by Andy Remic
“Wait.” Beetrax’s voice was low, and deep, and unafraid. He looked up, and around. He stared at every man, and slave, and dwarf present. And he grinned, showing hate, showing his total defiance against the Harborym Dwarves. “You are a warrior race, right?” he bellowed, voice roaring out, words reverberating back from the jagged mine walls. “You are fighters, and you are killers! Well. So am I. And I challenge the dwarf cunt who has wronged me, I challenge Krakka, that cunt over there,” he pointed, “and I want to see if he needs to hide behind all these dwarf-scum soldiers, I need to see if he is a proud warrior, or just the type to hide behind women and children. Does Krakka hide behind his mother’s poxed cunt? Does he hide behind his father’s wart-riddled cock? Does he hide behind children, behind mewling babies, behind the living shit who inhabit this hole in the ground?” Beetrax turned, and spread his blood-speckled arms apart, axe in one great fist, broken chains dangling from his wrists, face uplifted in glory and joy and necessity and a need to do what he had to fucking do.
Slowly, his great head lowered, like the head of a lion, and he stared across the space at Krakka, Slave Warden.
Beetrax’s words were low, but all heard them, like a pin dropping on frozen steel.
“Or is Krakka a coward?” he said.
A roar went up from the dwarves, a roar of warriors, and Krakka felt Val leave him, stepping away, and the rest of his overseers leave him, and he was alone. Alone amongst his peers. Alone amongst the crowd.
Krakka took a deep breath, and threw down his axe, and ripped off his chainmail vest, tossing it outside with a clatter and shower of sparks.
Silence fell. A natural fallout.
“I accept your challenge, Vagandrak scum. I will fucking break you. I will fucking kill you. This, I swear.”
Beetrax grinned, but his eyes were hard, fists clenched.
“Show me,” he said.
The dwarf soldiers closed in, forming an arena ringed by aimed crossbows, containing the slaves and the remaining overseers, and the bubbling cauldron of rancid meat. Beetrax stood, staring, as Krakka approached.
“Throw down your axe.”
“Scared of fighting with proper weapons, you rancid little shit?”
“No. I want to beat you to death with my fists, you hulking ugly fat son of a bastard.”
Beetrax dropped the axe with a clatter, and leapt at Krakka with a snarl. But Krakka was already moving, and they clashed, a flurry of quick heavy blows raining down. Despite being much smaller than Beetrax, Krakka was broad, and powerful, and smashed a right straight to Beetrax’s sternum, making him grunt; Beetrax returned with a left hook that caught Krakka in the side of the head, staggering the dwarf. Beetrax front-kicked Krakka in the chest, and the dwarf reeled back towards the bubbling cauldron, but as Beetrax advanced, Krakka dropped to one knee and punched Beetrax in the balls. Panting, red in the face, Beetrax launched himself forward, grappling for a moment and grabbing Krakka’s head and dragging him towards the cauldron, where he suddenly stooped, one hand clamping between Krakka’s legs making the dwarf cry out. Beetrax lifted him up, and launched the dwarf, who smashed against the cauldron, rocking it on its iron legs. Stew sloshed out, running down the sides like pus from an infected wound. Beetrax’s boot came up to stomp Krakka’s head, but the dwarf grabbed his boot, twisting Beetrax’s knee and bringing the huge man crashing to the rocky ground. They wrestled for a few moments, scrabbling around trying to get a hold on one another, before Beetrax slammed an elbow into Krakka’s nose, breaking it. He wriggled, and managed to get atop the Slave Warden. He smashed a punch into Krakka’s face, then a second, and a third. “Treat us likes slaves, will you?” he screamed down into that bloody face. “Whip us and torture us and rape us?” He crashed three more punches, knocking out teeth, and Krakka groaned.
Beetrax stood, panting, chest out, eyes on fire. All around him, around the ring of aimed crossbows, there was silence. Beetrax glared at the dwarves, spinning around. “We could have been fucking comrades,” he snarled. “But you took us prisoner and tortured us. Why? WHY?”
He moved away from the cauldron, growled some curse in mud-orc, then shoulder-charged the huge iron pot. It rocked on its legs, and boiling stew poured out over Krakka, who suddenly screamed, thrashing. Beetrax charged it again, and the cauldron rocked off its legs, pouring rancid meat and boiling gravy over Krakka, who thrashed, as the cauldron rolled over the stricken dwarf, and went clanging down the slope towards the still, black, underground lake.
It didn’t quite make the water’s edge, and came to a rest, rocking, behind it a great slimy, steaming trail.
“Bastards,” said Beetrax, as Val and the hulking figure of Galog approached, swords in their fists, intentions obvious. Krakka was still on the ground, moaning, hands covering his burned face and beard full of gravy.
“Get down on your knees, fucker,” snarled Val, gesturing with his blade. “You’ve had your fun. You’ve had your little revenge. But now it’s our fucking turn… somebody call for Tallazok Mentir, we have a man here who no longer requires his balls!”
“Wait.”
The voice was a low, hoarse whisper, and all eyes turned on Krakka. He was kneeling up, his eyes filled with rage, both fists clenched. He staggered to his boots, righted himself, and pointed at Beetrax.
“You’re going nowhere, cunt. You stay until the job is done.”
Beetrax grinned, turning back towards the powerful dwarf. “I’m starting to like you, you plucky little bastard.”
With a scream Krakka charged, and Beetrax launched a flurry of punches but the dwarf charged through the blows, grabbing Beetrax around the waist and powering him to the ground, where his head cracked against rock, stunning him. Now Krakka sat atop Beetrax, pounding blows against the axeman’s skull with great solid thuds. Stunned, almost at the point of unconsciousness, Beetrax groaned, rolling in confusion, hands coming up to his face as Krakka jacked himself backwards, up, and staggered away a few steps. His huge fists were bleeding and swollen, and he stared down at Beetrax with contempt, his own face red raw, skin peeling free where the stew had quite literally burned parts of his face off.
“Bastard.”
He ran at Beetrax, delivering a harsh blow that cracked a rib, and sent Trax rolling partway down the slope towards the underground lake.
“You want to fuck with me?”
He ran again, delivering another kick that sent Beetrax rolling further, blood pooling from his mouth and nose, his hands waving weakly, trying to fend off the attack.
“Well, I’ll fuck with you all right,” snarled Krakka, and ran, delivering one final, mighty kick that sent Beetrax rolling, splashing down into the calm edges of the lake.
“No!” hissed Jonti, and started forward. Five crossbows turned on her, and Dake grabbed her, holding her back.
“There’s nothing we can do for him now,” said Dake.
Talon stared at the ground, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Krakka moved to the mumbling form of Beetrax, and grabbed the axeman’s head between both hands, dropping to his knees, pulling Beetrax’s face close. “I’m going to kill you now, you piece of Vagandrak shit. And then all your friends are going to die. Do you hear me, deep down in that thick skull of yours? Do you comprehend?”
He plunged Beetrax’s face under the water, and Beetrax started struggling, legs kicking, as bubbles erupted.
Lillith ran forward with a cry of “No!”, unable to take any more. But Val sprinted forward to intercept her, grabbing her arm. She whirled on him, punching him in the face. He laughed, and backhanded her onto the slope where she rocked, cradling her bruised cheek and bloodied lips.
Krakka dragged Beetrax’s head up, and the axeman spluttered, choking, and his eyes opened. The dwarf loomed close. “Good! You can see me for one last time! Me. Krakka. The dwarf who is going to end your miserable, worthless fucking life.”
Beetrax was staring up, his friends and the gathered dwarves looking on from the top of the s
lope. His hands were clawing weakly at Krakka’s arms, but the dwarf was in his element, powerful, dominant. Beetrax was weak, dazed, beaten.
“I’ll see you on the other side of The Furnace,” growled Krakka, and tensed to force Beetrax’s head under the sloshing lake waters one last time. Instead, Beetrax’s face jerked forward, mouth opening, and teeth grasping hold of Krakka’s bottom lip. Krakka screamed, his fists beating at Beetrax, but Beetrax held on for his life, as Krakka’s lip stretched away from his face in Beetrax’s powerful bite and he screamed and screamed, his scream taking on a warped, distorted sound, rising in pitch, past that of any woman. Beetrax kept pulling, and the dwarf’s lower lip seemed to stretch impossibly far, before finally, with sickening crunching sounds, detached from his face and he slumped forward, dropping under the splashing lake. Beetrax scrabbled for a moment, then rose above Krakka, and placing his knee on the dwarf’s head, held the Slave Warden under the inky waters.
Krakka fought for a while, as Beetrax slapped away his fists and ever-weakening struggles, and then Krakka was still, and finally, it was over.
Beetrax looked up through waves of pain and disorientation, to see Val and Galog there. They were wearing curious expressions, and in a moment of intuition Beetrax realised how it worked with the dwarves. Dead Men’s Shoes. They had not intervened, because now there was a new position available. The mine needed a new Slave Warden.
“Guards! Over here!” bellowed Val, and crossbows were levelled at Beetrax, who was too weak to struggle as fresh shackles were placed around his wrists. They did not even bother to remove the broken ones.
This action was performed on the other Vagandrak heroes, and their heads lowered in submission and defeat.
“Well, you won your little victory,” said Val, smiling his nasty smile, the smile which haunted Lillith’s dreams. “But the penalty for murdering a dwarf by any slave is death. I condemn you all to death.” His head turned and eyes fixed on Lillith. “Except you, little princess. Lock her back in the barracks. The rest of you?” Val grinned. “We’re going to feed you to the Dragon Engine.”
Wyrmblood
CHIEF ENGINEER SKATHOS, Jengo, Hiathosk, Kruallak, Lellander, Yugorosk and Kew sat in various positions on the great sweeping spiral staircase that led down into Wyrmblood, and stared with open mouths, rubbing grit from their eyes, coughing occasionally, their faces like those of an amazed young dwarf on his birthday.
Skathos was the first to get to his feet, and he stamped his boots on the great staircase, as if testing it for solidity. He was nothing if not thorough, and having a brain which worked like an engine, understood machines, developed machines, he found this staircase mechanism most unnerving.
Jengo jumped up, and placed his hand on Skathos’ arm. “Shall I run back? Tell Cardinal Skalg? Tell the king! You will go down in history for this discovery, my friend.” He was staring at Skathos with shining eyes.
Skathos breathed deeply, his own eyes wet with tears. This place, Wyrmblood, was a myth. Said to be a tale to tell little children, a place where the dragons which powered their cities had originally ruled.
Without answering, Skathos started forward, boots clumping down the steps, face lit with the reflected gold of the dulled, precious buildings spread before the group in this vast, titanic array of opulence.
Jengo stared at the others. Hiathosk shrugged, and started down after the Chief Engineer. After all, he was in charge.
The others followed, and Jengo ran down several steps until he was behind Skathos, who was picking each step with care, his head swinging slowly from left to right and back again. In the background there was a gentle, low-level hissing sound, and they realised it was the flow of the molten platinum river.
Skathos reached the bottom of the steps, and paused, staring at the golden cobbles which snaked away before him in a wide, winding road, as if perhaps thinking this was all some mirage, some ale-induced dream, and when he stepped onto the cobbles the road would vanish and he’d go toppling, screaming and flapping, into some great black void.
His boot came down with a thud. Skathos knelt, and his fingers stroked the rough, uneven surface of various cobbles, each one subtly different, his fingers spread out, examining the textured surfaces by touch.
“They are warm,” he said, and stood again, looking back at the other engineers. “The roadway is warm.”
“I think we should head back and tell Cardinal Skalg,” said Jengo, uneasily.
“Why?” It was said with such a casual air, Jengo was left flapping his lips for a few moments before he frowned.
“Because… because he’s the First Cardinal of the Church of Hate, and this is the most important find in the last ten thousand years! Don’t you see, Chief Engineer? We have to tell the people in power! We have to tell… those who are our betters, and who can make the right decisions!”
He stared at Skathos, who stared back. Slowly, Skathos smiled. “I am the Chief Engineer,” he said, voice low, soothing, as if he were talking to an injured infant. “This is our engineering find. We don’t know this is Wyrmblood. We certainly need to explore first, in order to ascertain what we are dealing with. Don’t you agree, Hiathosk?” He said it without turning.
“We wouldn’t want to look like fools by making an incorrect diagnosis,” rumbled Hiathosk, carefully. “And I, for one, would like to be one of the pioneers who first inspected Wyrmblood, if this is Wyrmblood, so that my name, too, goes down in the history books for future generations to see and for my family to be proud. I would be making my mark on the world.” He gave a sideways look at Jengo. “Aren’t you even the slightest bit curious?” His arm swept out, gesturing towards an array of low buildings. Now, they could see the very building blocks of the structures were fashioned from bricks of gold and silver. Windows glittered like polished crystal. High pointed roofs met, and were crowned by rubies and emeralds. “Don’t you want to see what’s here before Skalg and Irlax banish us, never allowing us to return to what they may deem a Holy Place? Because that’s a very real possibility. They might keep this place for themselves.”
Jengo looked torn. “I… I’m not sure…”
Skathos patted him on the back. “I tell you what, faithful Second Engineer Jengo, you head back now and tell Cardinal Skalg – if that is what’s in your heart. I will not complain. Indeed, I give you my most heartfelt blessing! Because you are correct, we should all honour the Church of Hate.”
Jengo nodded, and gave him a nervous smile. “Yes, yes, Chief Engineer Skathos. Thank you for your permission. You know how I respect the Church of Hate above all else; I could not for one moment allow Cardinal Skalg to believe I did not go to him at my earliest convenience in order to share our wondrous find. After all, this does not just affect us few engineers – it affects the whole of the Harborym Dwarves! The entirety of the Five Havens!” His eyes were gleaming with a pious light.
“Go then, with my love,” said Skathos, smiling and pointing.
“Thank you, Chief Engineer. Thank you.”
He turned and placed his boot on the spiral staircase, turned and gave a nervous smile, then started to climb, boots clumping, the metal of his chainmail glowing almost golden from the low-level warm light which filled this place.
Skathos watched for a while, until Jengo had climbed maybe twenty steps, and he turned to Hiathosk, who was watching him from behind heavy, hooded lids.
“Hiathosk.”
“Yes, Chief Engineer?”
“A No.3 Goolak Throwing Hammer, if you please.”
“Yes, Chief Engineer.” He unhooked a small, specially weighted hammer from his belt and handed it to Skathos, who weighed the weapon thoughtfully, a frown on his face as he made several decisions. Then he rocked back on one hip, half closed one eye, tensed with the throwing hammer in his grip, and launched a powerful throw which spun, the hammer turning end over end as it whipped through the golden air.
The No. 3 Goolak Throwing Hammer caught Jengo in the back of his unprotected sk
ull, bouncing off to clatter to one side down the black spiral steps. Jengo hit the steps flat on his face and did not move.
“A fine throw,” rumbled Kruallak. “Worthy of the Underworld Championships, no less.”
“Thank you,” said Skathos. “Hiathosk. Go and check he is dead, and fetch your hammer.”
“Yes, Chief Engineer.”
“And Hiathosk?”
“Yes, Chief Engineer?”
“Congratulations on your promotion to Second Engineer.”
The engineers moved down golden cobbled roads, past low buildings, then turned onto a street filled with towering temples. Spires and minarets soared and sparkled above them, the structures vast and much bigger, much taller than any human city. They moved to one, where an iron door ten times the size of a dwarf door sat encrusted with precious gems, and Kruallak placed his hand on the great handle, glancing back at Skathos for confirmation. Skathos nodded and he weighed down the lever. The door swung open on silent hinges, great and ponderous, revealing a cool interior, again lit by some low-level ethereal glow. Benches were arranged in formations, leading to a magnificent opulent altar, sporting many golden religious statues and symbols, each one a complex masterpiece in its own right.
“I have a question, Chief Engineer,” said Hiathosk. He was frowning. “If this is the lost city of Wyrmblood, City of the Dragons, then why is it so… human? There are doors, temples of worship, roads. What use does a dragon have for roads? Or door handles, for that matter?”
Skathos frowned. “I had not considered it, but you are correct. This is more like a human city, but on a vast scale.”
Yugorosk gave a cough. “Maybe, Chief Engineer, it was to accommodate the slave race?” The group stared at him, and he coughed again, then continued. “In some of the ancient stories, the great wyrms ruled; but they kept slaves who did their bidding, and could be used as food. So, humans kept like cattle.”
“And this is where they lived?”
Yugorosk shrugged. “I read it in a school book my youngest brought back a few months ago. I was reading to him late at night. I thought it fanciful at the time.”