The Dragon Engine (6 page)

Five stairs. Eight. Halfway. A voice from above.

“Where are you going, old man?”

Beetrax cursed, glancing up. It was Daron, with his silk tunic and trampled face. He seemed a little more sober, and this was odd. What was
not
odd was the short dark blade in his fist.

“Listen son, I did nothing wrong,” said Beetrax, turning at the sound from the bottom of the rough-sawn stairs. Two broad-shouldered men. Both carrying blades.

Beetrax gave a narrow, bloodless smile.

“I beg to differ, you unwashed, common scum,” said Daron, advancing slowly down the steps. Behind Beetrax, the two large soldier-types began to climb. Beetrax weighed up his options, sighed, and charged up at Daron.

The charge was a surprise, and the blade came up as Beetrax batted it aside with his left forearm, grabbed Daron's bollocks in a meaty grip with his right, and delivered a bone-crunching headbutt that broke the young man's nose.

Beetrax stared at the squealing face beneath him, blood-drenched, jaw working sporadically as Beetrax's iron grip crushed his testicles, and images flickered and flashed into the axeman's brain, older days, darker days, on the walls at Desekra, slamming his axe into a mud-orc's face, watching brains splatter over the battlements, watching his friends squirming in their own blood and sloppy puddles of disembowelment. And then it was gone in a flash of relief and Beetrax cannoned back to the present.

His left hand grabbed the man's windpipe, and by throat and balls, he picked him up and hurled him down the narrow stairwell. A tossed ragdoll, Daron cannoned into his companions and all three went tumbling down the hard wood steps. Beetrax fancied he heard some bones break. He charged down after the flailing limbs, jumping from the mid-point, not caring where his boots landed, or whom he crushed. His boots thudded home, one against a skull, another against ribs, and then he was on his knees punching all three men in a squirming mass of limbs and bodies and faces. A knife flashed past his face, but he nudged back, the steel carving past his eyes. He grabbed the arm and broke it with a crunch. More punches, and then suddenly everything was still in the dimly lit corridor.

Mumbling and groaning, Beetrax grabbed one man by the legs and dragged him along the corridor, backkicking the door open and pulling the man onto the icy cobbles. The cold hit Beetrax, and he shivered, but now he had a clear mission before him. If anybody called the City Watch, there'd be questions, and arrests, and pointless wasted time. Beetrax didn't have time nor inclination for none of that.

Methodically, he dragged all three men out onto the cobbles and they lay, unconscious, like three cadavers. Beetrax checked they were all breathing, which they were, and that was a good thing. Beetrax killed men too easy these days, and it was a struggle to restrain himself when the blood was up and boiling, and the anger and bad memories flowing.

Beetrax breathed softly, and calmed himself, and looked around. Lit by the moon, the courtyard was eerie, spectral. He noticed a couple of leaning sheds behind the stables, and dragged Daron over to them, kicking down a door and peering into the inky blackness. It seemed to contain some huge, rusted machine, with several large cogs and wheels. Grunting, Beetrax pulled Daron inside, then went back to the other two men, pulling them inside also.

A short trip to the stables and one length of old rope later, Beetrax bound the men by ankles and wrists, then tied all three to a huge old cog as big as he was, like some disused component from a dismantled water wheel.

He stood, admiring his knots.

Daron began to stir, and slowly his eyes flickered open, white and wide and frightened by the light of the moon spilling through the shed door.

“What have you done, you monster?” His words were distorted by his broken nose and, no doubt, several broken teeth.

“Er, me?” Beetrax cracked his knuckles and moved forward, kneeling behind the stricken man. “What have
I
fucking done? I was minding my own business, as it always is. And you were out to impress your horse-faced woman, so you tried to pick a fight with me, and then brought in your heavies to back you up when things weren't going your way. Spoilt little rich prick, you should have stayed up in the hills.”

“They… they weren't my heavies…”

“What were they, then? Your fucking sisters? Or just
fucking
your sisters?”

“They were my bodyguards…”

Beetrax frowned. That didn't sound good. That didn't sound good
at all.
“Why would a little squirt of horse spunk like you need bodyguards?”

“Because I am Lord Daron.
Lord
Daron. Great nephew to King Yoon of Vagandrak!”

Beetrax considered this for a while, then rocked back on his heels. “Hmm,” he said, his eyes fixed on the broken men before him.

“You must let me go immediately, you vagabond! Yoon will see you swing high for this!”

“Vagabond, is it?” Beetrax crawled close, so that his mouth was only a thumb's breadth from Daron's own, as if they were lovers about to kiss. “You came to me looking for a fight, great nephew of King Yoon, and I fucking gave you one, so I did. The question you need to ask yourself now, is this: you're so busy threatening me with a hanging, you are not focussing on your immediate situation. What motivation have I got to keep you alive? If I cut all your throats, you can't sing to the City Watch. But if you give me your word, on your mother's deathbed, that you will remain silent – I may just leave you tied up awhile. It's your choice,
Lord
Daron. Shall I go get my axe, or no?”

Daron was trembling, and foam speckled his lips. His eyes were wide as pig-roast platters. He seemed to consider his options, although Beetrax wondered what he really had to consider.

Eventually, the man breathed, “I'll keep my mouth shut.”

“Good lad!” boomed Beetrax, rocking back on his heels and standing. He wiggled his feet. “Damn but that gave me some cramp. Now listen, lad, I'll leave you three here tonight, then let you go in the morning. No hollering, like. My room's just up there,” he pointed, “and I'll hear you. Be here quicker than you can say ‘axe blade decapitation'. You got that, little Lord Daron?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“And one last thing.”

“Yes?” Eyes suddenly hopeful.

“I don't like being attacked with blades,” said Beetrax, without a glimmer of compassion, and kicked Daron in the face, watching him slump down once more into bloody unconsciousness.

B
eetrax slept well
. Probably down to the extra eight flagons of ale he drank after tying up his attackers.
Well, it was thirsty work, wasn't it? All that violence?

As a late winter dawn broke through the cracks in the shutters, Beetrax rolled from his crumpled sheets and pulled on his trews and boots. Then he sat there for a moment. Some fleeting idea teased him, something which had seemed so solid in sleep, and yet now danced away like dragon smoke. What
was
it? Something about threads. String. No,
loose ends.
But…
what
loose end?

Beetrax shrugged, and heard the stamping of hooves in the courtyard. He threw open his shutters and beamed down at Dake and Jonti. “Glad you could join me!” he boomed, voice practically cracking the ice on the puddles.

“You're late,” snapped Dake. “You'd be late to your own bloody funeral.”

“It's just a matter of a few moments. I am packed and ready to go. Any word from the others?”

“Lillith is on her way. We've not seen or spoken to Sakora or Talon since last we met.”

Beetrax nodded, dressed, grabbed his pack, and pounded down the stairs. He settled his bill with the landlord, and took a fond look around The Fighting Cocks
.
It had been a home to him these past few years; a place to drink, eat, party, brawl, a home from home (and indeed, mostly his home, as his home was a humourless cold place run by servants with whom he had no affinity; he found it easier to “slum it” at the Cocks after a hard night of drinking; ironically, he decided, some people should really not be blessed with riches because all they did was squander their good fortune).

Stepping out into the cold air, he gave a wary glance to the shed. The shed where he'd locked, well, damn him, the great nephew of King Yoon, King of Vagandrak. Beetrax gave a nervous grin.
But shit, I didn't see that one coming!

The stable boy brought out his horse, Bella, and she nuzzled Beetrax's bruised knuckles. Dropping from his own mount, Dake nodded to his fists. “Trouble?”

“No. No trouble. Too much ale. I fell.”

“Yeah, and horses can walk on water.”

Jonti turned in her saddle, and pointed. “Lillith is here.”

A small, grey mare cantered into the courtyard, and Lillith, dressed in white skirts and a thick white fur, dropped from her own mount. She cast a quick glance over the gathered group. “So, I see we are still about this madness, then?”

“You turned up,” pointed out Beetrax.

“I am simply thinking of the greater good to the world of medicine.” Her dark eyes fixed on Beetrax. “You are well, Axeman?”

He caught her scent, and his lips were suddenly dry. “I am, Lady,” he said.

“Ha! I am nobody's Lady. Now, I have herbs and powders with great healing properties. I have my diary, a quill, and enough ink to compose a thousand pages of letters. The Head Librarian from the Great Library has given me his blessing, and unlimited resources for tracking down ancient texts…”

“You told him where we were going?” said Beetrax, aghast.

“Of course! He is an old and trusted friend.”

“It was supposed to be a secret adventure,” snapped Beetrax.

“If I know you, every whore within a two league radius knows of our plans! Anyway. Do we know when Talon and Sakora will arrive?”

Jonti pointed, to where a clatter of almost panicked hooves were striking sparks from the cobbles. Around a bend came Talon, pushing his horse hard and screaming for people to clear a path from the middle of the frozen road.

“He… looks in a hurry,” observed Dake, exchanging a glance with his wife.

“I wonder what he's been up to?” said Beetrax, feeling a trickle of apprehension worming between his shoulder blades.

“
I
wonder if he's opened the eyes of yet
another
young sexually innocent noble…”

Talon slammed through the gates to The Fighting Cocks' courtyard, and leapt from his lathered mount. Talon was flustered, seemingly out of breath. He whirled, and stared hard at Beetrax.

“
What have you done
?” he gasped.

“Er. Me?” said Beetrax, eyes wide, all innocent.

“King Yoon's
great fucking nephew
is missing, along with two of his bodyguards. His girlfriend, Lady Arsehole something-or-other was drunk in a tavern – she does not remember which – but she does remember a huge man with bushy ginger hair, bushy ginger beard, and military tattoos on his neck and hands and probably his arse… Beetrax?
What
did you do?”

“What? WHAT? Why are you all looking at me? I didn't do nothing.”

“Beetrax?” said Lillith, in the tone that always made him blab.

“Well,” he preened, “I don't see how they could pin anything on me, like. Those spoilt bastards came to me – to me! – looking for a fight. How was I to know it was Yoon's bloody nephew, eh? And that girl was practically unconscious. How could she circulate my description? She was fucking asleep!”

“Well she did,” snarled Talon, face filled with fury. “And
your
description,
your very specific
description is being circulated right now. Sakora has gone ahead to check out the gates, but we need to get out of the city real soon before it's crawling with Watch.”

Beetrax mumbled something, and Dake slapped him on the back. “Never a dull moment with you, you mad ginger bastard.”

“Yes. Yes, I seem to bring trouble to me like flies…”

“…to horse shit,” Lillith completed, lips narrowed. She watched Beetrax move to his horse and prepare to mount. “Well? What did you do with them? I trust you didn't
murder them
?”

“Of course not!” scowled Beetrax. He nodded to the shed. “Tied them up in there, didn't I? I ain't letting them out, though. Brought me enough trouble, they did.”

Jonti strode to the shed door and threw it open, revealing three bruised, battered, broken men squinting at the bright daylight. Her sword hissed from its sheath and cut through their bonds. She turned back to Beetrax.

“Better mount up. I think we need to ride.”

K
ing Yoon reclined
on a vast bed of silk sheets, his long, shaggy black curls oiled and lank, his smooth, pale skin glistening. His face was painted white, his lips red; the stench of his perfume hung heavy in the air, like rancid fish oil, and his nails were painted with intricate detail, scenes of great battles and historic moments, whilst on each finger he wore a gem of considerable wealth, each finger sporting a different coloured stone. He wore a gauze lavender scarf around his throat, but that was all, and with eyes closed, he lifted both hands in the air as if conducting an orchestra as the generously proportioned whore, dressed in nothing but strips of stitched leather, took his cock in her mouth and began to delicately, enthusiastically and skilfully ply her trade.

“Oh yes,” said King Yoon, tongue flickering between painted lips. “That's good. That's excellent, in fact, my dear. You certainly know your cock. We are most impressed. Indeed! We are most totally delighted!”

Also on the bed were three naked ladies and two young men. The men, lesser nobles of Vagandrak, wore staggeringly different facial expressions. One was enjoying this scene of fellatio with open admiration, his own hand moving to his genitals where he began to cup and squeeze, working himself quickly into a frenzy. The other, with close-cropped black hair and a goatee beard, wore a shocked mask, as if he was stranded on a beach, trapped between the incoming tide and a vast wall of treacherous cliff. He didn't quite know which way to turn or where to look, and he did
indeed
look stunned, shocked, unable to get comfortable. He looked like a man who wondered how the hell he had arrived, naked and unwilling, in the king's bedchamber – for what looked like an impending evening of considerable orgy.

The three naked ladies were all experienced. From their hard eyes and professional, made-up faces, to their perfectly toned bodies and strategically placed clothing of lace and leather. They watched with the same kind of idle languor normally reserved for the honey-leaf addict. Which they may well have been.

King Yoon was reaching his own frenzy of excitement, when a thundering came at the door. Yoon's eyes flickered open, and the snarl was not a pretty sight. He grabbed the whore's head with a handful of hair, and dragged her roughly from his erection with the bellow, “Who is it dares interrupt THE KING?”

The door opened slowly, and Zandbar, Captain of the King's Guard, stood in full plate armour. His face was grim, his eyes dark and hooded, his military bearing ramrod straight and specifically non-judgemental.

“I apologise for the interruption, Sire,” came Zandbar's deep rumble, “but this is a matter of grave urgency.”

“What is it?”

“Your great nephew, Lord Daron, has been beaten to within an inch of his life.”

“Did he deserve it?”

“Most probably,” said Zandbar, hand on sword hilt, and without a flicker of emotion.

Yoon sighed, and crawled across the bed. His naked companions scrambled to get out of his way.

Yoon kicked into velvet slippers, and an aide stepped from the shadows of the fire-pit illuminated room, hanging rich red robes over Yoon's shoulders. Yoon rolled his head, releasing cracks of tension, then stepped in close to Zandbar.

“We better go sort it out, then. For an attack on the royal bloodline is an attack on the king. And that cannot be tolerated. Summon Chanduquar.”

T
he long cobbled
street was a private one, with twenty foot high iron gates at either end, each manned by three armed guards, and bearing a high watchtower mid-point down the street, this time manned with four archers bearing powerful longbows.

At this late hour, torches burned on street corners, but the shadows were long, the cobbles slick with ice, and the group that approached the iron gate brought all three pikemen to bear with lowered weapons and shouted challenges rattling through the dark.

“Stop! Who goes there? We will inflict violence!”

“Relax,” said Zandbar, oozing from the shadows. He wore a dark wool cloak over his armour. “Shanga, Mellith, Talor. We have business within. Open the gate.”

“Of course, Captain.” Shanga saluted, and they stood up their pikes, stood to attention, eyes staring straight ahead and definitely
not
at the small group, including a man with a black silk hood over his head, who stood stamping boots on the frozen cobbles.

The gates opened without sound on well-greased hinges, and the small group of mostly hooded figures stepped through the portal. They walked down the cobbles, between towering buildings of ancient black stone, and stopped at some seemingly random point on the street by a small, black door of iron.

One of the figures foregrounded himself, and looked left, then right. Producing a long, slender iron key, with intricate filigree work around the shaft, he unlocked the door and one by one the figures entered, the final person to cross the threshold being Zandbar guiding the hooded prisoner, a stocky figure, hands bound before him with steel wire.

A torch was lit from a low-burning brand on the wall, and then the door was carefully locked behind them. The group moved away, down narrow, shadow-haunted, high-ceilinged corridors, into a maze of yet more corridors where they turned left and right at several gloomy intersections to finally arrive at another anonymous door. Here, King Yoon threw back his hood and shook out his shaggy black hair. Here, in this place, his white makeup and red lipstick should have looked comical, clown-like. But did not. They looked more like the affectations of a madman, and this place the basis for his physical and mental asylum.

Yoon unlocked the portal and they stepped through into a plain, high-ceilinged room. There was a large table of dull oak, surrounded by perhaps thirty chairs, each hand-carved and antique.

“You may remove your hoods,” said Yoon, licking his painted lips. All removed their hoods, except for the prisoner, who was unable, and Yoon looked at each face in turn, weighing up the gathering he had summoned in the middle of the night.

There were various solid men, each loyal to Zandbar and Yoon, and there as protectors. Then there was Lord Daron, his nose bent, nostrils still bloodied, his face bruised and battered, eyes swollen, lips quivering at this seemingly important clandestine activity – all on his behalf.

One of the group was a small man, his skin the darkest of ebony. He threw off his cloak with distaste, and stared with an intense frown corrugating his ageless face. “I do not like to creep around in shadows,” he snapped, tone disrespectful, body language aggressive.

This man who challenged the king wore very little, except for many body piercings which, on close inspection, could be discerned as the polished bones of a wide variety of animals. His hair was close-cropped to his seemingly over-large skull, his eyes yellow from years of alcohol abuse, his thick lips tattooed with delicate script. He wore soft leather boots and had a long, wicked, curved knife at his hip.

Rather than take offence at the little man's brash and aggressive behaviour, Yoon adopted a different strategy. “Chanduquar, my friend, I have brought you here because of a most delicate matter. This is a case of gross disobedience, of violence against my bloodline, which as you know…”

“Yes yes, is a dishonour to the king. I know this horse shit. Let's get on with it.”

King Yoon bit his lip. His face contorted a little, and Zandbar, Captain of the King's Guard, studiously looked away lest his face crack into a smile. Nobody spoke to King Yoon that way – not unless they wanted their severed head on a spike decorating Desekra Fortress. But this little man… this little
shamathe,
corrected Zandbar, was a tool King Yoon decided he needed.

And if the tool became expendable?

Zandbar gave a little shiver.
He would not like to be the little black man if Yoon, in one of his moments of insanity, decided he no longer had dire need of the magick-maker.

“This is my great nephew,” said Yoon, gesturing broadly and vaguely in the direction of Lord Daron, who was shivering and looking up at the high vaulted ceilings. “He was beaten to within an inch of his life by some heathen bastard, by the name of…” Yoon looked towards Zandbar for confirmation.

“Beetrax,” said Zandbar.

“Beetrax,” said Yoon, turning back to Chanduquar.

“The Axeman,” added Zandbar.

“The Axeman,” smiled Yoon, running a hand through his shaggy hair.

Chanduquar looked at the group, from one to the other, then focussed on Yoon. “You have brought me here, to this place, to do what I know you want me to do, for
one man
? You want to unleash this creature back into the world because of
one man
? Because of
one disagreement
?
One beating
?
One tiny insignificant moment of dishonour against yourself
? Are you… insane?”

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–