The Dragon Engine (8 page)

Echo glanced up. “You wish me to kill them?”

Methodrox stood, and held up a hand. “No. Follow me.”

More corridors, more narrow apertures to squeeze through. They came to a big space, bright with a thousand candles. A thousand dwarves were seated around tables, food and drink before them. As they entered through a side door, Echo looked genuinely surprised. “The Army of Purity?”

“A sample,” smiled Methodrox. “We grow stronger every day.”

“The Church of Hate truly has something to fear.”

“A wise observation. Follow me.” They moved between the tables, where serious faces regarded Echo and he returned their stares, face neutral. Finally, they came upon a table at the far end of the chamber, around which were arranged eight grave-looking dwarves, with neatly trimmed beards and black, polished armour. They stood, and nodded at Echo, and then they all sat – except Methodrox who gestured to an empty seat. Echo sat, looking around at each face slowly, as if memorising the features for future reference.

“You want me to kill Skalg?” said Echo once more, quietly, placing both hands flat on the table. The backs of his hands were crisscrossed with narrow white scars.

“No,” said Methodrox. “We want something… a little more elaborate.”

Slowly, Methodrox outlined his plan.

“There is… considerable risk.”

“And we offer considerable reward.”

“I require no payment.”

Methodrox looked taken aback, and he rubbed at the bristles of his beard thoughtfully.

“You would do this out of principle? To free the dwarves of the tyrannical rules of the Church of Hate?”

Echo shrugged, and looked off, as if into the distance. “Let's just say that bastard Skalg and I go way back; and I have an old score to settle.” His eyes were gleaming and he locked his gaze to Methodrox. “Let's say I do it for the memory of my sister.”

S
kalg sat in his plush
, donkey-drawn carriage. The curling ironwork was gleaming black, edged with gold as befitted the First Cardinal of the Church of Hate. As they rattled through the dark streets of Zvolga, the carriage was flanked by six Educators, which kept the pace slow. This pleased Skalg, at the thought that every passing second would be infuriating King Irlax to the point where Skalg could be guaranteed an argument. As Skalg's father used to say
, the only good king is a dead king.

As they moved their way through the streets, some dwarf citizens stopped to stare at the carriage. Skalg's procession often had this effect on people, after all, he
was
the
First
Cardinal, and as such, demanded the respect of the populace. On this occasion, however, the six Educators also probably helped to draw stares; it wasn't often such brutality was openly courted.

They rattled down various side streets, and flicking back a curtain, Skalg glanced out; Razor was walking, her body fluid, her head turning continually as she searched for any possible danger.

The other Educators also looked fearsome, with their collection of unsheathed weapons, scars and no-nonsense faces. Skalg felt quite proud at that moment, that he could summon these – and hundreds of other – psychopaths.

They reached the gates of the Palace of Iron, a towering, black iron structure, all spikes and towers and turrets. The fence surrounding the large, paved grounds was twenty feet high, with body-thick iron bars, each capped with a sprouting of razor spikes. Two guards stood on sentry duty outside the gates; inside were two squat guard houses, in which Skalg knew another ten guards waited.

Recognising Skalg's transport, the gates were opened on smooth, silent hinges, and the carriage rolled through as the guards stood to attention. They trundled down the smooth central causeway, the Palace of Iron looming eerily above them against a backdrop of the savage, jagged rock of the mountain's carved and shaped interior.

The carriage halted, donkeys stamping, and Razor opened the door for Skalg with a tiny
click.
He struggled out, leaning heavily on Razor and feeling the solidity of her muscles. Then he straightened, as much as a man with a bent spine could straighten, and hobbled towards the great iron doors.

The Educators followed in silence, and the huge door swung open showing a long corridor, lit by roaring fires on large, iron stands. Skalg was met by a small, neat dwarf, clean shaven and looking very odd for it. Rumour had it the dwarf was also a eunuch; indeed all of King Irlax's male personnel got the snip, in order to protect his collection of queens, mistresses and casual lovers.

“Welcome, First Cardinal Skalg. The king is most urgent to share your counsel.”

“Lead on, then. He should have called upon me sooner.”

Skalg followed, limping, and shortly was presented before King Irlax. The hall was large and impressive, with glass cases surrounding the vast space containing a thousand artefacts of Harborym heritage. From weapons of war to clever mining devices; from items of formal regal dress and precious stones, to items which, historians claimed, had once belonged to the Great Dwarf Lords themselves!

King Irlax was leaning forward on his throne, and Skalg could sense his impatience. As a result, he slowed his limping approach yet more, grinning a little beneath his beard. Finally he stopped, and glanced around, and finally alighted his eyes on his king.

“Well met, King Irlax. Apologies for the delay. I had some short business to which I had to attend.”

“You kept me waiting more than a fucking
hour
!” hissed the king, his eyes flashing with fury.

“Excuse me,” said Skalg, meeting his monarch's gaze, “but I think you forget to whom you speak.”

Irlax stared at Skalg, his right eyelid twitching, and this gave Skalg time to study the King of the Harborym Dwarves. He was big, for a dwarf, and barrel-chested – very, very powerful, as he liked to prove in wrestling tournaments where he would get drunk and pound some unfortunate into pieces. He had a bushy black beard, run through with streaks of silver, and his hair was a mane, again black, again showing evidence of his progressing years. His hands were big, heavy, powerful from wielding a battle-axe, and he wore black iron armour under his regal robes of kingship.

Irlax took a deep breath, and Skalg was humoured to see him attempting to control himself.

Irlax peered down from his raised platform, but Skalg did not let this worry him. He knew, in terms of power, in terms of popular support even, that he wielded just as much authority as the king. In many ways, the Church of Hate was even more feared, for in many forms it predated even the Great Dwarf Lords, and it had been the church that helped subdue the three dragons, Moraxx, Kranesh and Volak, using long-lost spells of Equiem magick from the elder days. From before the wars of men and dwarves.

The Church of Hate also had a reputation for being… nasty. Thanks in no small part to its sadistic First Cardinal.

“Cardinal Skalg.”

“King Irlax.”

“I believe we got off on the wrong foot.”

“I believe so,” said Skalg, with a narrow smile. “Please, sire, let us begin again. You requested I attend you to discuss…?”

“Let's begin with the church fires you've been so recently suffering. What information have you come up with concerning the perpetrators?”

“I believe they call themselves the Army of Purity, or some such nonsense. Although how they believe their purity can come about by burning priests to death and causing sacrilege against the altars of the Great Dwarf Lords, I cannot quite fathom.”

“I believe you have a suspect?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he now?”

Skalg smiled. “He expired.”

“He expired?”

“That's what I said.”

“In what way did he expire?” There was an edge to King Irlax's voice; an edge that Skalg knew well. An edge he did not care for.

“My Educators attempted various forms of persuasion in order to extract information about the fire, and indeed, the Army of Purity itself. After all, we cannot have thugs running around the streets burning down churches. Maybe soon they would turn their attention to the monarchy, and you yourself, sire, might find yourself on the blunt end of their anarchic fire-starting behaviour.”

Irlax stared at Skalg. “Tell me he confessed.”

“He did not confess.”

“Did he tell you
anything
?”

“No. I believe he was innocent.”

Irlax stood, then, a sudden movement, and began to pace before Skalg. His fists clenched and unclenched once.

“Cardinal Skalg, can I remind you – with respect – that you cannot go around my city
torturing
suspects. Especially when they turn out to be bloody innocent! What about this dwarf's family? His children? His friends?”

“It was a necessary act.” Skalg cleared his throat. “I would also like to remind Your Highness – with respect – that the Church of Hate acts externally to the monarchy. We – and I – are not answerable to Your Highness in any way whatsoever. It could be said we are symbiotic.” He smiled.

Irlax's face darkened. “You may operate outside my rules,” said Irlax, his voice suddenly soft and laced through with poison, “but I am an honourable king, and I will not stand,
will not
fucking stand
for the murder of innocent citizens. Do I make myself clear?”

“You make yourself crystal clear,” said Skalg. “As clear as a mountain sky. However, you are not in a position to tell me what I can and cannot do, and in pursuit of these… these
villains
I will use every technique at my disposal in order to discover their identities. Do I make
myself
clear?”

Irlax turned to face Skalg. He stepped in close. “You play a dangerous game with me, Cardinal.”

“This is no game, Your Highness. This is a group of your so-called precious
citizens
challenging the church with all-out war. I will not stand for it, do you hear? I will not have the Church of the Great Dwarf Lords desecrated in such a manner – and any who stands in my way is a heretic. Surely, you do not challenge the Will of the Three Gods, do you, King Irlax?”

Irlax smiled, and relaxed back. “Of course I do not challenge the Will of the Three Gods. As you say, that would be foolish indeed – especially for one in my position.” He moved back to his throne, and seated himself, his eyes turning on Skalg with a cold, calculating steadiness. “Why, if this sort of madness progressed, then our population might find they had to make a choice between church and king. And that would rip our world asunder, would it not? There would be a bloody civil war. That eventuality would benefit nobody.”

Skalg nodded, and twisted a little, seeking comfort.

“It still pains you?” Irlax smiled then, a warm and friendly smile. “I could recommend you to my personal surgeon. He trained in Vagandrak, at Vagan University, and is skilled beyond the comprehension of most of our people.”

“No, no, that's quite all right,” said Skalg.
Because how long would my life expectancy be under the scalpel of your most loyal physicians? How many minutes? Less than I would care to wager!

Irlax waved his hand, then rubbed it down his beard. “Anyway. Enough of this kind of talk. I have several other matters I need to discuss. Shall we retire to the library? I have some fine port that needs attention, and there we can discuss the current shortage of slaves in the Great Mine. I believe we are going to send teams out again, scouting; our shortage of criminals of our own kind is getting quite disconcerting. It's almost as if,” he laughed quietly, “word of church cruelty has spread. Almost is if people fear the church more than serious crime itself!”

Skalg nodded, and scowled a little when he realised his presence was going to be required at the Palace of Iron a lot longer than he had first anticipated.

“It would be my pleasure, Your Highness.”

F
our hours later
, and with his hunched back screaming at him in pain –
damn, I did not bring a honey-leaf infusion!
– Skalg limped down the steps and climbed wearily into his carriage. Fires burned along the roadside as his carriage trundled from the gates, and dwarves bustled along both sides of the busy thoroughfare, going about their everyday business. As usual his Educators drew wary glances, but Skalg was in no mood for such minor enjoyment. He drew the curtains, leaving himself in a comfortable, maudlin gloom.

That bastard Irlax is going to have a few surprises in store over the coming days, weeks and months; this, I promise,
thought Skalg sourly as they progressed, wheels rattling, his Educators alert.
He thinks he can tell me what to do, tell me how to run the Church of Hate! He thinks to order me, the First Cardinal, because in his feeble dwarf mind he is at the top of the food chain! Well, he is not.

Skalg leant forward, back screaming fire, and put his chin on his fist, grunting in pain. He felt the sway of the carriage, and then the tilt as they started down the steep descent of Smith Street, and the donkeys strained backwards, taking the weight of the carriage against their harnesses. Skalg heard the hiss of the brakes.

One day, somebody will teach Irlax a lesson.

One day, somebody will remove him from the throne.

And on that day, the Church of Hate will be the only power in Zvolga – indeed, for the whole of Harborym Dwarves!

The carriage laboured down the steep hill, iron-rimmed wheels rattling on cobbles.

A shout sounded outside, and Skalg, ever-cautious, flicked one of the curtains. A swarthy dwarf on the pavement was pointing back up the hill, and shouting. Others turned, and more shouting rang out. Several female dwarves screamed, and a panic rippled through the crowd on the pavement.

A cold chill gripped Skalg's chest. He shifted in his seat, slapping open the rear curtain to stare up the curve of the sloping cobbled road. His mouth dropped open, eyes growing wide.