The Dragon Engine (7 page)

“No–body–move–” growled Chanduquar, voice emerging as if dragged from a thousand leagues away, a pitiful human voice eased free as if forced from a different plane of existence, of reality, a place of nightmares and demons and an eternal, burning furnace…

Something large and bulky shifted in the black. Then it moved forward, a heavy rattle of chains following as the tethered creature limped into the light from the burning brand and made all – all except Yoon and Chanduquar – give a little gasp.

It was bigger than a horse, although of different proportions. Indeed, it was like a horse, but not like a horse, for no foal could have been born so deformed and yet lived. It was huge and uneven, stocky, with bulging lumps of distended muscle emerging from its torso, seemingly at random – as if it had been broken in places, and forced back together again. It was a rich chestnut colour, uneven skin patched with horse hair in segments, as if it had suffered burns from an awful fire; and although it limped forward on four legs, the front right did not touch the ground, for it was too short, and bent forwards at an irregular angle.

Yoon licked his lips in obvious pleasure, as his eyes rose from the great, heavily muscled body, from thick horse legs with twisted, iron hooves – up the uneven chest to the head, the great misshapen head that was too large to be right, too bent to be living. And yet live it did. The head was a broken equine skull, long and pointed, but with the mouth pulled back, jacked open too far, showing huge blackened fangs. The eyes were uneven on the head – one yellow, one blood red and double the size – and from one side of the bent skull curved a jagged horn, easily the length of a short sword but fashioned from yellowed bone, showing many notches and nicks where battle had scarred it. That twisted horse head lowered, and turned, revealing the blood red eye, which blinked as it surveyed the group of men standing in awe – and horror – before it.

It leapt then, a near-human scream like that of a woman dying in childbirth smashing from quivering lips on a trajectory of thick phlegm. Chains rattled, grey and taut, dragging the beast back, straining at its heavy leash. Its head smashed left and right, that great horn carving a figure of eight before the gathered men, a challenge, and a promise. A promise of death.

Lord Daron urinated down his leg, forming a little puddle. One of the guards placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, then saw the puddle and stepped deftly to one side.

“Unchain it, unchain it!” quivered Yoon, mesmerised, stepping forward again, seemingly oblivious to the awesome power of the hostile beast before him.

“Highness, please, slow down,” muttered Chanduquar, eyes open, staring at the king. Then he returned to his chanting, and the twisted horse-beast surged against its chains once more. Iron links rattled, chains twisted together, and there came a whine of stressed, unwinding steel.

“I think one is about to…” said Daron.

There came a tremendous screech of stressed steel as a chain the thickness of a man's wrist snapped and lashed across the room. It caught one guard across the chest, tossing him backwards across the room and pursuing like an eager metal snake, where it continued to crash through chairs and table, and left a huge groove in the stone wall with a shower of sparks before coming to rest beside the broken, dead body of the man it had just slaughtered.

Daron turned to run.

“Run, and you die,” said King Yoon, without turning, his words very quiet, but menacing all the same. Then he held up a hand. “Wait.”

Chanduquar continued to chant, eyes closed, hands vibrating before him. And then – a transformation took place.

The horse creature suddenly went still, trembling. It lowered its head towards the small, black-skinned
shamathe,
and very slowly, knelt, as if in obeisance.

Chanduquar ceased his chant, the final words leaving his mouth like dark smoke. Ancient sigils writhed across his lips, a fluid tattoo, which gradually faded along with the sound. Now, all that could be heard was the uneven rumbling of the giant, pacified beast.

“Fascinating,” said King Yoon. “So, it does work!”

“Halt pointless noise,” barked Chanduquar. His head snapped round. “You. With the bag. Come here.”

The guard stepped forward, and Chanduquar took the black canvas pack, upending it to dump a disarray of bed sheets on the tiled floor. Leaning forward, he pushed them towards the beast, which still regarded the little man with the blood-red eye. Its panting was deep and rhythmical.

“You understand me?”

The beast gave a nod, and Yoon licked his lips in excitement.

“You understand the binding spells I have cast?”

Again, the twisted equine gave a nod.

“This is the scent of your quarry.” He turned at stared at Zandbar. “You may release the chains.”

Zandbar stared, hard. “You realise, if it attacks, we will all die?”

“And if you stand here gibbering like a slack-bowelled idiot, we will also die.
Do as I instruct
.”

Slowly, with creaking joints belying his age, Chanduquar climbed to his feet. He moved forward, within the boundary of restraining chains, and reached out, laying his hand on the creature's quivering muzzle. Its head shifted, and it gave a little whinny, a sound of affection not too unlike a horse. At that moment, Chanduquar felt his heart go out to the corrupted beast; this was no evil entity, but a living, breathing organism despoiled and degraded by the evil of Orlana's magick.

You should have stayed in the Furnace,
he thought.

Zandbar released the chains, and ran them through loops, stepping back as the creature rose to its full height. Its head swung round, the tusk making a hissing sound, and the guards – as one – leapt back.

“Remember what I can do for you,” said Chanduquar.

And then it spoke. And the room was filled with a hushed silence, like falling ash after a great fire. “I… re… member… Mast… Master,” came the disjointed, hissed words from that great, jacked open maw. The beast plunged its snout into the bed linen – into
Beetrax
's bed linen – and then lifted its head.

The head turned to Chanduquar, as if asking a question.

“Show me,” said Chanduquar.

With a squeal, the beast charged the door, smashing it from its hinges and knocking the frame out of its position in stone. Huge slabs of stone block were torn from the wall to accommodate the beast's bulk, and dust billowed into the air. As if fuelled by its own violence, the creature suddenly bellowed and charged down the corridor, smashing through another locked portal. And then it was gone.

A silence followed, interspersed by distant shouts.

“Shouldn't you have warned them?” said Zandbar, voice neutral.

“Let them earn their pay,” said Yoon, inspecting one slightly damaged fingernail. “But damn, I will have to have this repainted.” He turned. “Chanduquar? Would you escort me out?”

“Yes. You realise Beetrax is a dead man, sire?”

“Of course. No man can stand against such an incredible creature. And we have… how many?”

“More than a hundred have been rounded up and penned, Your Majesty.”

Yoon smiled. “That is impressive. Inventive, even. Please. Carry on.”

They moved towards the destroyed door. A guard coughed on the dust.

“Er. Great Uncle Yoon? Majesty? Er…”

Yoon paused, and turned. “Yes, Lord Daron?”

“So, our bloodline will be avenged for the dishonour done to me?”

Yoon smiled, a wide and generous smile. “Of course, my boy. Now, clean up your piss before you follow us out, there's a good lad. It's starting to stink something horrid.”

S
kalg lay in his firm
, specially designed bed, pain wrenching through his twisted back and the hump of broken bone which nestled under his dark skin like some kind of piggy-backed evil twin. He licked his lips, where he could still taste the honey-leaf infusion, and closed his eyes, fists clenched, each holding a handful of satin covers as he waited for the dancing bright lights of pain to gradually, eventually, fade.

Through the pain-filled corridors of his mind he walked, and each street was a street from his city, Zvolga, and each civic edifice was a triumph of stone engineering, each dwarf a citizen under
his
law and
his
rule, and this filled him with an intense pride for his race, and his Church of Hate, and the Law and Religion of the Great Dwarf Lords.

But I cannot understand how a group of lowlife degenerate brigands calling themselves the Army of Purity could turn against the church? What, in the name of the Harborym and everything holy, were they thinking? Why would they target the church? And me? Five attempts on my life had been made, ably thwarted by my Educators… but who, WHO would fucking DARE?

Thoughts and ideas raced around his pain-riddled brain, but slowly, his administered infusion began to have an effect and, if any casual observer had been allowed into Skalg's private, personal chambers at the top of the Blood Tower, or within his seven personal homes throughout the city, they would have witnessed his fists gradually relax, and a narrow crease of pain, and concentration, and frustration, ease from the ridges of his broad, strong face.

Ah, but I am cursed.

Sometimes, he believed his hunched back, that mass of broken, twisted spine and shoulder blade which had then grown even when the rest of his body had ceased to grow, was indeed some kind of malevolent spirit, some individual entity which had taken residence in his body, and which he carried around as a female dwarf might carry a child; only Skalg's womb was on his back, and the umbilical which fed his evil, cantankerous, pain-giving
bastard
was his spinal column. Occasionally, in the lonelier, darker hours, Skalg even fancied his dark hump spoke to him.

And Skalg's only chance of aborting the evil foetus he carried on his back would come with his own death.

Skalg's face had gone pale with the pain. Now, some colour returned, and awkwardly, helped by the odd camber of his bed, he climbed to his feet and pulled on a black, glossy robe, sliding the silk-like material over his burly arms to cover his heavily haired chest. He padded to the steel sink and gripped the rim, staring at himself in a battered silver mirror with a polished brass frame. He spat in the sink, and rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, then turned and moved to a low metal bench of exquisitely finished silver, the entire surface carved with swirls and symbology, including the clan signs of all three Great Dwarf Lords, and crests linked to the three dragons which heated the cities of the Harborym Dwarves.

Skalg stared at these crests for a while.

Moraxx, Kranesh
and
Volak.
Imprisoned for millennia, mindless, useless, broken wyrms which inhabited the lower shafts beneath the Five Havens, and provided heat and fire for the cities, and also for smelting in the furnaces of the Great Mines.

Oh how we'd struggle without your fire,
thought Skalg, and poured himself a large silver goblet of
fire liquor
from a silver decanter. The liquor warmed his lips and scorched his throat and, as its name suggested, put fire in his belly, which he welcomed. He stared at his broad flat face in the brass-framed mirror, and admired the flat forehead, strong ridges above his eyes, a flat nose and prominent jaw. A fine face for a dwarf. But from the corner of his eye he caught sight of the bone hump, poking up past his shoulder which, as he analysed, was higher than the other, the lower one pulled down by his twisted spine. His mouth warped into a snarl.

He reached to one side, picking up a well-worn letter hand-scribed on yellowed vellum. At the top was stamped a wax seal for the Guild of Medicine, and his eyes skimmed down through the polite opening paragraphs to the lines, which, as always, drew his dejected gaze:

W
e regret
to inform you that, because of your injuries in the mine collapse, and the length of time allowed to pass before seeking our medical expertise, the fused mass of bone which has grown outwards, creating what you referred to as your “hump” or “hunchback”, is, we very much regret, inoperable. Shards of bone from your shoulder blade and clavicle have become entwined with your spinal column, growing outwards – and pulling your spine out of its true line – but also merging into one almost solid mass of bone. This is a most unusual condition, never before seen, but one thing is for certain: our investigations can confirm that to remove part of your bone hump would be to interfere with your spinal column. This, in our educated medical opinion, would cause you a total and permanent paralysis. We can operate on outlying sections of fused bone to reduce mass, but again, there is a high risk of paralysis.

I
t is with great sadness
, Cardinal Skalg, that we must inform you that your injuries are permanent.

A
rage swamped him
, then, for just the blink of an eye, and he tensed to crush the letter in his fist. But, as always, he resisted the urge, and carefully smoothed out the vellum and laid it to the left of the silver decanter.

Would you have become the First Cardinal of the Church of Hate without your injuries to power you forward?

Would you have become the most powerful dwarf in Zvolga without the aid of anger, and hate, and determination given to you, like a gift from the Great Dwarf Lords, by this injury which brought about a singular fucking clarity of purpose? You were mocked, and shunned, and despised. You joined the Church of Hate in lowly ranks, and clawed and bit and scratched and tore your way to the top over the bleeding eye sockets and sundered rectums of a thousand destroyed peers.

The voice was an echo deep within him.
Deep
within his embryo of bone.

Would you have become First Cardinal Skalg without the constant
pain
to fuel you? I think not, brother of bone, brother of flesh, brother of spirit.

“Shut up,” muttered Skalg, and finished the goblet in a single swallow, sending fire scorching down his throat. His belly ached. His head thumped. He groaned, and his groan merged with a gentle knock at the door.

“You may enter!”

It was a young lad in the royal livery of King Irlax. He gave a modest bow, then met Skalg's questioning gaze.

“The Great King Irlax commands you attend him immediately.”

“He does, does he?”

The young dwarf coughed. Then he suddenly lowered his eyes, remembering exactly
whom
he addressed. “He, er, that is, King Irlax, demands an update on progress towards the apprehension of the Army of Purity, who, er, he states, have been targeting his churches.”

The messenger risked a glance up. Skalg's gaze was ice cold and fixed on him filled with razor daggers.

“Er.”

Skalg gave a short cough. “You may inform His Majesty that I have received his
request
, and I will attend his court in due course.” Skalg gave a narrow smile. “Now run along, before this silver decanter,” he gestured, vaguely, “connects repeatedly with your fucking face.”

“Taking my leave, Cardinal.” The messenger hurried out.

In foul mood, Skalg began to dress.

M
ethodrox sat
in the corner of The Slaughtered Warrior, a flagon of ale in his grip, his dark, intelligent, glittering eyes watching the ebb and flow of tavern patrons. The Slaughtered Warrior was situated in the darkest, most undesirable quarter of Langan's Dock, affectionately known to its inhabitants – with dark irony – as the Pit
.
The Pit was not an actual pit, but a metaphor for perhaps how low it had sunk in a social context; here, nothing was contraband. In fact, every contraband was available, and only the Pit was the safest place to buy and sell. Even Skalg's Educators were wary of travelling the Pit. It amused Methodrox greatly to see them enter in threes or more.

Now, Methodrox waited for his contact. He sipped his ale, barely taking any in, despite the intoxicating and addictive flavour. Ale was part of his blood, but not today, not on this night, not with this mission. This mission was everything.

Methodrox watched the dwarves in the tavern, and some watched back. All were armed, many armoured. By the bar there came uproarious laughing, which erupted immediately into violence. Fists were flying, at least five or six people involved in the sudden vicious brawl. An axe flashed in the lamp light, and a head was detached from shoulders with a sodden thump. In a few minutes it was over, and two dwarves dragged the headless corpse from The Slaughtered Warrior and dumped it in the street.

Methodrox watched, hand on his own knife, eyes narrowed lest he in some way become dragged into the fight. Unlikely, but always a possibility. Fights in the Pit had a way of getting out of hand extremely quickly.

A slim figure slid in through the door. He was hooded, nothing suspicious there, and tall for a dwarf. He had to stoop a little to avoid bumping his head on the beams. He moved quickly, neatly, a dwarf who was a master of his own actions.

Methodrox leaned back a little, eyes following the newcomer who made his way to the bar, good boy, and ordered a flagon of ale. The man glanced around with interest, and Methodrox felt his eyes glance over but show no emotion. And yet the connection was there.

He took his ale from a rough-looking barman with arms the width of most dwarves' thighs, and tattooed heavily with blurred images of female dwarves showing breasts and open quims. He sipped, casual, and moved through the raucous crowd until he reached Methodrox's table.

“You have a spare seat. Can I sit?”

“Be my guest.”

He sat. Sipped ale. Pretended to not be interested in Methodrox.

“You enjoying your evening?”

“Good fight before. Shame the dwarf had to lose his head.”

“Occupational hazard.”

“In a tavern?”

“In Zvolga. In the Pit.”

Methodrox nodded. “I'll second that.” He paused and studied the newcomer. “You seem like a handy fellow. Are you looking for work?”

“A labouring dwarf is always looking for work.”

“I have a delicate task. How are you with precious stones?”

“I have a delicate hand.”

“For this, you will need to be delicate and yet brutal.”

“I can be both of those things.”

Methodrox finished his ale. “Count to a hundred and meet me outside.”

T
he streets were warm
, the cobbles dry. It was five minutes since the last Dragon's Song, and warm air still pulsed, lantern flames bright.

The newcomer emerged, and Methodrox set off, not checking behind himself. He moved into a narrow maze of four-storey high, leaning slum buildings, the left-hand side carved from the mountain, the right free-standing at a variety of shifted angles. Cheap. Dangerous. Abandoned. Dwarves crowded the streets, dressed in poor garb, many clutching bottles. The Pit was nothing if not a den of poverty, violence and alcohol. Young dwarves with scabbed faces, dressed in rags, sat in doorways, begging, daggers with dried blood in their boots. Whores stood in other doorways, promising they were clean, lips painted bright red, eyes dead like those of a corpse.

Through all this Methodrox weaved, hand on his knife, axe on his back. He made a series of complicated cut-throughs, down narrow dark alleys, under bridges, over stinking, open sewers which got worse, more polluted, the deeper into the Pit one travelled.

Eventually, they came to an old DumpShaft, from a time before “civilisation” was brought to the Harborym by the Great Dwarf Lords. It was a wide well, a low wall of stone defining the perimeter – perhaps thirty feet wide, a natural shaft deep, deep down into the bowels of the Karamakkos. It had been used as an industry tip for centuries; now it was used more to dispose of unwanted corpses. It saw a lot of business. Most DumpShafts had been sealed by the church; here in the Pits, nobody seemed to care.

Beside the DumpShaft stood a warehouse. Big. Old. Falling down. By the narrow entrance leaned two serious-looking dwarfs, both carrying evil, well-worn maces. Methodrox stopped beside these two individuals and looked back. The dwarf following did not pause, but came in close, trusting, confident, eyes meeting Methodrox's.

“Watch the street,” he said, and ducked inside. The newcomer followed.

They moved through various corridors, eventually coming to a small room. Again, there were five large and very serious-looking dwarves. Their eyes glittered, their faces grim slabs. Here, Methodrox finally stopped and dragged up a chair, sitting himself down. The newcomer was left standing.

“State your name.”

“Echo.”

“Can you prove this?”

The newcomer shrugged, and looked at the five dwarves who spread out before him, pushing in front of the seated Methodrox. A wall of muscle. A wall of bristling weapons.

“Do you need me to?”

The five stocky dwarves attacked in a sudden rush. Echo ducked a club, dropping to one knee and delivering a right-hand straight that broke the dwarf's knee. He screamed, rolling to one side as Echo rolled to the left, grabbing a second attacker's groin and dragging down on his balls. Another scream.

They backed off for a moment, finding new positions. Echo was relaxed, features neutral. Then he attacked. Three strikes in three seconds, leaving them rolling on the floor with various breaks and dislocations, groaning the way only big, tough killers can groan from an unexpected violence.