Overlords of the Iron Dragon

by C. L. Werner

  ‘Another of the rotters!’ Drumark cried out. Brokrin spun around in time to see a second gangly creature with a single eye lumbering into the doorway. The next instant it was cut in half by the decksweeper, thrown back into the workshop as though it had been punched by a gargant. Drumark started to cheer the monster’s brutal destruction when his gaze dropped to the clutch of gibbering, toad-sized beasts that clambered across the thing’s body and rushed towards the sergeant.

  Like bloated, living pustules, the tiny creatures swarmed out from the workshop. Drumark swung at them with the stock of his gun, bursting them in welters of rancid ooze. Grokmund hastened to the sergeant’s side, stamping at the fiends with his boots and chopping at them with his tools.

  Brokrin started towards the fray, but before he took his first step, he swung around. It wasn’t a sound that alerted him, but rather the lack of sound. The mewing of the shot creature had suddenly stopped. It was not because the thing was dead. He found it back on its hoofed feet, glaring at him with its single eye. Its right arm quivered, the lower part of it sloughing away, exposing a long length of blackened bone. Its left hand reached into the wound, ripping free the dark shaft. As its fingers curled about the bone, the object began to twist and expand, lengthening into a ghastly weapon with a rippled edge.

  This lurking horror was no mortal beast, but a fell daemon of Chaos! The realisation made Brokrin look anxiously at his emptied pistol. A hideous chuckle shook the fiend when it understood his distress. Brazenly it took a step towards its enemy, the diseased blade in its hand continuing to lengthen and reshape itself into a monstrous sword.

  Across the corridor, Brokrin could hear the sounds of combat. More daemons had emerged from the other glowing splotches of corruption, falling upon Gotramm and the others. Drumark and Grokmund were locked in desperate struggle against the toad-like imps. Every one of the Kharadron was beset by the noxious manifestations.

  Still uttering its malicious chuckle, the sword-wielding daemon charged Brokrin. It was in for a double surprise. First, he stood his ground. Second, he took his empty pistol and threw it straight at the fiend’s leering eye.

  The daemon warbled in pain as the pistol struck its face. It clapped its hand to its injured eye, staggering back as jelly dripped between its claws. The blade clutched in its other hand slashed out, raking the air blindly in an effort to fend off Brokrin. He was too cautious to rush headlong at the monster. He circled around to its flank, coming at it from the side with his axe. The cleaving blade came chopping at its bony shoulder, tearing through the diseased meat to shear through the spongy bone within.

  A fiendish wailing rose into the air as the daemon’s arm crashed to the floor. The claws scrabbled at the ground for an instant, then fell still. Almost at once the severed limb began to corrode, disintegrating into a mush of worms and slime.

  The daemon spun around, its smashed eye glaring unseeingly in Brokrin’s direction. It brought the huge plaguesword swinging around, attacking with such speed that the duardin felt the wind of its passing as he dropped to the floor. He didn’t hesitate to assault it from his prone position, bringing the axe slashing across the ankle above one of its hoofed feet.

  Putrid liquid jetted from the daemon’s leg as Brokrin’s axe tore through flesh and bone. The fiend howled as it crashed to the ground. It kicked out with its remaining hoof, smashing into Brokrin’s breastplate. The duardin felt his breath knocked from him as he was tossed back by the blow. Ahead of him, the blinded daemon kicked and flailed, snarling in frustration as it tried to find its enemy.

  Recovering his breath, Brokrin stood above the thrashing daemon and swung his axe in a downward sweep. The blade crunched through its horned skull, extinguishing the stubborn vitality that lingered in the creature’s mangled form. For a moment it struggled to rise, then slumped against the floor, its body dissolving into a worm-ridden sludge.

  Brokrin turned from the vanquished daemon. Across the way he could see Gotramm bringing his own axe down across the neck of another horned monster. The arkanauts and thunderers were finishing off the last of their own foes, clubbing them with the butts of rifles and hacking them down with axes and skypikes.

  Nearer to hand, Brokrin found Drumark and Grokmund still beset by the swarm of imps. He hastened to aid his comrades, seizing hold of a small monster that had latched itself to the aether-khemist’s back and was trying its best to gnaw through his armour. The little grotesquery writhed in his grip as he seized it and squeezed. He expected to feel bones crack under the pressure, but instead it was like crushing mud between his fingers.

  Drumark roared in pain as one of the daemons assaulting him finally managed to claw away the straps binding his pauldron in place. As the shoulder guard slipped away, the daemon buried its needle-like teeth in his flesh. The imp raked its jaws back and forth, ripping at the duardin morsel caught in its fangs. Outrage and disgust infused Drumark with a new surge of strength. He clapped both hands around the toad-like beast, tearing it from his body in a spray of blood. For an instant he glared down at the abomination, then broke its twitching body in half, hurling the fragments from him. He lashed about with his boots, smashing and stamping until none of the little fiends were left. Such was Drumark’s fury that none of the imps escaped.

  ‘Cursed filth bit me,’ Drumark said as he turned towards Brokrin. He pressed a hand to his bleeding shoulder, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

  Around them, the sounds of combat faded. No cheers came from Gotramm and the crew. The daemons had been too abominable an enemy to take any heart from their destruction. There was no sense of accomplishment in crushing vermin underfoot. The carcasses of their adversaries lay strewn about the hall, dark stains on the stones that were quickly dissolving into slime.

  ‘Sound off!’ Brokrin cried out, reverting to a captain’s first instinct after a fight: to make a tally of his crew. Gotramm gave him a weary but not ungrateful wave while the rest of the duardin answered. As each crewman called out, a sense of relief built in Brokrin’s chest. None of them had been killed in the fray.

  ‘The miserable filth bit me,’ Drumark repeated, drawing Brokrin’s attention back to him.

  Brokrin took a step towards the sergeant, but before he could reach him, Drumark collapsed at his feet.

  Chapter XII

  Drumark awoke with a start, flailing about with his arms. He was bewildered by his surroundings, unable to explain to his own satisfaction how it was that he found himself lying on a bed with a wood block under his head and a heavy blanket thrown across his body.

  Some of the confusion left him as he stared up at the beams overhead. He was back aboard the Iron Dragon. From the corner of his eye he could see Lodri sleeping in a chair, a jar of grog sitting on the floor near his leg. Smoke drifted up from a bronze smudge pot, filling the cabin with the heady odour of smouldering herbs.

  A scowl pulled at Drumark’s beard. ‘You are getting old, you idiot,’ he chided himself. He had once been able to go axe to choppa with orruk bulls. Now he had to be dragged back to the ship after a short fracas with tiny imps. It was enough to tear the heart out of a duardin warrior. His body felt like one big sore, the nerves in his legs tingling as though they were on fire. His arms felt like lumps of lead, the muscles struggling simply to raise him up onto his elbows. Never had he felt so drained of strength. Drumark had always abided by a philosophy of self-dependence. It flattened his pride to be so feeble now. Despising his weakness, he forced himself up from the bed.

  Idly he wondered who had brought him back. Drumark hoped it was not Brokrin. He felt guilty enough about voting against the old captain without adding another debt of gratitude to the account. If only Brok­rin could have been more reasonable about things. Now, of course, it was too late. Mutiny was not a thing to be taken lightly. If Gotramm failed to bring back a profit, and failed to prove to their backers’ satis­faction that Brokrin would not have been able to do t
he same, the penalties would be considerable.

  There was little chance of that now, Drumark reflected. With ­Skaggi’s glib tongue to turn the trick there was no likelihood of the backers not supporting the mutiny. Good news for the crew, but a calamity for Brokrin. Oh, he would get his share, but it would be small compensation for what he would lose. He would never get a command again. Nobody would invest in a captain whose crew had mutinied against him to bring back a profit. Certainly not a profit as immense as what Grokmund’s strike promised to bring.

  Such was the way of commerce. There were always winners and ­losers. Drumark only wished Brokrin would not lose so much.

  The sergeant swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He reached for the pot of grog resting next to Lodri’s chair. He was certain the powder monkey would not begrudge an injured duardin a spot of liquor to fortify himself. As he reached down for it, however, pain flared in his shoulder. Drumark collapsed back into the bed. His hand grabbed at the injury, fingers clawing at the thick bandage wound about his body. Rapidly he worked his fingers through the windings, ripping them away with an almost animalistic ferocity. He had to get at the wound, had to stop the pulse of agony rushing through him.

  Drumark soon denuded his shoulder. He tried to twist his head around to look at his injury, but it was too close to the neck for him to see. His fingers probed at it, feeling its horrible edges. The gash was wide and deep. He could feel the wet dampness under his touch. He clamped his jaw tight when something firm and solid met his probing finger. He shuddered at the image of raw bone that screamed across his mind.

  Then the ‘bone’ shifted, sliding aside from under his touch. He felt something damp slither across his finger, causing him to jerk it away in disgust. His horror mounted when he heard a soft, muttering sound close to his ear. Close… and slightly below.

  Drumark forgot all about pain as a mounting panic seized him. He sprang from the bed and hurried across the cabin. He fumbled about where his clothes had been piled, pawing through them as he groped for what he sought. Out from one of his pockets he pulled a little silver mirror that he used for inspecting the barrels of his decksweeper when cleaning the gun. He held the tiny mirror up, angling it so he could get a look at his shoulder.

  The muttering in his ear grew louder, almost mocking in the tone of its babble. Drumark got a good look at what was on his shoulder. The thing his fingers had probed was a tiny mouth, the object that had felt like bone a little tooth. A little snub of a nose and two beady eyes completed the tiny face that smiled back at him from the mirror. It was the semblance of the verminous imps that had attacked them in the outpost.

  Drumark shoved his hand into his mouth, biting down lest he should scream. With one hand he scooped up the remainder of his belongings. Horror and shame roared inside his head. He was disgusted by what had happened to him but even more revolting to him was the fear that others would find out about it. To know he had been corrupted by the imp’s bite.

  Retreating into the hall, Drumark almost crashed into Mortrimm. The old navigator was taken aback, surprised by both the sergeant’s abrupt arrival and his state of undress. He gave Drumark a hard look. Drumark felt there was suspicion in that stare. The muttering in his ear agreed, its babble slipping into faint words that fed his worry. He knows, the voice told him. He’ll tell, the voice warned him. You can stop him. You can keep it from happening. While he is asleep, put your hands around his throat…

  Drumark clapped his free hand to the ear directly above the little face, not realising as he did so that he left his shoulder exposed to Mortrimm’s observation. Hurriedly he let the bundle of clothes fall to the floor and covered the face with his other hand.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Mortrimm asked. He glanced briefly at Drumark’s shoulder, then back at the sergeant’s eyes. ‘You had us worried when Brokrin brought you back.’

  Drumark blinked in disbelief. It was impossible that the navigator had failed to see that mutant face on his shoulder. Even if he could not see it, he had to hear it!

  He will expose you! The entire crew will be against you! Kill him! Kill him! Kill! Kill!

  Trying to block out the whispers with his hand had done nothing to block the goading voice. Surely Mortrimm must hear it too!

  ‘Lodri thought it would be a few days at least before you were on your feet again,’ Mortrimm continued. ‘It is good to see he was wrong. Next time maybe Captain Brokrin will engage a real healer before he sets out from port.’

  They cannot help you. They will kill you if you do not kill them first.

  Drumark tried to smother the mutant mouth with his hand, unable to understand why Mortrimm was so calm.

  It is a ruse to lull you into complacency. He is waiting for you to let your guard down.

  Drumark rejected the whispers. No duardin could hide his disgust at such a foul growth. Mortrimm would show some sign of revulsion.

  The only other possibility was that the navigator didn’t see it or hear it.

  ‘You do not feel well?’ Mortrimm asked.

  He knows! He knows! Kill him!

  Drumark shook his head slightly to one side. ‘I am not sure,’ he answered.

  A grim trial had occurred to him to test the theory that Mortrimm could not see the mutation. He hesitated to do it, horrified at the prospect of being wrong. Firming his resolve, Drumark drew his hand away from his shoulder. ‘How… how does… my wound look?’ he managed to ask.

  Mortrimm leaned close, stroking his white beard as he inspected Drumark’s shoulder. The scream of horror he expected did not come. Instead Mortrimm stepped back and nodded. ‘I owe Lodri an apology,’ he said. ‘Your wound is healing nicely. Barely a scratch there now.’

  His banality is but a pose. Do not be tricked! Kill him before it is too late. Your shame will be known to the entire crew. There will be no place for you then. Nowhere for you to go. Take the butt of your gun and bash his skull in! Then you will be safe!

  Drumark hastily backed away from Mortrimm, sickened and terrified by the thoughts the whispers tried to put inside his head. ‘Thank… thank you,’ he stammered. ‘I feel much better.’

  Again, there was a look of concern in Mortrimm’s expression. ‘Are you sure? You should take it easy for a while.’

  Kill him! Kill him! Kill!

  The whispers were growing more insistent, more persuasive. Drumark did not dare to linger. ‘No, I… I have to find the cap’n.’ He rushed for the steps leading up to the deck.

  ‘Which one?’ Mortrimm called after Drumark. ‘Neither of them is on board. They are helping Grokmund get the machinery going.’ The navigator threw one last remark up at the sergeant as he hurried across the deck. ‘I do not think they will appreciate seeing you without breeches on.’

  Drumark was already scrambling for the pier. He ignored the bemused looks the guards on duty gave him. After the murderous panic he had felt towards Mortrimm, he did not dare stop to speak to anyone. He had to get away, had to try to figure out what was happening to him. How to assert some sort of control over both himself and it.

  The dark. It is where you belong. Seek the dark. Let the shadows flow through you.

  The whispers continued to seep into Drumark’s ear, drawing amusement from his plight. They encouraged him to retreat into the darkness of the outpost. They exulted in the clammy shadows, the faint echoes of decay and despair that clung about the abandoned settlement.

  Look upon what was.

  As the whispers seeped into his ears, images flashed through Drumark’s brain. Memories that were not his own. He saw the heyday of Finnolf’s Fortress, the wealth of a prospering community.

  That was before. Before I came. Before their prosperity began to rot. Before everything was consumed by what they released from the root of the mountain. The images in Drumark’s mind shifted and changed, showing him the downfall of the settlement as the daemo
n described it to him. That daemon’s power struck at the duardin from within, nurturing itself inside each of them, passing from the unclean to the clean, polluting and tainting all in its course.

  I spread rapidly. Sickening and devouring. Fragmenting and dispersing. A thousand thousand infections, each with its own mind and its own identity. Yet all a part of me. All shards of a single unity. Just as you are now a part of my unity. Naught but a shard.

  Stranger than all the uncanny effects he’d been subjected to was the way the whispering voice faltered when it evoked the semblance of itself to shards. Before, Drumark had sensed a taunting joviality behind the voice, a debased sort of mockery in the way it sought to manipulate him. Now he knew that the daemon had simply been toying with him, amusing itself with his defiance. Now he knew how completely he was its slave.

  Had I desired it, you would have killed Mortrimm. You would have killed anyone I demanded you to kill.

  Drumark knew this because he now felt the irresistible force of the daemon’s power. A deadly seriousness had extinguished its ridicule. He dashed through the darkened halls, clothes and weapons tossed aside in his haste. The blackness was impenetrable, yet his pace didn’t slacken. He ran unerringly through the halls, navigating chambers and corridors he had never been in before with a familiarity that horrified him. Even as his volition was being smothered, he felt the daemon planting pieces of itself in his mind, replacing his memories with others, things that would aid it in its purpose.

  Purpose. That was what had caused the change in the force that possessed Drumark. Something it had sensed, a connection it had made had instilled in it an urgency that hadn’t been there before. The key was a single word, something it had whispered to him. Shard. Try as he might, Drumark could not understand why that was of such importance. What did it mean?