The band struck up a merry tune from a low wooden bandstand, with musicians playing happy fluttering notes on flutes, strumming lyres with vigour, and one woman, a ferret-faced baker with wild curly red hair which bounced in time to her efforts, hammering out a fantastical beat on several wide drums of cowhide. Banners and flags fluttered in the chilly breeze up and down Pig Market Street in the small, country village of Vanda, deep in the heart of Vagandrak.

Children ran down the hard mud road, giggling and shouting, playing games of Kiss Catch, Beat the Rat and Stab the Leper, whilst the men gathered around the ale tent with serious faces and bushy beards, tankards clasped to chests or balanced on rounded bellies. Their womenfolk either danced before the band on the paved, stone square, skirts held above their knees and faces ruddy with exertion, merriment and the cold weather, or huddled in groups, tongues wagging in earnest as they gestured towards other gossiping housewives.

Little Annie clutched her doll to her chest and watched the bigger children play. Little Annie had a sweet, round face, long, blonde hair woven into plaits that nearly reached her waist. Her red cardigan and red battered shoes added a splash of colour to the late winter drabness as her large green eyes followed a group of girls who were running with a glossy, pink streamer.

Little Annie wanted to play with the bigger girls so much it made her want to cry, but she didn’t have the courage to approach them – she was far too shy – and so she stood with tears filling her eyes, chewing her lip, and hoping.

Then, a miracle!

One of the girls peeled away from the group and jogged to Little Annie. She bent a little, and smiled a warm, friendly smile. “I know you. You’re Little Annie. My mother’s just started working in the wool barn with your mother.”

Little Annie nodded.

“I’m Chalina. It’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s… nice… to meet you,” said Little Annie, licking her lips nervously, eyes wide.

“Do you want to come and play?”

“That would be fun.”

Chalina took Little Annie’s hand, and within minutes they were running together, laughing, their footsteps matching the rhythm of the band as they ran as fast as they could, as fast as the wind, the glossy pink streamer undulating like the ripples of a moving snake. They stopped, panting, halfway down the street. The music was distant now, as was the rumble of talk and laughter which merged into a low undertone that formed the aural backbone of the friendly gathering.

Little Annie was looking back towards the crowd, a little nervous at being away from the village centre and her house and her mother.

“Do you want to run with the ribbon?”

Little Annie’s eyes went wide. “Could I?”

“Yes, yes! Of course you can!”

“Fabulous,” said Little Annie, eyes shining, wet lips wide as she took the crimped end of the ribbon in her free hand, and thought, you are the best friend I’ve ever had, you are wonderful, Chalina, and she knew, knew deep in her heart that this new friend was a friend for life!

“Come on, back to the village square.”

They set off, and Chalina ran ahead now, looking back, giggling at Little Annie’s simple pleasure, her laughter and her shining eyes. But even as she ran, Chalina’s eyes narrowed and her face changed, but Little Annie was having too much fun to notice, caught up in her own fun game, in her own little world.

A dark shape seemed to fill the end of the street, coming in low and fast from over the rolling hills of surrounding countryside. Chalina caught a sudden vision that made her stumble and fall, rolling on the muddy road, scrambling onto her back and staring straight ahead, past the still-giggling form of Little Annie, at the… at the dragon which swept towards them.

There was a whump, and suddenly Little Annie was gone, and a warm wind rushed over Chalina who rolled and turned, in time to see the black dragon lift sharply, huge tail covered with black spines whipping neatly as the beast climbed steeply with Little Annie in its mouth. There came a distant crunch and two severed arms and two severed legs came tumbling down out of the sky, to land with quad thumps amidst the shocked, suddenly motionless group of dancing women.

One hand still held the doll, twisted in a bloody, torn piece of ribbon.

Blood pattered down like rain, and a woman began to scream.

“Dragon!” bellowed one man, and ales were tossed aside as men ran for houses and weapons. High above, Volak rolled, lazy and huge, and then slowly came to the end of the climb where she hung for a moment, impossibly suspended, like a bead of blood on the tip of a blade, balanced, refusing to obey the laws of physics. And then reality kicked in, and Volak tipped and her snout dropped towards the ground, tail whipping in a vicious arc, cracking through the sky as the villagers scattered beneath her and she powered down towards these pink-skinned insects. Many scattered. Some had returned with bows. Arrows whizzed up towards her, several clattering from her black, iron-like scales. And suddenly her wings smashed the air, her head reared up and she landed on the stone square, rippling the ground and cracking the paving slabs. More arrows screeched along Volak’s scales, and her head dropped to ground level, neck moving like a snake as her eyes narrowed and her gaze swung around, analysing the villagers before her.

“Ants,” she hissed, tongue flickering, flames curling around her elongated black snout. Then she laughed, and the villagers started to run.

Volak took a deep breath, her chest glowed, and with a squeal, a superheated blast of fire roared out.

Reeka the Merchant, chunky, receding hair, his face crisscrossed with worry lines, sat back on the silk cushions of his carriage and tried not to think about the fast approaching darkness.

They should have reached Woodhaven long before dusk, but a broken carriage wheel had set them back two hours, and now the darkness had crept over the forest, and Woodhaven seemed like a distant, unachievable sanctuary.

A horse whinnied, and Reeka jumped, sweat gleaming on his balding pate, his fingers clenching and unclenching in the soft wool blanket that covered his knees to ward off the evening chill.

The carriage lurched from side to side, creaking. Boza and Dull, the driver and bodyguard, had taken far too long to change that broken wheel. Damn them! They have caused me unnecessary risk!

Reeka frowned, mind ticking over, but not that quickly. Despite being relatively wealthy through a series of fluke maritime transactions, Reeka was not the brightest candle in the room, and unfortunately, was not bright enough to realise his own lack of illumination.

Slowly, the carriage ground to a halt. There was a crack as the right wheel rested on a fallen branch.

“Boza? Dull? Why have we stopped?” Reeka’s voice was wavery, nasal, almost feminine.

“Er, boss,” said Dull, “better step out here.”

“Step out there?” Reeka could hardly disguise his disgust. What? Step out into the dark? Into the cold? Into the fucking forest? Has the man lost his brain? Dull by name, dullard by nature.

“Er. Yeah, boss. We got a problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“I kinda gots to show yer.”

“Huff.” He actually said the word huff. “Very well. If I must. If you insist. But it better be very bloody important because I’m very bloody unhappy, and it’s all your fault, for taking so long with the bloody carriage wheel…”

Reeka stepped down from the carriage, wrapping his blanket around his shoulders and not, immediately, looking up. A horse stamped, smoke drifting from nostrils.

“Er, boss.”

Reeka looked up. Into the grinning faces of ten forest bandits, who had levelled crossbows, rugged attire, and an air of menace that sent shivers quivering up and down Reeka the Merchant’s entire body. He felt his bollocks retract into marbles, as quite commonly happened, and his mouth was suddenly too dry to speak.

The silence, and lack of movement, was deeply unnerving.

“Wh… wh… what do… do… you want?” Reeka licked his lips. Fear was not something he was used to dealing with, and deal with it badly he did.

One bandit stepped forward; he was a handsome chap, with a cheeky grin that said, I know when I’ve got you by the balls, and he rested his crossbow against his thigh, lifted his chin, thinking for a moment, and said, in a slow, sardonic drawl, “Stand and deliver. Your money, or your life.”

Reeka, Boza and Dull were naked, tied together with harsh hemp rope, and squirming as only three naked men could squirm in an attempt to not touch one another’s nakedness.

“You shall be fired for this,” snorted Reeka, eventually, watching the bandits open one of his chests and cackle at the silken finery they found within.

One bandit danced around the road with a pair of Reeka’s lacy underwear on his head, making sexual grunting noises and grabbing his groin. “Oooh, I’m Reeka, the Lord of the Manor, want to touch my silky pants and the gold coin that lies within?” The others laughed. Reeka reddened.

“Stop that! Stop that, I say!”

They ignored him.

“Fire me for what?” Dull was annoyed. Annoyed he’d been taken prisoner, annoyed he was naked, but even more annoyed that he was pressed up against Reeka’s naked flesh and the plump merchant’s penis occasionally brushed against his leg. “Come on, you fucking fat prick, what you gonna fire me for?”

Reeka reddened more. Prick was an old playground nickname he thought he had long left behind. Dull couldn’t have known about Reeka’s tortured childhood, but the barb shot straight to his heart and stuck there, quivering.

“How… how… how dare you!” Reeka was fuming. His penis pressed hard against Dull. Dull frowned. Dull was deeply annoyed. Dull didn’t want Reeka’s maggot sliming down his leg. It made Dull want to beat Reeka’s head repeatedly against the ground until he didn’t move no more.

“I dare,” growled Dull, dropping from anger to danger in one swift pendulum swing.

The bandits, who had now ravaged their way through all six chests, were in fine merriment. Many had pulled on Reeka’s ridiculous wardrobe, and were parading around, pretending to be gentry. Many crossbows were leant against trees.

Dull’s eyes narrowed, and his fingers found a knot. He twisted left. A fully loaded triple-shot Steir & Moorheim leant against a tree, stock gleaming black and dangerous. If, if he could just get to that weapon, he’d unleash a chaos amongst these fucking forest bandits like they’d never fucking seen in a lifetime.

Reeka shifted, moaning incomprehensibly, and his penis slid along Dull’s buttock.

“Keep your fucking prick to yourself, you disgusting… prick,” he snarled.

Reeka was shivering, and simply nodded.

Dull felt the knot fall open under his fingers. The bandits were still dancing around. They had red wine now, sloshing in tankards, and it looked like they were making a party out of Reeka the Merchant’s misfortune.

“Right,” said Dull, cracking his knuckles, and suddenly rose, leaping left, grabbing the Steir & Moorheim and cocking it with a solid-sounding thud. “Right, youse bastards.” One bandit turned – and was punched backwards from his feet, a black bolt in his throat, spewing blood down Reeka’s fine crimson silk pantaloons. He scrabbled for a while and various drunken bandits turned and stared at Dull, but more importantly, stared at the Steir & Moorheim.

“Er… ” said Reeka, covering his eyes.

“Who’s fucking next?” growled Dull, face pale in the moonlight spilling from on high between distant branches.

Drunk bandits stared at him, mouths open at this sudden reversal.

There was a whump, and Dull was gone.

The Steir & Moorheim clattered to the forest trail.

“By the Seven Sisters,” muttered Reeka, looking around him suddenly.

A screech rent the air, high-pitched, feral, alien, dragon.

Everybody froze, and then suddenly started to run. Fire seemed to blossom from nowhere, an inferno; trees went up in an instant to become roaring totems of surging fire, and the forest was no longer a forest, but a rendition of the Chaos Halls where everything, and everybody, burned…

Men and horses screamed as they were eaten by fire.

The air was filled with the stench of scorched meat.

Reeka, miraculously freed from Boza when a random blast of dragon fire scorched the ropes and ignited the unfortunate driver, sending him sprinting and wobbling into the forest, his very skin and fat on fire, had crawled along the path away from the many fires, and was busy praying to a God he didn’t believe in for a miracle that couldn’t happen.

There was a thump. The ground shook.

Reeka slowly looked up.

A dragon stood on the forest road before him, and was swaying slightly, as if hypnotised. It was dark silver in colour, scales appearing to be made of metal, and its head had two huge horns. But the eyes – the eyes were black slits, and with a jump Reeka realised they were fixed on him.

“Wh… what do you want?”

A long, low hiss ejected on streams of steam.

“Can… can you speak, monster? Or are you just a dumb beast intent on murder?”

Kranesh chuckled, lowered her head, and stared hard at Reeka the Merchant. “You are cocky, for such a feeble sack of maggoty shit,” she said, and gave a slow, lazy blink.

Reeka swallowed, and urine ran down his leg.

“What do you want, Hell Beast?”

“Revenge,” said Kranesh, and leaning forward slowly, delicately tore off Reeka’s head. The corpse hit the ground, twitching and squirming, blood spraying from the neck stump until the body was empty, the life was gone, and Reeka the Merchant was no more.

Deep in the forest, there came a clatter.

Kranesh grinned. “More fresh meat,” she murmured, and moved forward, the strength of her bulk and mass toppling trees as she pursued the surviving forest bandit deep, deep down into the bowels of the Furnace.

Sergeant Dunda and Lieutenant Filligorse stood on a low hill, watching the winter sun rise slowly from behind the jagged mountain peaks. Mist crawled across the uneven ground, skeins curling around upthrust boulders, as the dawn light painted purple streaks through the clouds and from the distance came the thump of marching boots.

“I hope this display is better than last time,” said Filligorse, his voice a little nasal, his watery blue eyes narrowed against the bright light.

“The lads have been working hard, lieutenant,” growled Dunda, and rubbed at his beard before turning to the bugler. “Gahi, sound the charge.”

Gahi lifted the bugle, and gave three short blasts.

The heavily armoured infantry units broke into a charge, coming into view. Their boots thundered, plate mail clanking.

“Explain your formation, sergeant.”

Dunda coughed. “A hundred and fifty on left and right wings, hundred centre, hundred reserves.”

“Jolly good. Bugler, sound a halt, followed by weak centre.”

The bugler gave a series of blasts and the five hundred Vagandrak soldiers, steel bright and glinting in the dawn sunlight, stopped with well-measured precision, and the centre units retreated, twenty peeling from each side to reinforce the left and right wings. The idea was that a weak centre would invite an enemy attack, and the wings would curl around to encompass the enemy from three sides, crushing them.

Boots stamped to attention, and silence drifted across the plain.

“They are better, much better,” observed Filligorse.

Dunda made a low growling sound, but said nothing. He fought hard against wanting to punch the lieutenant on the nose.

Mist curled around boots, and the soldiers waited with military patience, hands on sword hilts, heads high, backs straight. Although these were not veterans, not battle-tested, they still presented themselves well, had trained hard under Dunda’s expertise… after all, he was a veteran. He had survived the Second Mud-Orc War. He was revered and highly respected by the men.

Dunda marched forward without a word to the lieutenant, to stand before his beloved units. He puffed out his chest proudly, and beamed a smile. “You done me proud, lads,” he said, voice rumbling out across their motionless ranks. “Now, what we’re going to do is have a little bit of a run.” Where once there would have been groans, now there was simple acceptance. And that was a small miracle in itself; running in full armour was no pleasure at all.

Dunda looked back at the lieutenant. The man had a slightly pained expression on his face. Dunda grinned and scratched his chin once more… but then frowned, because there was something in the sky. An eagle? But Gods, it was big. A Golden Eagle? He squinted again, then turned to the white peaks, a saw blade across the horizon. It was feasible. They were within range…

Then there came a distant thump, as of some great object slapping the air, and the object accelerated with impossible speed. Dunda felt his mouth drop open, something that hadn’t happened since he manned the walls of Desekra Fortress.

“By the Seven Sisters…” he said, and felt a sudden ripple of fear course through the armoured men behind him.

“What is it?” Lieutenant Filligorse was saying. “What’s the matter with you lot?”

And then he turned, in time to see what looked like a brass dragon speeding towards him, wings outstretched, their edges lined with spikes, scales gleaming with reflected sunlight, eyes black and slanted and narrowed… and fixed on him.

His muscles tensed.

“Oh no,” he managed.

Then Moraxx opened her jaws, and grabbed him from the hilltop like a man plucking a lollipop from a child. She soared above the arranged infantry, and every head turned, following her silent passing. Silent, until she bit down, and spat out Filligorse on a short jet of fire.

The two halves of his scorched body hit the ground amidst the infantry, and many leapt back, noses wrinkling at the stench of half-cooked human flesh.

“Right, you fuckers!” screamed Dunda, and suddenly the men leapt back to attention. “Seems we have a fucking dragon who wants to have a fight. Those with short-range crossbows, load and fire on my command… ” Dunda was watching the beast circle, a wide, lazy arc and his brow furrowed at the sheer scale of the beast, the sheer, inherent power…

Moraxx came in on a silent glide, head outstretched, dark, slitted, malevolent eyes gleaming with intelligence. Dunda screamed a command, and bolts lashed through the air, a dark hail… and they watched with open mouths as Moraxx dipped one wing, dropped under the bolts, then suddenly accelerated towards the armoured infantry, landing in their midst with a crash that sent men toppling like armoured skittles. Her tail lashed out, sending twenty soldiers screaming into comrades, their plate armour buckling. Bodies pulped inside metal as soldiers merged with friends to form broken heaps of severed limbs and crushed flesh. Moraxx roared, but the Vagandrak infantry charged, swords hacking at her scales, at her legs. She turned in the midst of the melee with lazy contempt and lowered her head. Her chest glowed, snout opened, and fire roared from the furnace of her throat and fire glands… men screamed, as armour became suddenly superheated and they cooked inside their metal prisons, flesh pink and steaming, skin curling like fried pig, until eyes popped and knees collapsed and the scorched armour held their cooked bodies together, boiled live like lobsters in a pot, fried in their own juices and body fat, which ran clear from the legs of armour as a hundred men lay sizzling.

Moraxx started to lash out, marching amongst the soldiers. Swords hacked at her, but long claws like polearms punched out, cutting soldiers in two.

Sergeant Dunda ran up behind Moraxx, his huge paws swinging a double-headed battle axe that smashed into her flanks, dislodging several scales. Again he struck, and again, until suddenly Moraxx whirled on him and, in the blink of an eye, he was in her jaws. Gasping, he dropped his axe and grabbed her snout, trying to force her jaws apart, trying to ease the terrible pressure which crushed him. Moraxx shook her head, Dunda’s limbs flailing like a doll, and then she bit deep and cut him in half, spitting out the two halves of corpse like a dog ejecting a rotten bone.

She breathed deep, black eyes glinting, burning corpses sending glints of orange bouncing from her scales. The remaining soldiers had retreated, gathered into a unit. There were perhaps fifty left. They held a ragtag assortment of weapons, and remembering their training, they formed into a wedge, shields lifted for protection, trying to ignore the feeble cries of so many half-cooked comrades who steamed like burned pig slabs on a fire rock.

“Charge!” came the cry.

Moraxx inhaled: there came the whisper of her fire glands, and a stream of flames erupted, engulfing the charging unit of soldiers, blasting them backwards, into a heap, into a mass of one, where flesh cooked and blackened, bodies thrashing and trembling, hot fat running. The fire continued, changing from yellow to blue to pure white as it streamed from the wyrm’s jaws, illuminating her black cruel eyes as she strode forwards… and plate armour finally melted, and the whole unit of Vagandrak infantry became one mass of molten steel and flesh that ran from a mound to a puddle on this, its final resting place.

Moraxx stopped, fire whispered, and suddenly a strange silence fell like ash.

She turned her head and, with a slap of her wings, leapt into the sky and was soon a black dot on the horizon.