The Dragon Engine by Andy Remic Page A

“civilisation” was brought to the Harborym by the Great Dwarf Lords. It was a wide well, a low wall of stone defining the perimeter – perhaps thirty feet wide, a natural shaft deep, deep down into the bowels of the Karamakkos. It had been used as an industry tip for centuries; now it was used more to dispose of unwanted corpses. It saw a lot of business. Most DumpShafts had been sealed by the church; here in the Pits, nobody seemed to care.
    Beside the DumpShaft stood a warehouse. Big. Old. Falling down. By the narrow entrance leaned two serious-looking dwarfs, both carrying evil, well-worn maces. Methodrox stopped beside these two individuals and looked back. The dwarf following did not pause, but came in close, trusting, confident, eyes meeting Methodrox’s.
    â€œWatch the street,” he said, and ducked inside. The newcomer followed.
    They moved through various corridors, eventually coming to a small room. Again, there were five large and very serious-looking dwarves. Their eyes glittered, their faces grim slabs. Here, Methodrox finally stopped and dragged up a chair, sitting himself down. The newcomer was left standing.
    â€œState your name.”
    â€œEcho.”
    â€œCan you prove this?”
    The newcomer shrugged, and looked at the five dwarves who spread out before him, pushing in front of the seated Methodrox. A wall of muscle. A wall of bristling weapons.
    â€œDo you need me to?”
    The five stocky dwarves attacked in a sudden rush. Echo ducked a club, dropping to one knee and delivering a right-hand straight that broke the dwarf’s knee. He screamed, rolling to one side as Echo rolled to the left, grabbing a second attacker’s groin and dragging down on his balls. Another scream.
    They backed off for a moment, finding new positions. Echo was relaxed, features neutral. Then he attacked. Three strikes in three seconds, leaving them rolling on the floor with various breaks and dislocations, groaning the way only big, tough killers can groan from an unexpected violence.
    Echo glanced up. “You wish me to kill them?”
    Methodrox stood, and held up a hand. “No. Follow me.”
    More corridors, more narrow apertures to squeeze through. They came to a big space, bright with a thousand candles. A thousand dwarves were seated around tables, food and drink before them. As they entered through a side door, Echo looked genuinely surprised. “The Army of Purity?”
    â€œA sample,” smiled Methodrox. “We grow stronger every day.”
    â€œThe Church of Hate truly has something to fear.”
    â€œA wise observation. Follow me.” They moved between the tables, where serious faces regarded Echo and he returned their stares, face neutral. Finally, they came upon a table at the far end of the chamber, around which were arranged eight grave-looking dwarves, with neatly trimmed beards and black, polished armour. They stood, and nodded at Echo, and then they all sat – except Methodrox who gestured to an empty seat. Echo sat, looking around at each face slowly, as if memorising the features for future reference.
    â€œYou want me to kill Skalg?” said Echo once more, quietly, placing both hands flat on the table. The backs of his hands were crisscrossed with narrow white scars.
    â€œNo,” said Methodrox. “We want something… a little more elaborate.”
    Slowly, Methodrox outlined his plan.
    â€œThere is… considerable risk.”
    â€œAnd we offer considerable reward.”
    â€œI require no payment.”
    Methodrox looked taken aback, and he rubbed at the bristles of his beard thoughtfully.
    â€œYou would do this out of principle? To free the dwarves of the tyrannical rules of the Church of Hate?”
    Echo shrugged, and looked off, as if into the distance. “Let’s just say that bastard Skalg and I go way back; and I have an old score to settle.” His eyes were gleaming and he locked his gaze to