The Brass King.

Master Engineer, Beldrin Tungsten has died, and the Brass King is missing.

The rain hammered against the iron rooftops of Khar-Mor, and steam billowed from a hundred chimneys. Great pipes snaked between the buildings like brass serpents, carrying boiling water from the city's heart. Above the streets, gears turned day and night, powering lifts, cranes, and machines that never seemed to rest.
Dakmund hated every one of them. The dwarf shoved his way through the crowd, muttering curses beneath his breath. A clockwork carriage rattled past, nearly clipping him.
"Watch where ye're going!" he shouted.
The driver either didn't hear him or didn't care. Dakmund spat into the gutter. Twenty years ago, a dwarf carried a hammer, yet now every fool carried a wrench and thought himself a genius. He pushed open the door to The Smoking Cog, and warmth struck him at once. The tavern was crowded with engineers, machinists, and labourers. The air smelled of oil, ale, and wet wool. Dakmund approached the counter, without a glance in anyone’s direction. A nice drink would do for him. Trouble could come after, and there was bound to be some.
"Whiskey."
The barkeeper nodded and poured him a glass. Dakmund took a long drink, and that was when the door burst open, and rain blew inside. A young dwarf stumbled through the entrance.
"Master Engineer Beldrin's dead!"
The tavern fell silent. Dakmund lowered his glass, whilst The messenger struggled to catch his breath.
"They found him in the lower foundry."
A murmur spread through the room. Beldrin was famous throughout the city, and some called him a genius. Others called him a lunatic, but Dakmund called him both. The messenger swallowed.
"The Brass King is gone."
The room erupted, and Dakmund frowned. The Brass King wasn't a king at all. It was a machine so large it occupied an entire district beneath the city, and for ten years it had powered Khar-Mor. Every pipe, every gear, and every furnace drew strength from it. Without it, the city would grind to a halt. Dakmund issued a sigh. Trouble had come after all.
"Here we go."

The lower foundry sat deep beneath the mountain, and steam drifted through the tunnels. Dakmund descended a rusted staircase and entered the chamber, where the Brass King towered before him. Even after seeing it a dozen times, the sight still impressed him. The machine resembled a seated king forged from brass and iron, and pipes ran from its body into the walls. Gears larger than houses turned behind it, whilst steam hissed from countless valves. Engineers swarmed around the machine, and Master Engineer Beldrin lay nearby beneath a sheet. Dakmund approached, and a guard nodded.
"Go on."
Dakmund pulled back the cloth. Beldrin stared at the ceiling, his eyes wide. Fear had remained frozen upon his face, yet the sight made Dakmund frown. The old engineer bore no wounds; No cuts, no bruises, nothing.
"What killed him?"
"No idea," said the guard.
Dakmund covered the body once more. His gaze shifted toward the machine. Something felt wrong, and the Brass King's eyes glowed faintly red. They had never done that before, which caused a shiver to crawl up his spine.
"Who was here last night?"
The guard shrugged.
"Beldrin. Alone."
Dakmund stared at the machine, then the machine stared back. The dwarf froze, and watched as one brass finger moved. The chamber fell silent, then an engineer screamed. The Brass King stood. Metal groaned, pipes burst, and steam exploded through the room.
"Run!" someone shouted.
Dakmund didn't need telling twice as the giant machine ripped free from the wall. Brass shattered, iron bent, and the entire chamber shook. The Brass King took one thunderous step forward. Its eyes burned crimson, and Dakmund snatched up his hammer. Andoljur felt reassuringly heavy in his hand.
"What in the Seven Hells have ye done now, Beldrin?"

The city bells rang. Citizens poured into the streets, and panic spread like wildfire. The Brass King emerged from the mountain, its head nearly touching the rooftops. People screamed and fled, and the giant machine marched through the city. Buildings collapsed beneath its feet, and steam blasted from its shoulders. Dakmund sprinted after it, whilst rain lashed against his face. A section of masonry crashed into the street ahead, so he dodged left.
A brass foot slammed down behind him, and the impact of it nearly threw him off his feet. The Brass King continued onward. Toward the central furnace, and Dakmund's stomach sank. The furnace powered the entire city. If the machine reached it, the town would go into chaos and no longer work. Not if Dakmund had anything to do with it.
"Move!" he bellowed.
A handful of guards joined him. Crossbows fired, but the bolts bounced harmlessly from the machine's armour. One struck its eye, and the Brass King turned. A massive arm swept through the air, and the guards vanished beneath a wall of metal. Dakmund grimaced. That answered that, and he needed another plan. His gaze settled upon a maintenance crane running alongside the street, and an idea formed. It was a terrible idea, yet those were usually the only kind he had.
Dakmund climbed the crane, but the rain made the metal slick. The machine lumbered closer and closer. Then he jumped, and for one dreadful moment there was nothing beneath him. He struck brass, and the impact drove the air from his lungs. His fingers found purchase, just barely. The Brass King marched onward, whilst Dakmund clung to its shoulder.
"Ye ugly bastard."
Steam erupted from a nearby vent, and the blast nearly cooked him alive. He scrambled upward, every step threatening to send him tumbling into the street. At last, he reached the machine's neck. A hatch sat there, half-open, and Dakmund grinned.
"Thank ye, Beldrin."
He forced it wider, then climbed inside.

The interior glowed red. Hundreds of gears spun around a central chamber, and steam hissed from every direction. At the centre floated a crystal, and Dakmund stopped. The crystal wasn't red or blue.
It wasn't any colour he recognised. Dark tendrils moved beneath its surface, like smoke trapped in glass. Dakmund immediately disliked it. Beldrin had always been searching for new sources of power, and apparently he'd found one. The crystal pulsed, then a voice filled the chamber.
"Flesh."
Dakmund nearly dropped his hammer.
"What?"
"Flesh."
The voice sounded ancient, cold, wrong, and The crystal brightened.
"I’m awake."
Dakmund stared. Then he did what any sensible dwarf would do. He hit it. Andoljur slammed into the crystal, and a crack appeared. The entire machine shuddered, and the voice roared. Pain exploded through Dakmund's skull, knocking him backwards. The crystal flashed, and a hundred mechanical limbs unfolded from the walls.
"Oh, ye can sod right off."
The limbs lunged, and Dakmund ducked beneath the first. His hammer crushed the second, but a third clipped his shoulder. Pain shot through his arm, whilst the chamber echoed with the screech of grinding metal. The Brass King continued marching, and Dakmund swung again. Another arm shattered, and the crystal pulsed faster. The machine was getting closer to the furnace.
Far too close, so Dakmund did the only thing he could. He raised Andoljur, and charged. The remaining limbs descended. Dakmund ignored them. One struck his back, another tore his sleeve, and a third split the skin above his eye. Yet he kept running, and swung Andoljur. The hammer connected, and the crystal shattered. Light erupted through the chamber, whilst The voice screamed.
For an instant Dakmund glimpsed something within the crystal. A shape, a face. It was something impossibly old. Then it vanished. The machine froze, and silence followed. Complete silence, and Dakmund's eyes widened as realisation hit him.
"Oh," he said as the Brass King tipped forward.

The crash echoed across the city, and half the district disappeared beneath dust. When it finally settled, the giant machine lay motionless. Citizens slowly emerged from hiding, whilst Dakmund crawled from the wreckage. Every bone in his body hurt; His beard was singed, his shoulder ached, blood dripped from his forehead, yet he was alive.
A crowd gathered, but for several seconds nobody spoke. Then someone cheered, and others joined. The sound spread through the street, and Dakmund looked around.
"What's all this?"
"You saved us!"
The crowd erupted, whilst Dakmund scratched his beard.
"Well."
A young dwarf stepped forward. "How did you stop it?"
Dakmund glanced at the ruined machine, then at his hammer.
"I hit it."
The child blinked.
"That's it?"
"Aye."
The boy considered this, then he nodded, satisfied. Dakmund began to walk away.
"Where are you going?" someone called.
The dwarf didn't stop.
"The tavern."
"Why?"
Dakmund grimaced.
"Because I've just saved a city full of engineers, and I need a drink."

Word Count: 1,456
Punk Genre: Steampunk.