The Dragons of Dunkirk (Worlds at War Book 1)

by Damon Alan

  “That’s the spirit, you sarcastic twit.”

  “Me? Sarcastic?” Tim asked, mocking indignity. “It’s not like we just about died or anything like that.”

  “Get on with it,” Harry laughed, gesturing out the window. “I have a steak to eat with the missus if you’ll just drive.”

  “Are you two married?” Miller asked.

  “Do you mean are we married to wives? Or am I married to Tim?” Harry asked.

  He and Tim laughed.

  Miller’s face flushed red. “No, I mean to wives.”

  “I am,” Harry said. “Nobody’ll have that one.”

  “The dead are forming a wall behind us,” Hans yelled forward, interrupting their conversation. “Closing it up quick.”

  Harry looked at Tim, hoping his face didn’t look as worried as his friend.

  “Stop?” Tim asked.

  “For a second.” Harry jumped back up on the roof once more. Sure enough, walls were being formed around them, but not to the northeast, at least not like the other three directions. Stragglers marched across the way north, but very few and the large vehicle could easily drive over that many.

  Harry jumped back into position. “Go. Straight ahead. No delay.” He leaned out the window. “Hang on in back. We’re not going to spare the suspension for a mile or two.”

  The cross country trek was rough. The lorry was built to take much more than the men were. He heard more than one expletive from the back end.

  Tim wasted no time. Two of the dead met their end under the lorry’s tires, making a splattering noise as their bones crunched into paste.

  “We’re through that line,” Harry said, pleased. “I think we’ll see another.”

  “You a clairvoyant?” Tim asked.

  “They’re laying traps, can’t you see?” Harry explained. “They might even be herding us. Giving us a direction to escape, a single choice that pushes us further—”

  “North.” Miller said, completing the sentence. “They want us to go to the gate. Just as the red soldiers we met did.”

  “What do you think will happen if we defy that? Go south instead?”

  “We’re food for our ancestors,” Harry answered. “There might be an overall intelligence herding us north, but in close the dead are nothing but murderous. We can’t risk that.”

  “North it is then,” Tim said. “It’d go quicker if they’d get off the road.”

  “Aye, mate. It would,” Harry agreed. “But I doubt anyone’s thinking of our comfort but us.”

  Ahead of them the gate loomed over their spirits, although it didn’t look that large from this distance. The skies were clear over France, but in the other world, through the dome over Rotterdam, the skies were dark with storms. Probably rare there from the terrain Harry’d seen when they first discovered the gate over a week ago.

  “Scoops,” Miller said.

  “What?”

  “Scoops. The dead are forming scoops across the land, circling the living, then closing their lines to force them toward the gate.”

  “Seems to be,” Harry agreed.

  “They’re clearing the land,” Miller continued. “They want humans to go to their world, they want this one from us.”

  “Sure,” Harry agreed again. “Stating the obvious, preaching to the choir.”

  Miller was silent for a while. “What’s the motive?”

  “How would we bloody know that?” Tim asked.

  “We saw through the gate when we first looked at it. The other side didn’t seem so horrible. And there’s magic there, which obviously humans can tap into. So theoretically pushing us through the gate would make us stronger, not more vulnerable.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense now,” Harry agreed. “Maybe we’re food on the other side, we don’t get time to figure things out.”

  “That’s right cheery,” Tim said, angry. “What’s the point in that?”

  “Speculation.”

  “With all due respect, keep that shite in your own head, not mine.”

  Harry grinned. “Fine, Tim. I didn’t realize you were a lily with a fragile stem.”

  No answer.

  They’d know soon enough what the purpose was, Harry assumed. They were being guided that way. But what the other side didn’t know was this time a fully armed British infantry squad was coming through. With no reservations about putting a bullet in anything they didn’t like. Add Miller to the equation and they weren’t to be trifled with.

  “I’m sorry, Tim.” Harry reached across Miller and patted his friend’s arm. “I’m stressed too. We’ll get through. We’re the lucky ones, right?”

  Tim grinned, clearly in a forgiving mood. “Right.”

  Chapter 31 - The Great Hall

  The procession down the hallway was slow. The records for the way to get into the Lost Hold, other than how to open the door, were destroyed or simply misplaced ages before now. Irsu proceeded with caution, and Numo, being the scout, took the lead.

  “I haven’t seen a single trap,” Numo whispered back to Irsu. “That worries me in itself. It’s possible the hold was sacked long ago if the humans found it.”

  “They didn’t find it,” Irsu replied, confident. “If they had, there would be trash up and down this corridor. It’s how they are.”

  Numo shrugged and kept pushing forward, slow and steady.

  The path wasn’t short. The corridor wound down through the mountain in a sequence of precise turns equal to one sixth of a circle. Always with a consistent downward slope.

  “You think we’re under the mean ground level for this area?” Coragg asked.

  Irsu shrugged. “I don’t know. I hope there are plenty of charts and plans locked away here to explain the layout to us. If not we’ll spend two years looking for booby traps and mapping the place.”

  As Irsu stepped forward something clicked under his feet. He closed his eyes and said a prayer to Mordain. “Numo. I think I’m on a trap.”

  Numo stopped and returned to the spot. “Give me the lantern,” he said to Coragg.

  The scout swept the lantern in a circle around Irsu, carefully studying the floor. “Plate trap. One subsurface conduit out from the plate, you probably activated a trigger stepping on the thing. Once you step off, the trap will rebound, pulling the trigger and releasing whatever effect it’s designed to kill with.”

  “Can you fix it, or do I have to grow old in this spot?” Irsu growled, irritated he was the one who found the trap.

  “I can fix it. See the slight difference in the stone color along this line? That’s where the conduit runs. The grout has changed colors over the many years, just enough for me to see it.”

  “Why didn’t you see it when you passed over it?” Coragg demanded.

  “I didn’t have this fancy lantern of yours,” Numo replied. “When I asked for it back up top, you said no, said I’d need my hands free.”

  Irsu chuckled. “You did say that, Coragg.”

  “I thought he would,” the warrior complained. “We all thought there’d be traps every twenty steps.”

  “More like every two thousand steps,” Numo said, “but since you’re an expert in my job I’m sure you’ll know I’m about to ask you for your dagger.”

  Coragg sighed as he handed it over. “What for?”

  Numo stabbed the tip into the grout, flaking a piece off. “Good, they used the cheap stuff. I can scrape it out and get to the line.”

  Irsu looked at Coragg as Numo dragged the blade through the abrasive seal over the conduit. “You’re going to need a new dagger.”

  “Aye, what’s new.”

  It took Numo half an hour, but he finally reached the passage under the rock surface that contained the wire for the trap. He drove a stone biting nail into the floor and carefully, without pulling the wire back toward Irsu, tied it off to the nail.

  “It’ll have to be disarmed later. It’s a hazard, but it’s inert for the moment,” Numo reported.

  “I’ll stay
here until the last of us are past,” Coragg said. “To make sure none of these oafs kick the trap loose and set it off. Then I’ll make my way back forward.” He handed Numo the lamp. “You take this.”

  “Aye,” Numo said, not making much of Coragg’s change of heart.

  Irsu lifted his foot from the plate, which snapped back upward level with the stone floor. Nothing happened, it was successfully deactivated for the moment. “Onward.”

  It took the procession a day, and over two dozen more traps, to reach the archway into the great hall of the Lost Hold.

  Irsu was first to step into the wide expanse of floor. The ceiling disappeared into the darkness above. The columns that marked the main procession disappeared into the distance ahead of him.

  This place was big. Bigger than Iron Mountain Hold. By far.

  Irsu didn’t really know which way to go, but the results would probably be the same whichever way he picked. He gestured to the right, feeling in his gut that they’d come to the main gateway of the hold on that path. Did he know? No. But it felt correct somehow. “Alright, we’re going to try and not get ourselves killed. So we’ll walk to the front gate alone the wall, then down the procession toward the public throne. There we might find some answers about our next steps.”

  The remnants of Iron Company followed Irsu around the room, into the darkness. Their torches fluttered as each burned out in turn. After what seemed like an eternity of mystery and fear, the front gate loomed before them. To the left the procession led toward what he hoped was the public throne.

  In the distance clanking echoed through the halls. A strange whirring sound as well.

  Whirrr. Clank. Whirrr. Clank.

  “What’s that,” Coragg whispered.

  Irsu shrugged. He had an idea, but he didn’t know for sure. Whatever it was, machinery of some kind operated after thousands of years under Nollen. The sounds were a testament to the durability of Dwarven engineering, although also another source of fear. The only reason to have a machine working at this point, and over all those years between, would be if it was needed to protect or maintain something. “My guess is a Guardian.”

  “We can’t fight a Guardian,” Coragg hissed. “We’re dead if that’s the case.”

  “Maybe it isn’t here to fight dwarves,” he replied. “We won’t know until we get to the public throne. It’s also possible the controls for it are located there.”

  “Then we should run,” Numo urged him. “If it’s a Guardian, it knows we’re here.”

  Irsu grunted his agreement, then sighed deeply. He was tired, worn down, and sick of being tested. “To the throne,” he yelled. The sound echoed back to him from a dozen angles.

  His remaining warriors raced down the length of the Great Hall. The slap of their boots reverberated into the darkness. Their breathing became labored, and heavy weapons became as lead in their hands.

  An indeterminate time later they reached the throne. A series of circular platforms, growing ever smaller, rose from the floor. At the top a throne, tarnished with the ages, stood over them. Dwarves fell about the steps, trying to regain their composure.

  Whirrr. Clank. Whirrr. Clank.

  The sound was still growing louder.

  “The throne,” Coragg said, winded.

  Irsu climbed. The front of the platform had steps rising through the circular disks toward the top. Probably fifty or more. Irsu placed one foot forward and above the other, over and over again. He was unnaturally tired. Each step became harder than the one before it.

  “A trap,” Numo huffed from below. “It’s draining us.”

  Irsu saw it now. Green sigils alongside the steps flared for a moment, just barely bright enough to see, then dropped back into invisibility. Each time they flared, Irsu was a little more tired. They’d drain him of his ability to move, then when he lay on the steps exhausted, they’d drain him of his life.

  He’d heard of such things. Dwarven priest magic.

  “I am a dwarf,” he bellowed, finding energy he didn’t know he had. “I will not be denied now.”

  He stepped again and again, higher up the dais. By the top he was reduced to crawling, but the last step finally appeared before him.

  Ahead of him the throne, embedded with jewels and cast of silver, waited.

  He dragged himself the distance to the chair, then heaved himself off the ground. It felt like his joints were tearing apart. His breathing took more effort than cutting his hearth back home ever had.

  He raised himself to stand, both of his hands grasping the arms of the throne. One of his elbows failed, spinning him around. His butt plopped into the seat of the throne purely by happenstance. Bone crushingly tired from his efforts, he closed his eyes, ready to die.

  “Centuries, then millennia have passed. I have waited,” a deep voice boomed from the darkness.

  The Guardian.

  Irsu tried to find the energy to search for a secret compartment, something that might contain a control gem for the golem he feared.

  A great monstrosity appeared out of the darkness. Its face was a circular cavern of grinding teeth, ready to shred the enemies of the dwarven race. Or a dwarf unlucky enough to find himself abandoned without a control gem.

  A voice boomed into the darkness. “Only a dwarf can make the ascent to the throne. Only my creators have that level of vitality. Only a great warrior among dwarves has the will to make the climb.”

  The Guardian back at Iron Mountain never spoke. This one didn’t shut up.

  “Kill us already, if that is your task,” Irsu said. “I have no will left, warrior or not.”

  “No, no need for that,” one of the men below said. “We’re fine.”

  Irsu tried not to laugh, but a chuckle rose in his gut. Finally, a laugh erupted and filled the hall. He wondered where he’d found the energy.

  “Only soldiers of Iron laugh at death,” the Guardian said. “I do not kill my creators. I serve them.”

  Irsu felt his life returning, a tiny sip at a time. Several minutes passed as he recovered. When he felt well enough, he grabbed his axe and stood at the edge of the platform’s top circle. That put him level with the face of the Guardian, who stood on the floor half a kadros distant.

  “I yield this hold to you, Warrior,” the golem said in its booming voice. “I now protect this hold for you.”

  Sporadic laughter started among the men. They rose up in a great cheer, their lethargy also abated.

  “Amblu-gane!”

  “Hush,” Irsu told them.

  “Even the Guardian sees it,” another dwarf said.

  “HUSH!” Irsu bellowed. His voice echoed back and forth among the pillars, seeming to come from a thousand directions. He sort of liked the effect. It gave his tone more authority.

  The men slowly grew quiet.

  “Silence,” he urged. “We are not done. We must find and open the way home.”

  Cheers erupted again. The warriors knew they were almost finished. Just one final step remained, and glory would find them. Beer. And rest. And maybe a lass or two.

  “We have secured the hold, and the Guardian has recognized us,” Irsu ordered after waiting for them to settle down one more time.

  “Now we find the temple of Mordain. I believe it is there we will find what we need.”

  The Guardian turned away and marched toward the front gate. It finally had something to protect, warriors to watch over. It would assume the post Guardians historically held, instead of wandering an empty hold.

  Irsu grinned. He started to tell himself that he was glad the Guardian was an easy conquest. But it wasn’t. He thought of the last few steps to the public throne, and the agony of lifting himself to sit.

  No. Like every other step he’d taken toward Nollen and the Lost Hold, that one had been insanely difficult. Just a different type of struggle.

  He started down the steps. There couldn’t be more than just a few struggles left.

  Chapter 32 - Crossed

  June 3,
1940

  There was no mistaking the intent of the dead now. Driven by unknown forces, they were formed into fenced boxes across much of northern France, from what Harry could tell. At their lunch break, when they stopped to get some fuel from an abandoned French tank, Miller was on the wireless. When he’d raised the German garrison at Valenciennes, the garrison explained their situation.

  Walled in by the dead on all sides.

  “Is the barrier toward Rotterdam less robust?” Harry’d asked a German who spoke English.

  “Yah, if we wanted to break out, that’d be the way,” was the answer.

  He left Miller to get news from the Germans, so he could confirm his suspicions to Timothy. “It’s not just us they’re herding through the gate. It’s everyone.”

  “Why in blazes would they?” Tim pondered.

  “We’ll find out soon enough. If we resist at this point, we’re food for dead men. If we cooperate, we’re going through.”

  “It’ll be dark soon.” We’ve got enough diesel to get to the gate, but probably not much beyond that,” Wilkes said.

  “We should get some distance from those blokes,” Tim waved toward the wall of dead to the east, “and stop to fuel up. We need at least ten minutes to discuss what’s happening with the men. They deserve to know.”

  “They know,” Wilkes said, shrugging. “What they deserve to know is a plan for when we go through. Although we get it that we don’t know what the other side holds. But ready guns, or something like that would be nice to hear. Leadership is important.”

  “We’ll try to have a talk before we cross over, Wilkes,” Harry offered. “For now, we look for a fuel stop on our way. More food would be good. This wheat won’t last forever.”

  Back on the road they continued north.

  A farm that was their salvation. A pair of fuel tanks raised above the ground had plenty of fuel in them. Diesel and petrol. High on a platform, the tanks were set up to gravity feed fuel into tractors.

  “Not a tractor in sight,” Miller said. “You think they fled on those?”

  “Beats walking,” Jones answered.