Free The Dragon Engine by Andy Remic Page B

his eyes dark and hooded, his military bearing ramrod straight and specifically non-judgemental.
    â€œI apologise for the interruption, Sire,” came Zandbar’s deep rumble, “but this is a matter of grave urgency.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œYour great nephew, Lord Daron, has been beaten to within an inch of his life.”
    â€œDid he deserve it?”
    â€œMost 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.
    â€œWe 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.
    â€œStop! Who goes there? We will inflict violence!”
    â€œRelax,” 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.”
    â€œOf 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.
    â€œYou 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