by Markus Heitz
“Hold it fast!” bellowed Tungdil, running through water that came up to his middle. He pulled and tugged at the statue, together with five companions, but the blankets round it were sodden and it was heavier than ever. A wave threw three of the dwarves off balance. The stone figure of Lot-Ionan slipped over the edge and sank to the depths.
“No!” roared Tungdil, staring in horror at where the statue had disappeared. He stepped forward as if to dive after it.
“Let it be.” Ireheart held him back. “Who knows whether you’d ever have been able to bring him back to life. We still have a magus, Scholar. We just have to get him to his magic.”
The spell which had turned Lot-Ionan to stone was affecting Tungdil too, it seemed. He could not move. He could not speak. The wind howled in his face, and though he heard the cracking ships’ timbers breaking up, his mind was at a standstill, his plans all over the place like liberated mercury, rolling and disappearing. What happens now? The words went round and round in his head. I’ve lost him for all time. It’s my fault. This was no way to defeat the island.
“Tungdil!” bawled Ireheart in his ear, shaking him. “Come on, man. We need you.”
“Damnation!” shouted Tungdil into the storm, spray washing away his tears of despair and disappointment. Then his resolute dwarf spirit took over and he exploded into action. “Let’s get this blasted island conquered!” He raised his head. “Furgas!”
Furgas appeared, waved and jumped down off the remains of the ship. He took command and led them through the cave Rodario had encountered before. They were now faced with a massive wall. “There’s a hidden entrance here,” he explained, fiddling with a black stone let into the wall of the cliff.
Tungdil and the others stood back, checking in all directions.
Looking back through the cave entrance Rodario saw another wave lift the damaged ships and smash them against the rock, breaking them into a thousand pieces in the foaming water. A few sailors crawled onto land, but most went to the bottom with the wreck. There was nothing left but to conquer and prevail. There was no going back.
In front of them the wall moved. “This’ll take us to the corridor on the middle level of the forge,” the actor told them.
“Some of you set the captives free,” commanded Tungdil, “but the rest go on. Follow Furgas and me, straight to the thirdlings.” He nodded at them. “May Vraccas be with us. And make us once more the protectors of Girdlegard.” He glanced at Sirka, smiled and then signaled to Furgas to set off.
Two hundred warriors ran through the narrow corridor toward an iron door fastened with metal bolts and bars. Furgas knew his way through these locks and contraptions and the door opened with ease.
Rodario recognized the place at once. They were near where he had fled to hide in the cave behind the furnaces.
Soldiers and dwarves spread out.
“Hey!” shouted one of the prisoners. “Who are you?”
Those standing near him heard the shout. The Girdlegard advance party had been sighted.
“By all the good gods: the queen’s troops! Praise be to Elria! Will you save us?” the prisoner shouted, rattling his chains at them. Now there were shouts and calls on all sides. The men and women were afraid the soldiers would not free them.
Their cries brought the guards running, thinking there was a mutiny. They soon saw their mistake, but didn’t bother to offer resistance. There were too few of them. Aware they stood no chance, they threw themselves on the mercy of the invading party.
But there were ten of the enemy placed in the galleries above, shooting arrows and throwing down red-hot coals. There were injuries, there were deaths. Their swift progress was halted.
Furgas, Rodario, Tungdil, Sirka, Ireheart and Goda meanwhile were leading a group of warriors to the furnace to attack the thirdlings. The sentries here did not run away or surrender. They fought with great spirit and were not to be subdued with a few random ax blows.
“Look out!” Tungdil noticed the forges on the platform above them were tipping, about to empty their molten contents. “Take cover! Get under the rock ledge, now!”
Liquid iron, glowing red, yellow and gold, poured down on them from above, sending sparks flying. Way below, others were caught by the red-hot splashes and were horribly burned. It was an awesome spectacle. A terrible sight—and a fatal one.
Several soldiers and chained workers sank screaming in the flood of red-hot iron; stinking fumes scorched airways and burned lungs. Hisses and screams filled the air.
“Where’s Furgas?” Rodario saw that his friend was missing. “Furgas!” he yelled like a maniac. Tungdil had to stop him treading in a pool of molten metal. He would have lost his leg.
“There!” Ireheart pointed down to where he could see the magister’s burning mantle smoldering on the liquid fire-death. A blackened arm was uplifted. “Vraccas has punished him for his deeds,” he murmured.
“Aim at those archers hiding in the cliffs,” commanded Tungdil furiously. They had lost yet another vital member of their invading force. Their ranks were thinning by the minute.
“Furgas,” whispered Rodario, horrified at the loss. “My poor friend. The gods have been so cruel to you since the loss of Narmora. I thought they had taken pity on you when they allowed me to find you.”
That blackened arm had been a last gesture of farewell from the man with whom he had traveled the highways and byways for so many cycles, helping to make the Curiosum a magnificent success. He owed his friend so much. Gone, dead, incinerated. “We needed you still, Furgas.” He wiped the tears from his eyes and drew his sword. “The thirdlings shall die to avenge your death.” He stormed back along the gangway.
“Follow him!” Tungdil called to the dwarves. He ordered the last of the captive workers to be freed, telling them to keep the guards occupied. Then the group moved through a gap into a tall narrow cave.
Here was the island’s heart. The room was full of valves, tubing and chains that disappeared up into the roof. There were five huge boilers, fifty paces high, taking up most of the floor room. Underneath the cauldrons enormous furnaces raged, producing the steam that made the island function.
Rodario saw the thirdlings next to the metal casing where narrow glass tubes emerged and led into wider funnels. A clear liquid was bubbling away. “You there!!” He brandished his sword in their direction. “You are going to pay for what you have done to my friend and to Girdlegard!” He flew down the steps to confront Veltaga and Bandilor.
Bandilor uttered an oath and moved the lever behind him. “You’ll never get out of here alive!” Veltaga ran to one of the cauldrons, swung the lever and whirled the valve wheels.
“I hope the Incredible Showman knows there aren’t any stage directions for this bit,” said Ireheart, rushing down in his wake, followed by Goda and Tungdil and the rest of the warriors.
Bandilor lifted his ax and struck the lever to disable it. Then, calmly, he turned to parry Rodario’s attack; he rammed his shoulder into Rodario’s groin and slammed the handle of his ax into the actor’s belly.
Rodario kept going. “Revenge for Furgas!” He kicked Bandilor in the privates and raised his sword to strike home. “Die!”
Distracted by the pain, the thirdling was unable to fend off the weapon. It entered his throat leaving a wound no medicus in Girdlegard would be able to treat. Blood spurted out, drenching levers and controls.
But it was not over yet.
Bandilor hit out at Rodario and struck him on the hip. The ax cut a long red swathe down the pelvis bone; clothing and flesh gaped open and the actor fell to the floor. Faster than a hammer hits iron on the forge the thirdling stood over him, aiming his dying blows at the injured man.
“No, you dwarf-hater!” Boïndil suddenly appeared, smashing his crow’s beak against the other’s weapon, striking it aside. It sang out like a bell as it hit the ground. “It’s me you have to fight!” He used the impetus to whirl his weapon above his head before hitting home.
The blunt end collided with the side of Bandilor’s head; his helmet could not protect him against the blow. Bone cracked, his face distorted and blood shot out from his nose. He was thrust against the wall and slid down beside Rodario who was lying there groaning.
“One less of you!” Ireheart spat on the thirdling and looked at Goda. “Nothing against your people. Just these blasted dwarf-haters.”
Meanwhile Tungdil was trying to stop Veltaga’s furious activity. Whatever she was doing at the controls was not good news for them. He felt the pressure in his ears and thought the floor under his feet was moving about less.
“Water!” yelled Dergard, pointing to the entrance. “They’ve let the water in!”
Tungdil guessed what that meant. The two thirdlings, faced with obvious defeat, had opened all the valves and started a dive. “Close up the vents! Close everything,” he called to those behind him, and then he was hard on Veltaga’s heels, chasing her up the iron stairway to the second floor. There were more levers up there she could wreak havoc with.
“You will die with us!” she screamed, grabbing two handles.
He reached her just as she was operating the wheel.
She hurled a dagger at him but he deflected it using Keenfire. Then she pulled out a sharp-edged cudgel for close-range combat—in her left hand a drawn sword.
From where he stood Tungdil could see a huge wave heading for the forge, and clouds of white steam swirled up, hissing wildly. The hot furnaces exploded in the cold water and metal fragments shot through the air.
“Get those blasted vents shut!” Tungdil commanded as he swerved to avoid a sweeping blow from her cudgel. It missed him and struck a valve instead.
At last the dwarves had managed to do what Tungdil had ordered. Some of the injured Weyurn soldiers crawled through and they got the iron doors closed. For the others there was no hope. Water still shot through tiny gaps in a fine spray.
“How did you find us?” hissed Veltaga, raising her weapon for the next blow.
“You dwarf-haters can’t hide from us,” he answered, blocking the attack aimed at his left shoulder. Then he sprang to the side to avoid her sword. “Furgas escaped. He helped us.”
“The magister? He’s here?” The dwarf-woman laughed. “Oh, he’ll have thought up a special trap for you, if he’s brought you here.” She followed through with the blade of her sword and swiped at his arm, but his chain mail protected him. “You must be Tungdil Goldhand. The magister always said he wanted to kill you.”
Tungdil could not understand what she was talking about. “A trap?” He aimed Keenfire at her middle.
Just in time she moved her cudgel to take the blow, but it bounced back and she was hurt as she swung it. Gasping, she fell backwards against a wall of valves. “He always said everything that befell him was your fault. That’s why the magister helped us with our plan.”
“These are the lies of a dwarf-hater.” Tungdil laughed at her. “You won’t catch me out like that.”
“Why should I lie to you?” Veltaga launched herself against him, attacking with both weapons at once. “You are here and you are going to die. What more proof do you want?”
Tungdil took the sword thrust on his chest. It was painful and broke one of his ribs, but it didn’t kill him. The blade of Keenfire struck the metal head off the cudgel, rendering it useless.
As quick as lightning he hit Veltaga on the head with the haft, forcing her down to the iron floor-plate. “A fine plan to sow discord between Furgas and myself. But it won’t work.” He placed his boot on her breast and exerted pressure. “Do you surrender?”
The dwarf-woman was bleeding from her mouth and nose. The sigurdacia wood handle of the haft was hard as steel. “I don’t have to invent anything, Goldhand. All this is the work of the magister. He thought it all up and built it. He created the monsters for the unslayables. They promised to use the power of the diamond against the dwarves.”
She jerked her arm up and slashed at him with the sword she still held, but Tungdil swung the broad side of the ax, forcing its barbed hook into her forearm, holding her fast. “Will your lies never cease?”
Veltaga screamed with pain. “I’m not lying. The magister planned everything. He planned for you to be here. He wanted vengeance for his family.”
A terrible metallic grinding noise filled the space.
“The doors!” yelled Goda. They’re giving way!”
Ireheart stood facing the damaged levers and, with the other dwarves’ assistance, tried to operate them; one broke off, another bent and moved the opposite way.
Tungdil turned the ax round and pushed down harder onto Veltaga’s arm. “How deep are we going?”
“One thousand seven hundred paces. That’s what the magister said. It’s the deepest part of the lake,” she howled. “You are going to your deaths. We’ve flooded all the chambers. You will die.” She gave a tortured laugh. “Girdlegard’s greatest hero and the only weapon that can hold back the unslayables and they’ll both be lying at the bottom of the lake. That is a fine revenge.” She spat bloody saliva at his face. “That’s exactly what the magister wanted. He never needed the tunnel into the Outer Lands at all.”
Tungdil gave a jerk on the barbed hook, jolting it free of her arm. Her lifeblood ran out onto the floor-plates. “You thirdlings are beneath contempt,” he growled.
“You still don’t believe me, do you?” Veltaga looked at her shattered arm. “Ask the actor. The magister sent Bandilor to pay him a visit in Mifurdania and threatened him so he wouldn’t pursue him any further. He was too good-hearted. I would have killed the man straightaway, but the magister spared his life.” Her eyelids were fluttering now, she was about to lose consciousness. “Girdlegard will perish, that’s what he wanted. And you won’t be able to stop it.” She lowered her head, breathing only faintly. It would not be long before she died.
“What tunnel?” he asked, leaning over her, grabbing her by the collar of her leather jerkin and yanking her up. If there was a tunnel maybe it could be their escape from a watery grave. “Where is it?”
The mountain shuddered. They had arrived on the bed of the lake and the groaning of the iron watertight doors was getting louder.
“You can’t reach the tunnel,” she laughed through bloodied teeth. “You will…” Her gaze went straight through him and her eyes glazed over. She was dead.
Tungdil let go and her body fell back.
“Did she tell us anything?” asked Rodario. “Is there a way out?”
He shook his head. “We’ll have to come up with something ourselves.”
“Over here!” They heard the excitement in Sirka’s voice. “Take a look at this!”
Six pillars ten paces high soared up from the floor, leading to a hexagonal platform, with chains and belts hanging from it. Next to it was a cage-like machine-lift operated by a pulley.
“What’s the meaning of that?” murmured Goda, unconsciously copying her master’s way of speaking. She touched one of the pillars. “Cold. Nothing special.”
Dergard stepped forward. “That’s it,” he whispered in a voice full of awe. “That is the new source. I can feel the energy flowing through the iron.”
“But it’s not iron.” Tungdil inspected the metal. “It’s an alloy. It can conduct magic. Of course! Probably these pillars go down through the floor and stick out of the bottom of the island. They conduct energy from the new source up to that platform.” He looked up. “Up there. That’s where the unslayables’ monsters were created.”
“Now it’s our turn,” said Ireheart, pulling at Dergard’s sleeve and pointing to the lift. “This will turn you into a proper magus. Have you thought up a nice wizard name?”
Dergard cleared his throat. “I shall call myself Knowledge-Lusty in honor of Nudin.”
Tungdil tutted. “That’s not a good idea, Dergard. It has bad connotations for us. Think of something else.” He went over to the lift and went in. “Come on. The sooner you get the force inside you the
sooner we get out of this prison of ours.”
“You will be able to get us out of here, won’t you?” Ireheart glowered at Dergard. “You magi can always do stuff like that. You have to!”
“I shall try,” promised Dergard and he climbed up to join Tungdil. The others operated the pulley hoist and heaved the two of them into the air.
“The Lonely,” the man said when they were halfway up. “I shall call myself Dergard the Lonely. There’s no one left except me. No other famulus to use the magic. Only me.”
“Sad but true,” Tungdil agreed. He was watching the platform. Suddenly he perceived a slight glimmering.
Then they saw it clearly. Faint sparks were dancing along the edges, licking at the iron walls of the cauldrons.
“Magic!” said Dergard softly, with a trace of fear in his voice. “What will it be like, to be suffused with magic?”
Tungdil smiled at him encouragingly as the lift drew close to the platform. “Hundreds of magi in the past survived to live longer than any soul in Girdlegard.” They slid up past the edge and looked down on its surface. “We…” He stopped abruptly. “By Vraccas!” he exclaimed. Dergard retreated to the back of the lift.
One pace above the platform an älf floated, supported on a cloud of vapor and lightning bolts that flashed between his torso and the metal. For the most part his breast, belly, lower torso, shoulders and upper arms were covered with armor fused to his flesh. His hands were in armored gloves. The rest of him was naked. A slim narrow-bladed spear rotated next to him; runes on the blade were glowing green.
“Not a monster, but an älf,” said Tungdil, trying to open the lift door. “Let us send him to his death before he wakes up.” The door bolts were jammed. “Curses!” He raised Keenfire and whacked it down on the lock. The fastenings shattered and the door swung open.
At the same moment the creature opened its eyes, showing nothing but black sockets under the lids. It hissed at them and showed its teeth, grabbed hold of the spear and sank down onto the platform. As soon as its naked feet touched the metal numerous symbols shone out on the armor.