by Andy Remic
The tunnel suddenly ended, emerging onto a platform of smooth black granite. Beyond the elevated platform was a tunnel, with tracks, and the adventurers remembered their journey with Skalg, First Cardinal of the Church of Hate, on the underground carriage system.
Now, however, there was no steam, no hissing, no clanking. Because the dragons had escaped. The train system’s source of motivation had been unleashed, and with the wyrms’ escape came mining immobility.
Talon knelt at the junction of tunnel and granite platform. He listened, and waited, and tuned in. What had he heard? What the fuck had he heard?
And it came again. A vibration through the great chains which had once powered this mining train system.
It thrummed, a metal song, then faded.
“What is it?” said Sakora, coming forward with Lillith. “What can you hear?”
“The chains. They keep vibrating.”
“Is that strange?” said Lillith, peering through the gloom.
Talon nodded. “With the dragons gone, the source of energy vanished, and the trains should be totally immobile.”
“Maybe it’s the wind, lad,” grinned Beetrax. “Wobbling the chains, like.”
“No. No wind could shift those. They weigh more than a building, I’d wager.”
“What, then?” said Dake.
It came again, more violent this time. The chain started to vibrate, and they could see it, shimmying, singing almost. Only this time, not only did the chain vibrate, the whole platform started to shake. It was gentle, but they felt it beneath their boots. Lillith put out her hand and steadied herself against the tunnel wall. Beetrax grasped his axe tightly. Dake frowned. Talon licked his lips.
Gradually, the tremble faded.
“Mine collapse?” suggested Dake.
“Earthquake?” said Beetrax.
Silence fell like ash as these concepts sank in.
Nobody wanted to be buried alive.
“I don’t like it,” said Beetrax.
“Come on,” said Lillith. “Let’s follow the track. These things will only lead to major areas of the mines.”
“I think we’re doing the wrong thing,” said Beetrax, slowly.
They all looked at him.
“We have to find out what’s happening,” said Lillith, voice gentle.
“Why?” said Trax, uneasily. “If that was an earthquake, and it happens down here, we’re proper fucked.”
“I don’t believe it was,” said Lillith, closing her eyes, and touching the rock wall. “I believe the mountain is stable. These mines have existed for thousands of years. Why would it change now?”
“Because of the random chaos of nature?” offered Talon, and Lillith gave him a pained look.
“Come on,” said Dake. “We’re wasting time. If we’re going to find this dragon city, the faster we find it, the faster we can leave. Right? I, for one, am sick of the Harborym Dwarves. I want to see the daylight before I die. I want to breathe the scent of a forest. I want to see people again. My kind of people.” He moved to the edge of the platform, and dropped down into the chasm. The iron rails were polished silver with use, the rest of the track grime-smeared and littered with pebbles, rocks and old black oil. At the centre of the track, suspended at waist height, was a thick chain – about the width of a dwarf’s thigh. Dake peered up ahead, through the half-light, and could see a series of stationary carriages. Made of timber, they had iron wheels, and were smeared with dust, oil and thick grease.
The others followed, one by one, climbing down into the cutting and standing there, breathing in stone dust, old oil, grease and scorched iron.
“This feels dangerous,” said Sakora, warily.
“What happens if the carriages start to move?” said Dake.
“How can they?” reasoned Lillith. “The dragons have gone.”
Again, the ground seemed to tremble beneath their feet. Just a modest vibration, but enough to make them exchange glances.
“Let’s get this done,” said Beetrax, and strode ahead, away from the platform and deeper into the long, dark tunnel ahead.
The others followed, feeling sick to their stomachs.
Behind them, the thick chain vibrated, chiming, like some deformed musical instrument playing a lament for these poor Vagandrak heroes caught here, in this pit of eternal chaos; this living hell.
* * *
Deep, deep, deep underground, down a narrow passage which led from an obsolete, long-forgotten mine, through a series of five heavy, locked, foot-thick iron doors, there was a chamber. It had once been an excavation, and had only one entrance – and one way of getting out. Krakka, the former Slave Warden, had been aware of its existence – he had to have been, because on occasion he met one of the dwarf engineers who worked there. This was a place commissioned by the late King Irlax, and not one dwarf in the Five Havens knew about its existence, not even Skalg, First Cardinal of the Church of Hate. Especially not Skalg – because this had been intended as a scientific experiment in order to create a weapon Irlax could use against his enemies, of whom Skalg was numbered one.
The chamber was quite large, with a high vaulted ceiling, and completely rough-hewn. Lit by oil lamps, it contained row after row of steel benching, littered with medical instruments, vials, test tubes, beakers, syringes, scalpels and a thousand other objects required by the dwarves to conduct this, their experiment.
Fifteen dwarves had been commissioned by King Irlax for this project after the discovery of a certain artefact in this very chamber. This artefact sat against the far wall, on a low plinth, protected by an iron and glass cage, with three locks down one side of the casing. Alongside this plinth stood huge iron flasks, three to either side, each one twice as tall as a dwarf and serviced by portable iron steps. Beneath the flasks, a huge section of rock had been excavated and replaced by thick iron mesh – for drainage. The workers wore black aprons and leather gloves. They were serious-looking dwarves, many greying, all with dour expressions and nervous eyes. They barely spoke, simply went about their business, communicating only to share ideas or compounds or results. Brought together by King Irlax nearly ten years previous, they were the foremost minds of the Harborym dwarves, consisting of chemists, biologists, and doctors, two of whom had been struck off and condemned to death by hanging for their crimes against the Harborym. The final dwarf, the one in charge of the experiments, liked to call himself a warlock. He had spent many years above ground in the world of men, studying in their libraries, discovering and purchasing forbidden texts using the seemingly unlimited supply of gold offered by Irlax for such a purpose. This dwarf was named Movak, again, a criminal who had been condemned to death for crimes against the Church of Hate – crimes involving Equiem magick. He considered himself an authority, and had mastered several of the dark arts. It was Movak who had given inception to the plan funded by King Irlax.
“Gregor, seal the flask, ready for the final burn.”
Gregor nodded, and did so. The huge vertical rods slotted into place, and Gregor stepped away, somewhat nervously, as if they might explode. Which, in reality, they might. Gregor glanced at Movak, and was annoyed to see not a flicker of emotion decorated the dwarf’s face. He was oblivious to pain and fear. He was like a machine, unafraid of death, and what lay beyond.
“It is done.”
“I can see that.”
Well, fuck you, you sanctimonious old cunt, why don’t you fucking do it yourself, then? But he said nothing. He smiled. The smile of somebody who wants to take your position and is happy to see you die in the process.
They stood, waiting, watching. As they had a hundred times before.
As they had a thousand times before.
And it always went the same.
The twisted, merged, magick-infused subject died. It did not grow. It died.
Only…
Not this time.
In the flask, the liquid bubbled. Only it was more than just a liquid. It was a life source. It was a cocktail of nutr
ients and enzymes carefully balanced to help in the creation of life. New life. It was a very special kind of amniotic fluid.
“It’s working,” said Gregor, voice hushed in awe.
“Shh!” snapped Movak, and scowled. He moved forward, a few teetering steps, and began a series of invocations designed to accelerate and stabilise the process. The other engineers watched Movak, and took a step back as dark smoke started to pour from his mouth.
Gregor swallowed, and wished, suddenly, he was somewhere else. Or at least back with the family he loved… a family being kept in the Ruby Dungeon by King Irlax, in case Gregor decided in any way to not comply.
“Get back,” said Movak, his voice curiously low, and slow, and husky. Smoke drifted from his nostrils.
Everything descended into silence.
And this, the thousandth experiment they had worked on over the years, went silent also.
Gregor shivered. This wasn’t usual. Usually, the blend of embryos began to scream, or thrashed about, kicking the inside of the flask in acute agony, banging themselves around in a convulsing death dance, before, ultimately, smashing their own tiny skulls open on the inside of the iron chamber.
This time, it was different.
Gregor stepped forward.
“I can hear it breathing,” he said.
Movak nodded, and gestured for Gregor to step back. The other engineers looked on with stark, drawn faces. If this thing worked they were guaranteed not just wealth, but a return ticket to their families. To see their children again after so many years locked away in this dungeon laboratory. To see their families who had been imprisoned by Irlax as insurance policies. The bastard.
A curious silence descended on the laboratory. Each dwarf tilted their head slightly, listening. And they could hear it. It was in Flask Three. Their creation. A creature, forged from different genetic materials and grown. They would set it loose in the Five Havens, and it would wreak havoc. It would be an abomination and they would blame it on the Church of Hate.
“Open Flask Three,” Movak said.
Warily, Gregor stepped forward and slid open the locking rods. As the third slid up, so fluid began to leak from the edges of the flask. As the fourth slid up, the trickle turned to a flood, and on the fifth the flask door swung open and a gush spilled out the contents. Gregor leapt back, but his boots and apron were drenched. He frowned. He heard gasps behind him. And then he looked up.
Gregor’s eyes went wide.
It was like nothing he could ever have imagined.
The creature was huge, twice the size of any dwarf, and almost cubic in proportions, with the huge thick arms of a dwarf, powerful legs and a solid, thick torso. But there the similarities to dwarf-kind ended. The head was a twisted, elongated muzzle, with thick ridges running from nostrils to crown. The face was pulled out, fangs bared like a rabid dog, and black eyes blinked, as the creature stared at its creators. A tail whipped, with a gleaming razor spear at its tip. It growled, low and threatening.
“Holy fuck,” said Gregor, taking in the mottled green and black flesh, the scales that ran in random spirals across the creature’s skin, but most of all, at the flames which flickered at its glowing nostrils. Samples taken from the discovered artefact, from the section of dead dragon embryo they had found, had been synthesised with various unborn dwarf babies – to create this. A monster.
And, it had to be said, Movak’s inspiration – Orlana’s splice – could be seen clearly in the magick and flesh construction.
Gregor took a step back, but the beast leapt forward, squealing, thick fingers, which ended in claws, grabbing Gregor. That long muzzle opened wide, and clamped over Gregor’s head, razor fangs shearing through half his skull, leaving a cross-section of bone, muscle and a neatly sliced-through brain. Gregor’s lower face remained, although cut at a slight angle, and the lips quivered before the dwarf scientist dropped as if his limbs were fluid. The creature screamed again, lifting its muzzle, spitting out the half-head, and wailing to the ceiling as if in the throes of some terrible torture.
Movak, who had been frozen by the vision of the abomination they’d created, suddenly bellowed, “Get the weapons!” and turned to sprint for his unloaded crossbow… the beast simultaneously lowering its head, dark eyes glowing, and taking in a deep, loaded breath.
A stream of fire lashed out, hitting Movak in the back, lifting him up, smashing him across the chamber and pulverising him against the rough rock wall, where the fire continued to stream and splash, roaring, incinerating, until there was nothing left of Movak but ash…
Grak, Movak’s second-in-command, turned slowly and gestured to the engineer nearest the door.
“Lock it,” he said, voice trembling with fear. “This beast must never…” but flames engulfed him, and he started to scream, and the beast stomped towards him, powerful hands reaching out, grasping him, and hurling him across the laboratory, sending a bench and a hundred instruments and vials and beakers crashing to the rocky ground.
The dwarves turned to run… as the engineered hybrid went about its killing.
* * *
Talon stopped.
“What is it?” said Beetrax, eyes narrowing.
“I heard something.” Talon’s voice was soft. He looked sideways at Sakora, who gave a nod.
“I heard it too.”
“Bloody hell, you two are jumping at shadows!” growled Beetrax, gripping his axe tight.
Jael shivered. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
“Nobody asked you, lad.”
“There!” Talon held up a finger, but this time he did not have to bring attention to the sound, for the wail, the scream, was louder this time. There came a distant cracking sound, then a pounding, as of a fist on iron.
“Er,” said Beetrax. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
They listened.
“It sounds mighty pissed off, whatever it is,” said Talon, drawing an arrow and fondling it gently.
“Maybe if we head down that tunnel there?” Beetrax pointed.
“I agree,” said Lillith, and her face darkened, eyes closing. “There is something up ahead. Something created by the dark arts of Equiem magick.”
“Can we fight it?” scowled Beetrax.
Lillith shook her head, and now her eyes held nothing but fear as she looked remotely into the creature’s dark and twisted soul. “No, my love. This time, we run.”
The Tower
Volak flapped her great, scaled wings, ascending in lazy spirals until the land of Vagandrak spread out before her, a huge tapestry of fields and villages, forests and lakes. Mountains bordered to north and south, ice-capped and sparkling under weak sunlight. Sunlight also shone dully across her black, overlapping scales, as her spread wings stretched out, rigid now, like hammered iron, and she started to glide. Her wide wings contained razor-sharp spikes at each wingtip; perfect killing implements. Needles ran down her spine to the end of her tail, whipping gently, ending in a large triangular spike which gleamed. And in an ancient face, a demon face from history and myth and nightmares, above a long tapering snout filled with black fangs, and below horns which sprouted from her head amidst scales, sat her narrowed, slanted, gleaming black eyes. And Volak’s eyes saw… they saw the present, and they saw the past.
My Empire.
Volak drifted, as if in a dream, with flames curling around her fangs. Her eyes looked down at the rivers and forests and villages, and yet these she did not see. She witnessed her memories, vivid as molten gold shining in her mind, bright as the fire with which her and her kin had rid the land of the pestilence known as man and dwarf and elf.
In her waking dream, she saw the sky filled with a thousand dragons, each clan sporting different coloured scales. But Volak was Queen, her clan the eldest, most powerful, the rightful leaders of Wyrmblood by heritage and fire and violence.
A thousand dragons surged through the skies, dropping in tight formations, and from a distance the races on the face of the world mus
t have thought them a swarm of birds, or a cluster of launched arrows. Until they fell, dropping from copper-bruised skies at terrific speeds, jaws opening, screams wailing like some terrible song, followed by jets and washes of billowing flame… Civilians ran in their thousands, flocking down the streets, abandoning market stalls and carts and whatever business had seemed so important just a few seconds before. Bodies were picked up in streamers of howling fire, tossed blackened down streets which glowed, as talons smashed through stones and buildings and joists and roofs, sending debris flying, demolishing walls which crumbled to crush screaming men and women and children and babes in prams in the streets below. A thousand dragons attacked the city, and as Volak watched dreamily from above, wings still outstretched, replaying the glorious moment, so the roars and the fire and the screams all combined to create a beautiful symphony of slaughter which spun like woven silk through her mind, causing a harmony which she found ecstatic.
She blinked, and below forests rustled under a gentle breeze, sunlight gleamed silver crescents on the lapping shores of inland lakes, a unit of cavalry cantered in the hills to the north of Vagan, their silver spears sparkling with a hundred razor-sharp tips.
But no music. No symphony. No screams.
I want my Empire back, she thought, still dreamily, still remembering the glorious genocide; I want to hear your screams, I want to see rivers of bubbling human fat running down the gutters of your burning, broken cities, I want your kings to bow down at my claws so I can chew off their pompous, self-righteous heads… I want my world back, for myself, and my offspring to follow.
She roared, coming out of her dream state, and powered her wings, slamming across the sky like a dark shooting star towards the single tallest structure in the entire land of Vagandrak.
The Tower of the Moon.
* * *