the club down twice against Dake's head, knocking him unconscious.

“Bastard!” snapped Beetrax, surging forward against his shackles, but the club swung at him. Beetrax dodged the first swing, but the dwarf was quick, and the powerful return smash put Beetrax down. The next four blows to temple and jaw rendered the big axeman unconscious.

It took four. Beetrax was stubborn like that.

The dwarf turned slowly and grinned at Sakora with blackened teeth. His face was broad and brutal, with a scar under one eye and a thick black beard, peppered with silver. He wore a simple round steel helm, and a steel breast-plate with a complex crest. He lifted his club threateningly, eyes glinting with humour.

“You want some?” Sakora shook her head, lowering her eyes. “Good. My name is Krakka. I'm in charge of all Mine Slaves. I am the Slave Warden. You humans will learn real fast what it's like under my rules, in my mine. If you are awkward, you will die. There are always plenty more slaves where you came from. After all,” and his smile broadened, showing several gold teeth, “the Mountain provides!”

He moved back to his companions. They had a small fire burning and were cooking something. Sakora's nostrils twitched. It was meat. It smelt
really incredible
. She tried to work out how long it had been since her last meal, but could not. She watched Krakka unstopper a small metal flask and take a hefty drink, then passed it round. Soon, their laughter was booming.

We have to escape this place,
she thought. Despondency took her in its fist and tossed her down a well of despair.

T
he journey was a long one
, down constantly descending tunnels. It was a maze, filled with a thousand junctions, many with ten or fifteen separate choices, from which they always seemed to veer in random directions. As the company came awake, one by one, they soon realised they had to keep silent, exchanging only glances or hurried, whispered words when they thought one of Krakka's guards wasn't listening.

Now, everyone was awake, eyes tired, faces grim and strained with exhaustion and a little fear.

During their first real conversation, the donkey-towed carts had been pulled to one side of a large chamber. There was a building – a kind of barracks – and the ten dwarves disappeared into the low-ceilinged abode, slamming shut an iron door with a clang. The companions looked at one another, and waited, wondering if this was some kind of trap to get them talking, thus necessitating another beating. During the two days of travel thus far, each had received at least one clubbing into unconsciousness, and they had been offered nothing to eat, not even water. Their misery was a live thing, a captured essence in a jar. They could smell, taste, and hear their own misery. And deep down, they suspected it was only going to get worse.

After five minutes, when the door did not reopen, Beetrax made a deep sigh, and muttered, “How did we end up in this shit?”

“More importantly,” said Talon, brushing back his bloodstained hair over one shoulder, “how are going to get out of it?”

“We need the manacles off first,” said Jonti. Her nose had been broken, and both nostrils were rimmed with dried blood. As they beat her, Dake had attacked – as best his chains would allow. It took three dwarves to subdue him; and three dwarves to beat him down. It had taken a long time for him to come round, and Jonti had wept over his unconscious body for hours, thinking him dead. “We can do nothing with these bastard irons binding us!”

“They have to move us from the carts at some point,” said Lillith, her voice gentle. “But I fear they will only unshackle us one at a time.”

“Then that person has to strike, and strike bloody hard,” said Beetrax, scowling. “This is no way to treat a man! Bloody slavers!”