Mike Wild - The Clockwork King of Orl

And the most disturbing aspect about them was that, whatever mix of technology and dark magics had been used to create them, the organs remained fresh. Kali could tell that because each had a smaller version of the ring that encircled Munch's skull embedded in a still-pulsing brain.

"They called them the Thousand," Munch explained. "Dwarven warriors partly resurrected from where they had fallen to the elves and restored to fight again."

"Belatron harvested their bodies," Kali realised with disgust. "Returned to the battlefields and ripped their remains apart when they should have reached their final rest. That's why they called him Belatron the Butcher."

"They were warriors!" Munch exclaimed. "Each and every one of them would have given their right arm for the chance to fight for their clan once more!"

"Seems they did," Slowhand said. "Amongst other things."

Munch slammed his fist onto the side of his throne. "Clan Trang had to rise again! M'Ar'Tak had to march!"

"Wo-hoah. Steady, shorty."

"It all went wrong, though, didn't it, Stan?" Kali said. "This throne you're sitting in — this skullring you're wearing — is what Belatron used to control them. Only he couldn't, could he? Because by the time he'd done with them, by the time their brains had realised what they now were, and by the time he had forced them up those steps and indoctrinated them with his messages of death and killing and war, they had, all of them, become completely insane."

"They turned on their own," Makennon said. "And then they turned on everything else. A marching horde, but nothing to do with the Lord of All. How could I have been so blind, so stupid, so wrong?"

"You weren't wrong, Makennon," Slowhand said, looking at Kali. "Like Hooper, here, you just didn't have access to all the information. Something, in your case, I'm sure a certain short bastard had a lot to do with."

Makennon swung on Munch. "Why do you do this, Konstantin? Do you want to use your army to bring down the Final Faith?"

Munch laughed. "The Faith? The Faith is fleeting. My army is to be used to bring about a resurgence of the dwarven race, by giving them the freedom to emerge from their underground enclosures by annihilating anything that stands in their way."

"I've got some news for you," Slowhand said. "Your lot died out a long time ago. There are no more dwarven enclosures."

"Actually, there might be," Kali said, hesitantly.

"What?"

"Tale for another time."

"Oh."

Kali turned back to Munch. "Munch, listen to me. Belatron couldn't control these things, and neither will you. They won't wipe out anything that stands in your way, they'll wipe out everything, including yoursel — "

"Enough!" Munch barked. He inhaled deeply and his blood-stained brow furrowed with concentration. "It is time."

All along the galleries, the heads of the clockwork warriors rose from their slumped positions and stared ahead, ruptured vessels in their unnatural eyes making them appear to flare red. Then, in military step, they began to march forwards and pound down the steps from the three levels — an army on the move. Munch blinked and four separated from the horde, coming to stand around him as bodyguards, but the rest, assembling in ordered ranks of five abreast, stood ready to march towards the exit.

"No!" Kali shouted, pulling free of her captors. Determined to halt their progress, to prise Munch from his seat of power, she ran forwards, eliciting a warning cry from Slowhand. Munch looked at his clockwork bodyguards but then sniffed, as if using them was hardly worth the effort, and instead signalled to his people to turn their crossbows on Kali instead of Makennon — and fire. Their bolts slammed into her from every direction, the impacts forcing a series of grunts as she attempted to stagger on, and, though her reserves must have been considerable and she almost made it, she found herself faltering and staring at Munch with a look of pained surprise in her eyes. Munch sighed and drew his gutting knife from his belt, aiming it provocatively and directly at her.

"No further, Miss Hooper."

"Damn you, you bas — " Kali began. But she never finished her curse. The knife flew with as much force as Munch could muster and embedded itself solidly in her chest. It stopped Kali quite literally dead in her tracks and, her breath whistling strangely, she looked dully down at the protruding blade — what little of it she could see — then, stunned and confused, dropped to her knees and, slowly, onto her face. A small groan escaped her, and, as a pool of blood began to spread ever more largely beneath her, one thought overrode all others.

This wasn't how she was meant to die.

"Hooper?" Slowhand said.

"Should you be thinking of trying the same, minstrel," Munch advised, staring at the still and bloodied body, "there are plenty more bolts in my people's possession."

Slowhand stared. The throne room was utterly silent apart from the roaring of the ogur as it battered at the bars of its cage with as much fury as the archer had in his eyes. No words were necessary, though, as Slowhand's expression said it all. He was going to kill Munch — and very soon.

The standoff was broken by Makennon.

"Munch, this is insane! What if Hooper was right? If Belatron the Butcher — their creator — couldn't control these things, what chance do you have?"

Munch smiled, looked at his bodyguards and blinked. The four clockwork men stamped their feet as one, quaking the floor of the throne room.

"He's doing it," Makennon said quietly to Slowhand. "He's actually controlling them."

"Probably something to do with the fact that he's as insane as they are. The question is, how long will it last?"

Makennon tried to reason with Munch one last time.

"Konstantin, he's right. These things might obey you now but what about when you've razed Andon, Freiport, Scholten? Because that is what you want to do, isn't it? But how strong will you be, then? What's to stop your army going on to kill the very dwarves whose resurgence you desire? This is fantasy!"

Munch glared. "You call me a fantasist? You, a religious zealot who clutches at any straw and follows any carrot that is dangled before her eyes? You pathetic woman — your whole reason for existence is a fantasy!"

Makennon drew herself up to her full height. "I was a general, Konstantin Munch. It is my job to know when an army stands unfit to march."

"On the contrary," Munch said. "It is my job to tell them when to."

He closed his eyes and concentrated, and the massed ranks of clockwork warriors began to pound slowly towards the door. Their orders received, Munch opened his eyes, stared around at everyone in the throne room and then looked to his bodyguards. "Kill them all," he ordered.

All hells broke loose. Slowhand and Makennon staggered back as the four mechanical warriors began to systematically attack everyone who had been in the Anointed Lord's party, their axes and hammers slicing and crushing, chopping and pounding, beating and tearing their bodies apart. Those that were armed tried to defend themselves with their crossbows and blades, and those that were not — the mages — with their fireballs and storms, desperately weaving cones of protection as they fought to keep their attackers back. Screams of agony echoed around the stone chamber, and its walls were splattered and sprayed with blood, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop themselves dying. Nothing at all.

In his caged wagon, the ogur raged.

"You little bastard!" Slowhand shouted, and, without thinking, began to run towards Munch, but Makennon pulled him back.

"You'll never get near him," she said. "We have to get out of here."

Slowhand glared at her, knowing she was right. But still he shrugged her off, staring at Kali's body.