Overlords of the Iron Dragon

by C. L. Werner

  ‘There are tribes of daemons,’ Drumark repeated. ‘The ones that destroyed Finnolf’s Fortress have enemies, but that does not make them our friends. Those enemies have something to do with this voyage, otherwise they would not have sent that spy to watch us. When I found it, the thing was in one of the chimneys above the refinery Grokmund is using.’

  ‘Do you know what you are implying?’ Brokrin asked, startled by what he was hearing.

  ‘It is more than just refining aether-gold,’ Drumark said. ‘There is something going on. Whatever it is, it has to be stopped.’

  Drumark sagged back against the floor. His eyes moved away from Brokrin and focused on the symbols he’d clawed into his skin. ‘It has to be stopped before it is too late.’

  Brokrin stared down at Drumark, at the litter of coils strewn about on the floor. By his own admission Drumark had been infected by a daemon. That made anything he said suspect. At the same time, his last statement rang more true to Brokrin than anything he had heard before. He had to stop his former crew from refining Grokmund’s aether-gold.

  Before it was too late.

  Chapter XIII

  The skies above Finnolf’s Fortress filled with dark clouds. Great thunder­heads swiftly rolled across the jungle, swirling about the suspended peak of the mountain. Day was transformed into a murky twilight, throwing a sooty pall across the outpost.

  Khoram gave his tretchlet a reassuring pat. The daemonic parasite was uneasy, its senses keyed to the brooding atmosphere that clung to the levitating summit. An aura of expectancy, perhaps even anticipation.

  ‘Soon,’ the sorcerer promised the homunculus. ‘Destiny will be ours soon enough.’

  Hidden within the veil of black clouds, Tamuzz and his cult swept down upon the old duardin settlement. Ray-like daemons raced ahead of the dozens of mortal cultists, darting across the snow-capped summit. Their fluke-shaped bodies twitched across the wind, ducking only to rise again as they arched over a jagged boulder or climbed above the deserted battlements of a lonely tower. The keening wail that typically accompanied the sky-daemons was muted now, reduced to only a dull buzz. There would be time for uttering their deafening shrieks, a time to draw terror from the souls of their prey. For now, it was a different role they performed for Tamuzz the Fatemaster. The daemons ranged across the peak, seeking a way inside, a route that would bear the cult directly to the heart of the outpost without being observed by the duardin.

  From the back of his daemon steed Khoram watched Tamuzz giving orders to the cultists as they emerged from the black clouds. He knew the warlord’s mind. The Fatemaster was high in the favour of Tzeentch, and with that rise had come a deep fear of decline. The greater Tamuzz’s prestige, the more he saw the interference of rivals and enemies in the slightest impediment. The magisters of other cults, the soul-spawn of ambitious daemons, the witchcraft of sorcerous adversaries – he saw all of these threats ranging against him from among those who served the Changer of Ways. The rewards Tamuzz would gain from the Master were immense, too great to be ignored by those jealous of his favour.

  Khoram had seen the dangers of the path ahead. The Orb of Zobras had displayed many things in its manifold facets. His tretchlet had guided him to the most auspicious chain of events, but the sorcerer was still unsettled. His last consultation with the orb had been hurried, less diverse than other divinations. The unexpected destruction of his spy had brought with it something almost approaching panic. Every­thing else was proceeding in accordance with his carefully crafted intrigue so this discordant note had shaken his self-assurance. He had wondered if Tamuzz was not partly right. If perhaps there were others working against the Master in ways as subtle as those Khoram himself had set into motion.

  The chill of the high altitude set the tretchlet shivering as Khoram commanded his disc to follow Tamuzz. The warlord was leading his entourage towards a great chimney set into the side of the peak. The scout daemons had settled against the tremendous steel bars that sealed the mouth of a colossal chimney that protruded from the snowy slope. A lattice-work of metal blocked a yawning maw that would have permitted two chariots to descend side by side. The gaps between them were so tight that the spacing was too small for even a grot to squeeze through. The daemons latched onto the bars with their flattened bodies, their fanged maws rapidly dissolving the steel.

  Khoram’s tentacle-fingered hand twisted in rhythm to the gnawing daemons, infusing them with arcane energy, speeding their destruction of the bars. The quicker the way was opened, the less likely it was that Tamuzz would start to challenge his strategy.

  As the bars crumbled away and the daemons flitted into the darkened chimney, Khoram urged his flying disc to join Tamuzz. The warlord raised one hand in greeting as he came near. It was not lost on the sorcerer that his other hand was closed about the heft of his glaive. The marks and blessings that exalted Tamuzz above others who devoted themselves to Tzeentch rendered him superhumanly resistant to magic. The greatest weapon at Khoram’s disposal would amount to nothing if it came to a contest between them. The curseling could not boast a similar resilience should he be pitted against the ensorcelled glaive.

  ‘My scouts have cut us a path inside, mighty Tamuzz,’ Khoram announced proudly.

  The eyes within Tamuzz’s helm glittered with scorn. ‘I need neither you nor your orb to tell me what I can see for myself,’ he snapped. ‘It is your task to advise me on those things I cannot see. The shadows of what will be and what must not be.’ He gestured with the blade of his glaive at the dark opening. ‘Your plan calls for us to descend into the mountain. To force the duardin to obey. As you have seen fit to obstruct my own strategy, this plan had better prove auspicious. Otherwise you will learn what it means to cross me, conjurer.’ The scorn in his eyes became fierce and suspicious. ‘Why is it now that you forsake subtlety and say a firmer hand is needed? Has your cunning reached its limit? Or is it only now bearing its most bitter fruit?’

  Khoram glanced around him. The tzaangors glowered at him, clacking their tongues against the sides of their beaks, a vulturine hunger in their eyes. The human cultists were masked, their visages hidden, but they too had an air of expectancy about them. Were they anticipating the triumph ahead of them or was it something more immediate that fed their excitement?

  ‘I have read no omens, found no portents that would cause me to conspire against you,’ Khoram told Tamuzz. ‘Especially now, when all our plans are so close to fulfilment.’

  The warlord brought a hand up to the side of his neck, plucking his fingers against the gorget. ‘I have no parasite to warn me when lies are told to me,’ he said. ‘I must rely upon my own judgement.’

  ‘Then rely on this,’ Khoram returned. ‘The reward for serving the Master will magnify your might a hundredfold. The punishment if we fail will diminish you a thousandfold.’ He brought his good hand up to his tretchlet, patting its feathered head. ‘You may end up as naught more than this, a homunculus enslaved to those still in Tzeentch’s favour.’ He let his gaze shift across the rest of the cult, ensuring they knew the same warning applied to them. ‘We are bound together in this great work, Tamuzz. There exists no principality or power that could entice me from aiding the Master. You seek glory for your service to him, but for me there will be no greater glory than to serve the Master.’

  Tamuzz urged his steed nearer to Khoram, reminding the sorcerer of the wards cut into its hide, the charms that indicated it was a boon granted to him by their god. It would not heed the curseling’s spells or vanish back into the Realm of Chaos should Khoram demand it. ‘What if I tell my followers not to descend into the mountain? What if I tell them that we will strike the sky-ship instead? I could still seize the ship and then force the duardin inside the mountain to do my bidding.’

  Khoram nodded. ‘I have seen that possibility in the orb,’ he admitted, pointing at the circling sphere. ‘I have also seen the threat that could arise from s
uch a tactic. It will be safer to strike at the duardin inside.’ Raising his head, he looked up at the blackened sky. ‘Should it be needed, I have taken steps to prevent the ship from escaping. There is no need for concern.’ Just the slightest trace of menace entered his voice as he added, ‘The rite to bring destruction on the ship is a quick one.’

  The threat wasn’t intended for Tamuzz but for the warlord’s followers. They too looked up into the clouds. Beast or man, they knew what waited there, invisible and unseen. They also knew Khoram could set it upon them as quickly as he could upon the duardin.

  ‘I wished to hear the conviction of your voice,’ Tamuzz told the sorcerer. The tretchlet started jabbering into Khoram’s ear, advising him of the warlord’s lie. Taking advantage of his distraction, Tamuzz brought his steed spinning straight at the sorcerer, reaching out his hand through the arcane wards and protective spells that guarded Khoram.

  He closed his steely fingers about the sorcerer’s neck and pulled the spell-maker towards him, letting his eyes peer into Khoram’s. ‘You are afraid,’ he said. ‘It is well that you are, for if you fear me then you are still useful. Remember this moment, Khoram. Remember that if you defy me, your spells won’t stop me. Your magic comes from the same source as my protection.’

  The warlord released Khoram, shoving him back. If not for the gripping hairs of his flying disc, the sorcerer would have been sent crashing down the slope and hurtling into the jungle far below. He brought his hands to his bruised throat, rubbing at his pained flesh. Outrage flared up within him, but he quickly suppressed it. Tamuzz was trying to goad him into something injudicious, something that would make the ­sorcerer’s removal justified. Khoram refused to make things so easy for him.

  ‘I live only to serve, great Tamuzz,’ Khoram declared, genuflecting towards the warlord.

  ‘Remember that too,’ Tamuzz told him. He lifted his glaive, brandishing it so that his followers would be roused to action. ‘The last obstacle to our grand work is within the mountain. We will remove it now.’ He glanced at Khoram. ‘Take some of them alive,’ he instructed before jabbing his glaive at the chimney.

  The warband acted swiftly, urging their daemonic steeds into the darkness. Horned beastmen and masked cultists sped away into the murk, the glow cast by their enchantments quickly vanishing as the shadows tightened around them. Tamuzz lingered behind, waiting until Khoram entered the shaft before him.

  Khoram did not blame the warlord. At this juncture, the last place he should want the sorcerer was at his back. He only wished there was some way he could have avoided having the Fatemaster at his own back.

  As the duardin started the furnace, a thunderous roar rushed through the refinery. Gotramm could feel the vibration pulsing through the walls. It was as though they had poured life back into Finnolf’s Fortress and what he felt were the palpitations of its awakened heart.

  Gotramm frowned at the odd impression. He drew his hand away from the warm stone wall and reminded himself of the reality around him. Except for the machinery Horgarr and Grokmund had cajoled into usefulness, the outpost was still an abandoned ruin. Dust coated every­thing, the stamp of time and decay was everywhere. It would need more than imagination to pour life back into the settlement. It would need the duardin who’d vanished so long ago.

  Morbid thoughts for a time when he should be jubilant. It was the burden of command, Gotramm decided, turning his mind towards the grimmest prospects. That or by becoming captain of the Iron Dragon he had also assumed Ghazul’s curse, filling him with a pessimistic gloom.

  His judgement was still sound, however. Unlike Brokrin, Gotramm had no intention of trying to buck the tide of events. What good would come of it if he were to contest the transmutation of the aether-gold? The crew had a fortune right in their hands. All he would do would be to relinquish his authority. Tempting as that was, Gotramm would not do it. Stubbornness or pride, he was not sure which.

  Or maybe it was something else? Gotramm had expressed no great desire for the wealth the aether-gold would bring, but that might be a half-truth. Wealth was one thing, but the longer-term benefit would be the acclaim he would receive. He would be fêted by the backers, celebrated by the guilds as the officer who brought this boon back to Barak-Zilfin. A commission would be agreed, a ship of his own more than likely. The moment he walked down the gangplank, his future would be assured. Not just a captain of an arkanaut company, but a hero to his kin. More importantly, a hero to Helga.

  There would be no more reason to delay. Gotramm could wed her, start the family that would continue his legacy. No more doubt, no more uncertainty. His worries and his fears would be gone. All he had to do…

  Gotramm drew his hand back from the wall as though the stone were not merely warm but scalding hot. He could have sworn he was not touching it a moment before. As his thoughts strayed so too must his hand. Or had it been the other way around? Cause and effect?

  A shiver passed through Gotramm as he contemplated that grisly vibration so much like a heartbeat. He thought about Drumark and his concerns about the sergeant’s condition. He thought too about Brokrin and his anxiety over the aether-gold. All those coincidences that had conspired to lead them here, converting Grokmund’s strike into…

  Wealth. They were turning the aether-gold into wealth. Gotramm had only to look at his comrades to recognise the truth of that statement. Why should he question it? Of what good were such foolish fears? The next thing he knew he would be jumping at shadows.

  There were ten duardin in the refinery – Thurik and a mix of Drumark’s thunderers and Gotramm’s other arkanauts; many of the same ones who had initially explored the ruins. Horgarr and Grokmund, of course, tended the transmutation process like worried mothers, carefully monitoring every step. Now at the final phase the two duardin had donned special glasses with darkened lenses. Armed with these, they stared straight into the fiery maw of the furnace, watching as the gas condensed into a molten liquid.

  Skaggi stood close to Grokmund, pacing back and forth, muttering under his breath. The logisticator was out of sorts because he had been unable to secure a set of forge-goggles for himself so he might watch his avaricious dreams become something tangible.

  The first sign of disturbance came from Grokmund. He had been staring intently into the furnace when suddenly he turned away. He removed the goggles from his eyes, rubbing at them for a moment. Skaggi, a broad smile on his face, reached out to relieve Grokmund of the glasses. He was ignored, the aether-khemist not even looking in his direction. Satisfied that the goggles were clear of any debris, Grokmund replaced them and stared once more into the blinding flames.

  Only a moment later he was turning away again. Grokmund reached for Horgarr, gaining the endrinmaster’s attention. Sensing something amiss, Gotramm hurried over to join them.

  ‘Did you see anything unusual in the cauldron?’ Grokmund asked Horgarr.

  Horgarr slid the goggles up onto his forehead and gave Grokmund a puzzled look. ‘I can’t say that I did,’ he said. ‘I am not as experienced as you when it comes to melting down aether-gold. Did I miss something?’

  ‘You did not see a kind of discolouration?’ Grokmund elaborated. ‘A darker patch swirling about the cauldron?’

  Gotramm felt his nerves tighten. The warnings Brokrin had given him sprang to mind. ‘What did you see?’ he asked Grokmund. When he hesitated, Gotramm rephrased the question. ‘What do you think you saw?’

  Grokmund glanced back at the furnace. ‘It seemed…’ He shrugged. ‘Had to be my imagination. Nothing could be moving around in there. Much less swimming in molten aether-gold.’

  ‘Sounds like the kind of thing Drumark would see after he starts the fifth keg,’ Skaggi laughed. He wagged his finger at Grokmund. ‘This is what happens when you don’t share.’

  ‘Maybe not swimming,’ Grokmund considered. ‘It was all ripply, like a reflection in a disturbed pond.’
>
  Skaggi laughed again, but Gotramm was more serious in his display of interest. ‘A reflection of what?’

  Again, Grokmund could only shrug. ‘I am not sure. It looked a little like some kind of bird.’

  Brokrin’s nebulous warnings rang in Gotramm’s ears. Something deep inside him, deeper than reason, was trying to warn him. Gotramm looked from the aether-khemist to the endrinmaster. ‘Get the cauldron out of there,’ he told them.

  ‘You can’t do that!’ Skaggi protested. ‘Any of the gas that hasn’t finished liquefying will dissipate! Who knows how much will be lost!’

  Gotramm brushed away Skaggi’s clawing hands. He saw the other duardin drawing close. He was not sure how many of them had caught Skaggi’s entreaty, but he decided to knock the feet out from under him before he could make a direct appeal. ‘Lads, there might be something wrong with the furnace,’ he said. ‘If there is, we need to know right away. We will lose a little of the gaseous aether-gold, but acting now might let us save the rest of it.’ He pointed at Skaggi. ‘Or we can wait and maybe lose the lot. We still have some raw aether-gold on the ship to distil, so we have got to be certain everything is all right.’

  Put in such terms, there was no protest to Gotramm’s order that the cauldron be brought out. The crew had enough faith in his capabilities to elect him captain; they were willing to trust his judgement now. Skaggi muttered a few curses into his beard and walked away, unable to watch even a tiny amount of the aether-gold go up in smoke.

  The cauldron came rumbling out from the mouth of the furnace, its surface glowing from the heat of the flames that had engulfed it. The heavy chains that moved the huge cauldron groaned and creaked under its weight. Grokmund and Horgarr used a pair of long bronze poles to arrest the swaying motion and help guide the immense vessel to a big granite slab. There was a dolorous boom as the cauldron came to rest, dropping into the depression designed to receive it.