Twilight of the Dragons (7 page)

“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.

D
eep
, 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 nutrients 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.

T
alon 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.”

V
olak 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 must 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.

T
he Tower
of the Moon had been commissioned by King Yoon after a spate of drunken orgies and was, quite simply, the tallest tower ever built. From the flat summit, on which Yoon conducted weekly parties, one could see clear across the distant Pass of Splintered Bones, through the valleys of the Mountains of Skarandos, and deep into the lands of Zakora, the Three Deserts. The stone for the tower had been mined in the White Lion Mountains to the north of Vagandrak, and even more mined from the heart of the Mountains of Skarandos to the south. The tower had been the masterpiece, or folly, of Yoon's Chief Engineer, Isvander, a tortured and troubled man, who during the build firmly believed he'd been given a poisoned chalice. After all, it was near impossible to please King Yoon who was, to all intents and purposes, insane. In private circles, in hushed whispers, the vast, glorious, impressive, gleaming white structure was not referred to as the Tower of the Moon. It was known simply as Isvander's Tomb, or even just
The Tomb.
The structure which had led to Isvander's eventual suicide.

Now, the evening sun painted the tower a glorious deep orange. The tower's shadow fell like an accusatory finger that wound its way around across the city of Vagan, accusing the population of allowing a lunatic like Yoon to build such a monstrosity at, it was said, the cost of seventeen hundred lives. And that didn't include the ex-lovers Yoon had hurled from the various stages of completed summit during intervals in the tower's completion.

The summit was flat, paved white, with a deep, sunken bath which could accommodate forty with ease. Trays of sweet meats, brandy and Vagandrak red floated serenely across the pool, bobbing when somebody entered or left the water from the wide, curved white stone steps. The water was heated by a clever brass engine in the room below, so that a gentle curl of steam always seemed to hover across the surface, like a baby dragon's smoke.

On this fine evening, Princess Emilia Ladine, niece to King Yoon, reclined naked amidst the steaming waters, her wrists and arms adorned with numerous priceless bangles and bracelets, her face filled with serenity as she watched a couple copulate a few feet before her, moaning and groaning, licking and kissing and rubbing, their faces twisted in pleasure which she found at once fascinating and humorous. Emilia began to giggle. And when Emilia giggled, so her fifty-or-so entourage of lackeys and sycophants also giggled, despite not really understanding what Emilia found so amusing. She flopped a hand outwards, as the two lovers paused, turning towards her, confused a little at her behaviour. They must have conveyed a question in their looks, because the princess wet her lips a little, fluttered her long, dark eyelashes, and said, “Oh, don't let me stop you, please continue. It's just that… you reminded me of my father.” She giggled again. Around her, splashing in the pool, and seated on loungers scattered across the white paving stones, fifty giggles echoed in a subtle parody.

“More wine,” said the princess.

A muscular, tanned man with a military-grade haircut and chiselled good looks fine enough to make any court lady swoon, swam across to Emilia, and reaching for the tray – which bobbed a scant six inches from her own bobbing breasts – lifted a silver goblet and deposited it in the princess' flopping hand, pale and white and so reminiscent of a dying, panting fish.

“Oh, thank you, Geraldo, you are such a moonbeam.” She sipped delicately, spilling a few droplets, probably because this was her eighth goblet and the drinking of wine had taken up most of the day.

“A moonbeam, why, thank you, princess.”

“A pleashure,” she slurred, and fluttered her eyelashes again. Then she blinked and stared harder at Geraldo. “You have a very fine physique, Geraldo,” she said appreciatively, and gave a pout, a perfect pout, a perfect pink pout that had won the wallets, if not the hearts, of many a suitor.

“Why, thank you, Your Highness.”

She giggled again, and wiped her lips with the back of her hand, removing a little froth of wine bubbles. “May one ask, my dear, where you managed to achieve such a mus… such a musc… such a good shape.”

“I was in the army, Highness. Five years in the infantry.” Geraldo spoke the words carefully, for he had told her on numerous occasions in the past, including once that very morning, but Princess Emilia Ladine was extremely adept at not retaining information, especially about anybody whom she didn't consider more important than a chicken.

She seemed to look at him for the first time, and gave a little purr. “Really?” she said. “So, lots of running, and wrestling, and sword play?”

Geraldo nodded, distracted for a moment by a game of bat and ball occurring just a few feet away between two young men, both naked, their long dark oiled hair leaving rainbow trails in the water of the rooftop pool.

“Fabulous,” she said, and rested her chin on one fist. “Truly, fabulous.” She fluttered her eyelashes again, and sipped her wine. She seemed suddenly
less
drunk and
more
predatory. Then she frowned. “May I ask, Geraldo, how you went from being a soldier in my uncle's army to being naked in my pool?”

Geraldo gave a strangled little cough. He glanced around. “One of your…
lady friends
spied me whilst I was on parade. She requested that I be dismissed from the king's guard and re-employed here as your… as your…”

“Yes?”

“As your butler,” said Geraldo, voice perfectly even, eyes staring straight ahead with the same stare he'd used whilst being bellowed at by a staff sergeant. “I open your carriage door. I close your carriage door. I bring you trays of drinks. I feed you sweetmeats. Sometimes, I even cook your evening meals.” He lowered his gaze, so that he stared straight into the princess' emerald eyes. “It's a real challenge,” he said, without any hint of irony.

Emilia flipped her other hand, and tilted her head. Her long blonde curls bobbed across the water in what she imagined was a massively seductive posture. Nearby, a naked man on a stool deftly tuned a lyre, then started to croon a love ballad. The sun painted orange whorls across the lapping water. Distantly, the city buzzed, a muffled backdrop to the real business of royal hedonism.

Geraldo could sense what was coming. Married, with two young daughters, he wanted no part in this pantomime, and deeply resented this mindless goldfish of a woman who had, indirectly but by her royal edict, had him forcibly ejected from the military – the love of his life – and sentenced,
sentenced,
to an eternity of pointlessness. And yet he could not go against a direct order of King Yoon. It would not only cost him his own life, but that of his family.

And so he gritted his teeth.

“It's funny,” crooned Emilia, and sat up a little, slopping wine into the water, “But I feel a little chill, and so I think I shall retire to the royal tent for a lie down. Geraldo, would you please accompany me with my goblet and a fresh flask of chilled wine.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” said Geraldo, and taking the proffered damp limp hand, helped Princess Emilia Ladine to stand, resplendent in her gold bangles and nothing else, and then to step daintily up the steps, emerging dripping and radiant from the pool whereupon a maid rushed forward and draped a luminous floating chiffon robe around her pale shoulders, hiding nothing of her sexuality. Then she linked arms with a dazed Geraldo, and guided him to the extravagant tent which had been erected to one side of the platform roof near the fancy, carved marble barriers.

The tent was perhaps twenty feet square, and contained a bed, silk blankets, a brazier, and a large, elaborate, carved-oak drinks cabinet which had taken ten men, a league of rope and nearly a week to haul to the top of the tower on an elaborate pulley system. The rich tent fabric was red and gold and glossy, and rich, with more gold, as befitted a princess, and especially a
beautiful
princess of King Yoon's lineage. Incense was burning, and this incensed Geraldo who was, to all intents and purposes, an honourable outdoor man who would rather keep Emilia's rancid stink and drugs from his system.

Oh no,
he thought.
I knew this day might come. That I might have to make choices. But how do I wriggle out of this donkey shit? How do I get away from the insane bitch who's suddenly taken a liking to me?

Emilia ducked through the tent flaps, practically dragging Geraldo with her. Once inside, she turned, and smiled at him, droopy, drug-infused eyelids fluttering, and started making slobbering kisses as Geraldo strained backwards.

“Come to your princess, there's a good boy,” said Emilia, closing her eyes and tugging him towards the bed.

“Wait, wait, Your Highness!”

Finally recognising the panic in his voice, her eyes opened and she fixed him with a quizzical stare. “Yes, Geraldo? What is the matter? What could
possibly
be of urgency
now,
in this moment of our most intimate intimacy?”

Geraldo coughed. “Look. Princess. I'm sorry. I'm a married man. I have two beautiful young daughters. I'm employed here as a butler, and I respect you as a princess, I really do, but I am an honourable man. I
was
a military man, and I don't think it's
right
for me to come to your bed.”

Princess Emilia Ladine considered this, then slipped the chiffon robe from her shoulders, where it tumbled lazily, erotically, to the floor. She licked her lips. Her eyes were dreamy with drugs.

“I am royalty. You will do as I say.” She started to rub her hands up and down her body, swaying her hips, and moved backwards again, to recline naked and glistening on the silk sheets of the bed. “Come here, boy.”

“Please, Princess, I cannot do this…”

“Come here, or I will tell my uncle to have you beheaded. Publicly. And I will ensure your pretty little wife and pretty little daughters are there to witness the spectacle.”

Geraldo lowered his eyes, and shuffled forward to stand beside the bed.
Oh no. It's happened. She's finally going to force me to entertain her sexually, like I've seen so many other poor bastards endure…

Emilia touched herself between her legs. She groaned.

“Come,” she said, face cracking into a sculpted smile, “I want to witness your succulent tongue, I want to be orally stimulated by you, I wish to feel your tongue, down here, tickling and tasting, licking and sucking and flicking; I want you to come here and make
me
come…” and she frowned suddenly, pointing to his limp penis, “and
do something
about that, make it hard, immediately, or I'll…”