The Dragon Engine

by Andy Remic

  Yoon's left cheek twitched. He gave a little, polite cough. “This is a serious matter, Chanduquar. I would like to respectfully remind you how much gold coin I deposit at regular intervals at your temple. And I would also like to remind you that my family honour, my bloodline, my family mean more to me than all the good citizens of Vagandrak put together. So. This is going to happen. So make it happen, or I will find myself another… serving shamathe.”

  Chanduquar scowled, but gave a single nod. “So be it. Who is this hooded man?”

  Zandbar tugged the hood free, and a late middle-aged man, with grey at his temples, squinted in the weak light of the burning brands. He looked around, quick and nervous, at the group before his eyes finally settled on King Yoon. He had been beaten, both eyes blackened, his lip split in three places. He was shaking. He seemed to realise he was in deep over his head.

  “This is Kendalol, lately barman at The Fighting Cocks tavern where our little sordid problem began.”

  “I… I… I would like to beg forgiveness, from His Highness… Truly, I did not see anything of this so-called fight, I…”

  “Quiet, simpleton,” snapped Yoon. He clicked his fingers, and one of Zandbar's soldiers upended a bag onto the tiled ground. The stained sheets stank, and King Yoon prodded the offending items idly with the toe of his velvet slipper.

  “Tell me…”

  “Kendalol.”

  “Yes, whatever. Tell me, peasant, my men say these are the bed sheets from the room where Beetrax the Axeman slept for more than a week. Can you confirm this?”

  “Yes, yes, Your Highness, I took them there, when they came to the tavern asking questions. I remembered. Because Beetrax had been there for a while, and he drank ale and slept up in that cheap room, the cheapest we have because it's next to the brothel and you can hear humping through the wall all through the night…”

  “Hmm. Quite. Maybe that's why he hired the room? Anyway. I fear I must warn you, peasant bar man, that if these sheets turn out not to be what you claim, then Zandbar here, my wonderful Captain of the King's Guard, will chop off your head and place it on a spike. Do you understand?”

  “Oh yes, yes, Your Highness. Totally. I swear by the shade of my late mother that this is the case! Oh I swear–”

  “Yes yes. Shut up now. Chanduquar?”

  The small black shamathe gave a grunt.

  “Over to you.”

  Chanduquar nodded, and instead of turning to Kendalol, he moved across the large chamber floor until he reached the end of the room. Here, practically the whole wall, thus far concealed in shadow, was revealed to be a huge, iron-slatted door. As Zandbar's men came forward with their flickering torches, so the intricacies of the door were revealed. It was ancient, and carved with lines and angles, with swirls and triangles. Huge roller-hinges stood to the left, and to the right there was a huge bar attached to a pronged wheel. The bar was made up of three forked segments, each interlocking through massive iron loops. It would take a hundred men to force the door from the other side. Maybe a thousand.

  Three of Zandbar's men moved to the wheel and took their positions, bracing themselves. King Yoon gave three little claps of his hands, like an excited child about to open a birthday present.

  “Oooh, I do like this bit,” he said, face genuinely alight with pleasure, and the men, muscles bulging, started to heave on the large, iron wheel. It moved, slowly, grinding heavier than any mill grindstone; the men strained, faces turning purple, and slowly, slowly, the huge intricate iron door started to shift to the left, inch by inch, huge panels stepping forward and sliding past one another, halving itself, then quartering itself, to reveal… a pitch black chamber within.

  Eventually, the grinding stopped, and the three men stepped back, bathed in sweat.

  Yoon took a small series of steps forward, hands clasped before him, face framed in fascination.

  Chanduquar stood perfectly still. Then his hands came up, forming a complicated pattern with fingers and palms turned out.

  Lord Daron gave a small whimper, and clutching his damaged ribs, took a step back.

  “Nobody moves!” hissed Chanduquar, suddenly.

  From the inky pool of darkness beyond the iron gate, something rumbled. It was a deep, bass noise. Nothing human could make a sound like that.

  Chanduquar began to chant, and dropped to his knees, eyes closing. His lips writhed and words in a different, ancient tongue poured from his mouth. No longer was he a slightly comical bone-pierced black man from the far south jungles; now, he commanded a sudden, awesome presence. Now, they felt the power nestling within him, like a mollusc in its shell, just waiting to be coaxed out with the right provocation… and this was the right provocation, because the rumbling sound grew louder, and there came a noise, a twisted mewling that set every man present on edge, made hairs stand up on necks and arms, made throats tighten, mouths go dry, hands go to weapons–

  “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 taught, 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.”

  Civil Unrest

  SKALG 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:

  We 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.

  It 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.