The Dragon Engine

by Andy Remic

  Whilst she refused to hide her shame.

  You want to know the truth?

  There is no truth.

  What is there, then?

  Only the Moment.

  How do people work?

  They are chaos.

  And life?

  Chaos.

  And love?

  Chaos. Madness.

  An indecipherable poetry of a beautiful insanity.

  I am the Ocean.

  You wish I should give you an answer to your woes?

  I am eternal. Omnipotent. I will die

  when the stars die.

  And yet I will answer you; if you require my counsel?

  I do.

  She sat in the sand. It was warm.

  Her toes curled. Her fingers played with

  Streams of consciousness.

  There are no woes, quoth She.

  There is no pain.

  There is no struggle.

  There is no right, nor wrong.

  There is only a Perception.

  There is only the Moment.

  And the Moment, if you insist, will last for a Million Years.

  Beetrax stumbled to a halt, and refused to look at Lillith. “I, er, I had a bit of help with some of the harder words. Stroboscopic. The sergeant in the mess hall told me that. And omnipotent, that was Gakes from down in G barracks. But most of it is my own. Er.”

  Lillith reached out, and her finger curled under Beetrax’s chin, and she lifted his eyes until they met hers. “That is wonderful,” she said, and leant forward, and kissed him on the lips, where they stayed for a while, lingering.

  “Is that the moment you had in mind?”

  “Er. Yeah. Something like that.”

  “Well let me show you another moment,” she said, and reaching down, grabbed the hem of her dress, lifting it over her head to reveal her nakedness. “Come here,” she said, and Beetrax shuffled closer… and fell into her.

  There is only the moment.

  There is only the moment.

  There is only the moment, and he came awake into the moment and his eyes flared open, and he realised he’d been tied to a steel chair. He struggled, snarling, his mind a swirling chaos not understanding where he was or what was happening. He was a wild animal, snarling and spitting and struggling, but he was bound tight with wire and chains, his legs tied tight to the chair legs, his arms behind him, muscles bulging and straining at his bonds as his head thrashed from side to side and he screamed; until his energy and rage were spent.

  “Can we talk now?” said Krakka, stepping forward.

  Beetrax looked up, drooling saliva and blood to his naked chest. Naked? He glanced down, realising in shame that the bastards had stripped him of clothing. Even his fucking boots. What sort of man strips another man of his fucking boots? Eh?

  “What do you want?” Beetrax’s words were thick, his tongue swollen and not working properly. He spat out a sliver of tooth.

  “We want your obedience,” said Krakka. “And I think I know how to get it.” He stood, and stepped back, revealing another dwarf. This one Beetrax had never seen before. He was small and slender, almost effeminate, which was an amazing sight because the dwarves were so brutal in a natural, aggressive way.

  “Hello, Beetrax,” said the slender dwarf, and smiled, and took another step forward. There was something about that smile that sent shivers down Beetrax’s spine, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand out. He carried a small steel box with a hole in it, and various T-shaped handles emerging from the side. “My name is Tallazok Mentir. And this,” he proffered the steel box, as if it were a gift, “is the Ball Cracker.”

  Beetrax went cold inside. He said nothing.

  Tallazok, flanked by two stocky dwarves, approached and Beetrax started to thrash. Tallazok knelt at his feet, chuckling, as Beetrax struggled, trying to kick the slender bastard in the face but severely restricted by his bonds.

  “Don’t you touch me!” screamed Beetrax. “Don’t you fucking touch me!”

  “Oh but I have to,” chuckled Tallazok, opening the steel box to reveal a complex set of machinery inside. “Now, then,” he lifted Beetrax’s cock and balls, “we just slide this under here,” the steel was cold against the axeman’s flesh…

  “What are you doing to me? Get the fuck off me! I swear I’m going to rip off your head, I’m going to tear out your fucking spine with my fucking teeth…” He was trying to head-butt Tallazok, but the dwarf wasn’t in range. A dwarf slid past, behind Beetrax, and grabbed the axeman’s head between two powerful hands. The chair quivered with transferred rage, legs clattering and thumping on the ground, as if the chair had come alive.

  “And now, we just reposition you… like so, and that fits in there…”

  “Will you get off my cock!” screeched Beetrax.

  “… and then we attach this clip, like so,” Beetrax went suddenly very, very still, “and we close the lid, like this.” There was a neat little click.

  Tallazok looked up, directly into Beetrax’s face, and he could see the big man had gone pale; gone deathly cold. “You see, my brave and hardy hero from the southern lands of Vagandrak, we are very used to dealing with tough cases down here in the mines. Let me explain it a little, so your simple brain may truly understand. We are handed the hardiest criminals of the Harborym Dwarves – and are expected to turn them into willing, obedient slaves who do not inhibit our yield of precious metals and jewels. We are bound by politics, alas, for we are judged on ounces of gold produced, compared to numbers of slaves we are given. We have a little leeway with such as yourselves, found in the open, for they tend not to be strong miners, although we still have to declare them to the Church of Hate and they are still taken into consideration when working out our yield quota. What I suppose I am trying to say, Beetrax the Axeman, who may be a very tough nut out in the soft wilds of the south, is that I am given the difficult task of taming many of our most unruly slaves, who are usually here for murder and crimes against the king or church.” He smiled.

  “What have you done to me?” said Beetrax, his words very low.

  “I have attached what we call the Ball Cracker to your private gentlemanly parts, although I do confess, the device has three main functions, which I shall now explain.” He beamed, as if he were a helpful tutor passing on meaningful knowledge to a willing student. Beetrax stared at him with the eyes of a mass murderer. “The first function is that if I turn the right handle here,” he gave it an idle tweak, “plates inside begin to come together, and we have what I like to call a ‘crushing action’ which gradually increases until your testicles are as thin as a Vagandrak gold crown.”

  “I get the picture,” muttered Beetrax, sombrely.

  “The second function, here,” he twiddled another t-shaped handle, “drives a spike, or what I like to call a ‘serrated skewer’, through the centre of each carefully cupped testicle, and depending on the configuration of your gentlemanly private parts, also through the base edge of your penis, if that is the way you fall.” He beamed again, obviously proud of his device, his technique and his teaching delivery.

  “And the third function?” said Beetrax, weakly.

  “You will note,” Tallazok pointed, “the rocking lever on the summit of the Ball Cracker.” He stared at Beetrax.

  “Yeah? And?”

  “It is a castration mechanism. It completely removes both your balls.”

  “Ah.” Beetrax looked down again, then at Tallazok, then at the grinning figure of Krakka, and the other dwarves, who seemed gently amused, dark eyes glowing as if awaiting a perverse entertainment. “I can see, now, that you have me.” He watched Tallazok stand. “Got me by the balls, so to speak.”

  “Very good, very good, do continue,” said Tallazok, and removed his mail jerkin with a little jingle of tiny steel links.

  “Er. You have made good your demonstrations.” A frown crept over Beetrax’s face as Tallazok removed his heavy leather jerkin, a layer designed to
stop his chain mail chafing, and passed it to another dwarf. “I know now that I must be a good boy, and follow the rules, and not kick off again like that.” Beetrax swallowed.

  Tallazok turned towards Beetrax. He was unbuttoning his shirt, which he removed. His body was lean and powerfully muscled. Nearly every inch of skin, from his neck to his waistline, from shoulders to wrists, was covered in the most intricate and detailed tattoos, all black ink, all delicate thin lines, showing a hundred different images, a hundred scenes of people, of people…

  Beetrax squinted. Tallazok smiled. “Welcome to my artistry,” he said, as Beetrax recognised the images as those of dwarves, men, and children, all being tortured by some technique, device or instrument.

  Beetrax felt his soul turn cold, as Tallazok moved forward and knelt before Beetrax, one hand on each of the axeman’s knees.

  “I feel like you need a more practical demonstration,” he said, taking hold of one of the handles.

  “No!” said Beetrax, eyes suddenly wide.

  Knuckles clenched white on steel. The handle turned. And Beetrax began to scream a scream that was barely human.

  Lillith backed into the chamber, followed by Val, who closed the door behind himself. They stood there, staring at one another, and Val’s narrow, pointed face broke into a smile.

  “There’s no need to be nervous,” he said.

  “Not for me, no. But for you, maybe.”

  “You are Lillith. I have been watching you for a long time.”

  “I know. I have seen your eyes on me. But you have nothing to worry about, I am a gentle person; I abhor violence of all kind. I will be no threat to your little mining operation, or indeed, to obeying whatever instructions you give.”

  Val considered this. “I think you are a threat.” He moved a little closer, hand on a sheathed dagger at his waist.

  “Why?” She frowned, moving her arms. Charms jangled amidst the chains as she observed the dwarf before her. “You will not need that weapon, so do not even think of drawing it.”

  “Because of the big one. The Axeman. Beetrax, you call him.”

  “He may be a threat, but I am not.”

  “And yet I see in you a controlling mechanism. He listens to you, like he listens to no other.”

  Lillith considered this. “I will help you control him,” she said, at last, feeling a bite of shame for her words; as if she were betraying her lover.

  “I know you will. Come here. I have the key for those shackles.”

  “Why would I need to remove the shackles?”

  “Because I am going to fuck you.”

  Lillith stared at the dwarf in disbelief, and noted the sudden bulge in his trews.

  “Over my dead body.”

  “I can do it that way, if you like.” He drew his dagger. The blade gleamed. “I have before.”

  She stared at him then, aghast as to what to say. Suddenly, she felt like a child again, immobile, helpless, at the whim of some greater power, some god-like effigy which had total control over her naivety. She forced her mouth into a grim line and shook her head, in a shower of dark hair. You are not a child, she recited to herself. You are not helpless. You were put on this world to help people less fortunate than yourself, you were put here to study medicine, herbs, the curing of cancers. You are a good person, and because of this, the Seven Sisters and the Holy Mother will protect you.

  Suddenly, spells filtered through her mind. They were good spells, white spells, magick used for healing and cures. But there, lurking in the back, were the dark spells, the evil spells, the tangled tails of Equiem magick which she had sworn she would never use; could never use, because to use this dark magick would make her no longer human; it would be to give up to a lifelong battle for purity and self-worth. To use the dark magick would be to twist her into another person. Non-human. A demon…

  Val leapt forward, suddenly, striking her a blow to the nose. With a cry, Lillith stumbled back, stunned. He came after her, and through confusion she was unsure of what was happening; until the shackles were off, and he was there, his mouth on hers, his stink invading her nostrils, blotting out her own exotic aroma.

  “Get off me!” she cried, and slapped him across the face. And then she stopped, as the dagger point under her chin nicked up, drawing blood, like so. His hand slid up her leg, under her skirt, and stroked the velvet flesh of her thigh.

  “Don’t do this,” she said, tears flowing down her cheeks. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “But I want to do this. And I promise you, you will like it, medicine woman. I will give you a cure for your loneliness…”

  Lillith panted, like a cornered animal. Her lips were wet with fear. Her eyes looked hunted. Inside her, dark smoke swirled and she knew, if she could summon enough hate, she could unleash a spell that would rip this bastard apart…

  and be lost

  lost to the dark arts...

  equiem magick, the magick of the furnace, the magick of the chaos halls…

  Suddenly, a noise went up. It was a terrible high screaming, and Val lifted his pointed face, like a ferret sniffing the air. He grinned then, and when his head came down he stared hard at Lillith, eyes shining.

  “What is it?” she said, voice filled with horror. “What is that sound?”

  “That is Beetrax being tortured,” said Val, with obvious enjoyment.

  “No!”

  “Listen, and listen good. You know I do not lie.”

  “Please make them stop,” she wailed.

  “Well then, you know what you have to do.”

  And Beetrax’s song of agony hung in the air like the high, piercing note from a tortured animal.

  Dake Tillamandil Mandasar, former Sword Champion of King Yoon’s Royal Guard, hero of the Second Mud-Orc War, and heir to the Lordship of the House of Emeralds, Vagandrak’s largest ruling family, paced up and down in the dark room of the mine barracks, his shackles jingling, his face contorted with suppressed rage and a need to do something, anything, but without any capacity to help. They had tossed him in, like a useless sack of horse shit, and the iron-reinforced door had slammed shut. He heard thick bolts thrown, scraping, and shouted to be released. He stood, with his mouth to the edge of the crack, and screamed, “Do you know who I am? Do you fucking know who I am? I am Dake Tillamandil Mandasar, heir to the Lordship of the House of Emeralds, and when my father hears about this outrage he will send a thousand skilled warriors to murder you and all your families! He will grind your fucking bones into dust for all eternity!”

  He sank to the floor, panting, exhausted, filled with a quiet terror.

  Have you heard yourself? whispered a little demon in the back of his mind. Daddy’s fucking boy. Hasn’t got the bollocks to sort out his own problems, ooh no, he needs the Lord of the House of Emeralds to turn up rattling his sabre hilt on the door of the dwarf mines, threatening to burn down the cities of the Harborym Dwarves if they don’t let his little squeaky clean bastard free... because that’s what you are, Dake, you’re a bastard, and the day you inherit the title of the Lordship of the House of Emeralds will be the day The Furnace opens its gates and invites all the good people of Vagandrak in for a little tea party, including cakes, with the flaming demons...

  “Shut up, shut up,” he muttered, and climbed to his feet, banging on the solid portal once more. “Let me out, please, or at least, let me speak to my friends…”

  Everything during the entirety of your life has been handed to you on a silver fucking platter. Hero of the Second Mud-Orc War? Don’t make me puke down my scaled skin. Brought up on a distant estate with an army of nannies – each one being fucked by your father, I might add – looking out for your every pointless little whim, endless summer days playing in rich estates, climbing trees, entertaining your diseased little friends, eating with a silver fork and silver knife and silver spoon. In fact, there, I’ve done it, puked into my very fucking boots, you spoilt little fucking syphilis-riddled prick…

  “No, no, it
wasn’t like that…”

  Only the very best schools for daddy’s little bastard, with strict warnings to the teachers that if anybody so much as laid a finger on your pretty little head, daddy would withdraw the funding and Vagandrak’s second largest family would turn the school into a social wasteland, into an abandoned place. Ah, the privileges of power and wealth to fuck over those without any.

  Dake slid down the door, and exhaustion swept through him, and he put his head down between his knees, and grasped his hair with both hands; he could still smell remnants of the expensive oils he used to run through with his fingers.

  What the hell had they been thinking, cocksure and dumb as donkeys, heading out into the Karamakkos on some foolish pointless fucking treasure hunt?

  But… it had been more serious than that, hadn’t it? A cure, for Jonti. A miracle to help save her life!

  Or was it for your own benefit? sneered his private mocking demon. Of course it was! Because you knew, deep down in your soul, that the little rich bastard was about to be cut off from the family fortune, that’s what daddy said to you, for marrying a common solider like Jonti; he said she was common scum, and deserved her cancer, that it was the punishment of the Holy Mother for being a soldier and a whore... and you held that knife to his throat and it felt so sweet, didn’t it, little bastard? And that’s why you’re here, nothing about a noble fucking cure for your wife, oh no, but to secure your own personal wealth for after she’s dead and fucking buried with the fucking wriggling worms...

  “No!” screamed Dake, clawing his own face, and he suddenly stopped as a wail rent the air and tears coursed down his cheeks, for the sound was animal and yet human, and filled with a terrible pain. “That’s Beetrax,” he panted, climbing to his feet. “Must help him, must help my friends…”

  He crawled to the door, clawed his way up it, started to bellow through the crack – and was stunned into backward footsteps as the bolts were thrown wide, the door swung open, and a dwarf stood there, looking at him. He was neatly dressed, without armour of chainmail; just simple dark shirt, woollen trews and boots. Behind, were three wide shadows, but this dwarf was smiling and pleasant.