by Markus Heitz
“That was close,” they heard Boïndil laugh. His helmet appeared on top of the armored monster, then he was up and standing on it swinging his crow’s beak. “Ha! That’s what Vraccas likes to see!” he called happily. “Now the unslayables have lost two of their beasts.”
He stamped on the creature’s metal back. “It wasn’t actually the magister’s weak point they told us about. But it wasn’t bad, was it?”
Tungdil gestured him to come down. “Get off there before the altitude gets to your brain and you attempt more stupid suicidal stuff.” He hid his relief behind the seemingly harsh words.
“Coming, Scholar.” Ireheart stroked his weapon. “Crow’s beak and I are in just the mood to take on another of these monsters.” He looked down between his feet. “There’s something like a lock here. Shall we break it open? It’ll take us to the cogwheel innards, for sure.”
With a high-pitched shriek steam gushed out of a vent next to Ireheart.
“No, let’s get on.” Tungdil did not like the sound at all. His own people’s steam machines had valves to release a build-up of pressure. He did not know if this contraption had the same. “If the boiler blows I don’t want to be next to it.”
“Got you.” He stepped over the iron hip, walked down the leg and jumped off the foot, brown eyes gleaming with a mixture of war-rage and triumphant delight: a dangerous combination of light-headed boldness and unshakeable self-confidence. “Do you know what? We’ll have another of these down before the day is out.”
“You are incorrigible,” said Tungdil and left it at that. “Come on.”
“Of course I’m incorrigible. But hesitation never gets you anywhere.” He winked at Goda, who was gazing at him admiringly. She was proud he was her trainer and had completely forgotten the argument they had had in the barn.
Together they walked along the passage until they reached a fork. Tungdil mentally arranged the elf runes in the most likely order: your deaths have. Two more creatures were needed and they would have the riddle solved.
“And now?” Dergard wiped the sweat from his brow. He was the one least able to cope with the sultry heat, and these Toboribor caves were extremely hot, affected by the steaming simmering pools they found everywhere they went. The dwarves were not enjoying it much, either. It smelt too strongly of orc. Tungdil indicated a passageway where cooler air was emerging. “That one.” He took the lead.
With every stride they took it got colder. Damp settled on their chain mail and the chilliness—welcome at first—soon had Dergard shivering.
“It’s like a crypt.” He spoke his thoughts out loud. “I don’t like it here.”
“Who do you think is enjoying this?” retorted Ireheart. “Just because I am a child of the Smith doesn’t mean I feel happy in this pig-sty. Caves aren’t all the same, you know, magus.”
Tungdil had reached a cavern and realized that Dergard had not been far off the truth with his suggestion. “Quiet, he hissed back over his shoulder. A vague feeling of unease warned him against entering, but there was no choice. The diamond could be anywhere. “Come on, but quietly.”
This cave was a good fifty paces long and broad and the walls curved above them in a dome at least forty paces high. Exactly in the middle a dark stalactite hung down; it was the length of two grown human men and the girth of an ancient tree.
The stalactite’s tip pointed down to a woman with long black hair lying on an altar of basalt, her hands folded on her stomach and her eyes closed. Her black silk robes draped to the right and left of the bier partially obscured the älfar rune ornaments on the stone.
Under her crossed hands lay two long slender swords that Tungdil recognized at once. The unslayable siblings had used similar weapons to attack the eoîl in the battle on the tower.
A bluish light was emanating from the diamond on her breast. From time to time a silver flicker illuminated the signs and the countenance of the recumbent figure.
They had found the unslayable sister… and the stolen diamond.
On the floor round about them lay the skeletons of orcs: the remains of five hundred or more. The cut marks on the bones made no other interpretation possible: they had died by the same sharp blade.
“By Samusin!” whispered Dergard in fascination, unable to take his eyes off the älfar woman. “How exquisite she is.” Even lying there like this, still and stiff, she had more grace, more elegance, more beauty than the elf princess Rejalin.
Tungdil and the other dwarves could not endure the sight of her features. It was like asking them to look into a dazzling reflection of a bar of gold. Or to go right up to a glowing furnace. They could have done none of these.
At last even Dergard had to lower his eyes. But the fascination had not left him. Blind to any danger, he approached the altar, lifting his trembling hands in his desire to touch the dark goddess. The brittle orc bones scrunched and crumbled under his feet.
“Leave the Creating Spirit alone.” A voice as clear as a mountain spring sounded suddenly on all sides. “She has been tired for so very long.”
Dergard stood stock still and looked to the right and left without seeing a soul. “I don’t want to hurt her,” he called in ecstatic tones. “Only… to be near to her. To kneel and gaze upon her.”
“Can the pointy-ears have deprived our magus of his senses, Scholar?” asked Boïndil in dismay.
How Tungdil wished he had translated the runes in the inscriptions on the doors of the throne room in Dsôn Balsur. Perhaps it would have helped here. But he did not speak the älfar tongue. “I fear so,” he replied under his breath.
“Shall we drag him away?” suggested Goda.
“No, stick together. And do nothing to provoke Dergard.” He was afraid the magus would use magic to defend himself.
Dergard moved two paces closer to the altar. He lifted his gaze. The diamond illuminated the immaculate features, the sight of which burned itself into his brain. The magus was sobbing like a small child; he sank to his knees and crawled over toward the unslayable one through the mass of orc bones, unaffected by this ghastly detritus.
“Do not approach the Creating Spirit.” The voice whipped him back.
“But I must,” begged the awestruck Dergard, frightened at the thought of withdrawing.
They heard cogwheels clicking into action, the clanking of iron, the rattling of a drive mechanism and then a hissing sound. Out of a dark corner of the cavern swept a white cloud of vapor that wandered around randomly. Tungdil thought of the mist demons that had taken over Nudin.
“I shall not let you disturb her,” said the elfish voice, with a terrifying hiss. The next in the series of machines made by the sick genius Furgas now approached, its many wheels turning the orc remains to dust.
Tungdil saw a mixture of vehicle and heavily armored beast: below the hip it disappeared into a box-like construction on wheels. The elf rune he was looking for was on the front plating: faces.
It had lifted the visor and yellow eyes watched Dergard from above: “Get out of here!”
“If it weren’t so viciously dangerous, you’d have to give Furgas a medal for inventiveness,” whispered Ireheart.
His words were picked up. The machine lifted its head suddenly and looked toward the cave entrance. “You have come to disturb the Creating Spirit.” An armored hand shot up to slam the visor down. “I cannot permit that.”
The vehicle picked up speed and came toward the dwarves through the sea of bones.
“Spread out!” Tungdil had seen the machine’s long tionium assault spikes, and the sharp wheels that would slice any victim lying on the ground. The trick with the rope was not going to work with this one.
Spotting that the dwarves were splitting into two groups, the machine operated a mechanism that let down two long blades right and left.
Ireheart grinned. “Not all the constructions are perfect. Those blades are set too high. We can easily…” With a loud clicking noise the blades were lowered down to mid-dwarf height.
Then the monster machine started after them. Before long it had struck one brave warrior on the hip. The combination of the vehicle’s speed and the blades’ sharpness was enough to cut through chain mail and bone. Screaming and spurting blood, he collapsed onto the orc remains while the chase went on.
Three more dwarves were cut to pieces. The rest of the group swerved out of reach, pushing into a narrow cleft where the beast could not pass.
Tungdil made use of the distraction. With some of the other dwarves and Ireheart, Sirka and Goda, he ran through the cave, stopping at the altar on which the unslayable one lay. Their target was the diamond lying unguarded there.
“Ireheart, you get the diamond,” Tungdil commanded. “I’m going to decapitate the älfar woman.”
“Why not the other way round? I’d like to cut her head off.”
“Because only Keenfire can put an end to the life of an unslayable.”
Goda looked over her shoulder. “It’s seen us and is coming this way.” She slowed her pace and was about to confront the machine.
“No, keep going!” Ireheart grabbed her by the shoulder. “Behind the altar—it’ll be safer there. Or it’ll roll right over you.” Running headlong he launched himself and leaped onto the älfar. If he wasn’t going to get to take her head off at least he wanted to injure her.
A beam of green light hit him on the groin; the magic hurled him backwards and his crow’s beak flew through the air, striking Sirka on the forehead. She sank to the ground, unconscious.
Goda whirled around to face the new attacker, but only found a very familiar face.
Dergard was crouching by the altar with one hand raised. “You must not disturb her, didn’t you hear?” he hissed. “Don’t you dare try again!”
Ireheart clambered to his feet, cursing. Apart from pins and needles all over and a few grazes on his hands he was all right. “You wait so long for a magus and when one finally arrives he’s nothing but trouble.” He looked to see how Sirka was. “She’s alive, Scholar. You deal with the human.”
But the machine rolled onwards like a demented fiery bull, lowering the spear in its hand. The blade edges shimmered in the diamond’s bluish light.
XV
Girdlegard,
Kingdom of Idolslane,
The Caves of Toboribor,
Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
Tungdil confronted Dergard, thrusting Goda back. “Go and help your master,” he told her. Then he made a feigned attack on the young magus, reckoning Keenfire would afford the protection he needed.
Dergard moved fast. From his fingertips he shot a light-ray toward Tungdil, but Keenfire attracted and then absorbed the magic beam’s energy: its inlaid patterns lit up and the diamonds were transformed into brilliant miniature stars.
Tundil was unscathed; he felt the sigurdacia wood of the ax handle grow warm, that was all. Without further ado he struck the magus on the temple with the flat of the ax blade and Dergard passed out and sank to the ground.
“Look out, Scholar!” shouted Ireheart from behind. “Get down!”
Tungdil launched himself into a backwards dive.
The hybrid creature’s long blade whirred past his face, missing him by the breadth of a beard-hair. The sharp metal edge clanged against the base of the altar and shattered. A roar of frustration was heard.
But the machine’s powerful array of wheels continued onwards, rolling over the unconscious Dergard and slicing him to pieces. Limbs were severed, and all that remained of the head was a shredded mass. Only the gods themselves could have revived him.
“I am going to kill you!” The monster hurled a spear at Ireheart, who had clambered onto the altar. The dwarf sprang back and with Goda dived under cover at the far end of the stone bier.
“I’ll distract it,” Tungdil called over his shoulder. “You two know what to do.” He felt Dergard’s death had been his fault. He had knocked the magus out and, unconscious, he had been easy prey.
The monster drew another spear stored lengthways on the vehicle’s side. “Your ax is nothing to me,” it said, slowly advancing. You cannot even reach me, groundling.”
Tungdil ducked down to grab a loose blade fragment; he weighed it carefully, then cast it with all his strength at his adversary. The machine swiveled and struck him on the left shoulder with a jagged-edged knife. His own throw had not even damaged the machine’s armor plating.
The creature laughed and sped onwards while Tungdil moved back from the altar to give himself more freedom of movement. “You will not defeat me,” he vowed to the creature.
Now Goda tried her luck. She sprinted along the other side of the altar and jumped up in an attempt to get the diamond.
The fiendish creature turned its head and launched a spear in her direction. “Get away from the Creator Spirit!”
Goda was taken by surprise. The sharp point cut through her chain mail links and armor, piercing the collarbone and shoulder joint and forcing her to the floor. The weapon shaft protruded from her back.
Tungdil could not let himself think about her fate because the machine-monster was nearly upon him. He crouched down, did a shoulder roll to escape the lethal touch of the wheels and vicious blades, then jumped back on his feet.
With a mighty leap, he launched himself onto the broad platform of the vehicle. Above him towered the armored back of the creature.
Raising his arms he whacked Keenfire with tremendous force against the place he assumed the creature’s spine to be. If this blow were not a death-dealer, his own life would shortly be over.
But the ax did not fail him. It tore into the tionium, hacking at the flesh and gouging through to the vertebrae giving off a dazzling glow as it did so, the diamonds pulsating as if they contained a heart.
The monster gave an ear-splitting screech, cringing and collapsing, its long arms convulsively grabbing at the dwarf on its back. “Get off me!”
“No!” Tungdil had already landed a second ax blow, despite difficulty in keeping his balance on the swaying metal deck. The next swipe was less powerful but hit the same spot, maximizing the injury.
With a bestial roar the creature waved its arms wildly and struck Tungdil on the chest. He flew through the air, landing with a thump on the ground, but without losing his grip on the ax handle. Dazed, he struggled to his feet and, as if through a veil, saw the creature lurching toward him again at high speed.
The other dwarves raced over to support their leader.
He glimpsed the spear that had narrowly missed Ireheart. “My life is in your hands, Vraccas!” Snatching up the spear he hurled it at the foe.
The machine drove on to its own destruction. Keenfire’s strikes had rendered it incapable of taking evasive action or defending itself, and the spear-blade struck it full in the chest.
It swerved violently, then repeatedly somersaulted, each flip forcing the weapon deeper into its chest until the spear finally broke.
Tungdil vaulted aside to escape the heavy vehicle. It rumbled past him and burst open on impact with the cave wall, piercing the monster inside with the array of cogwheels, rods and gears that had propelled it. Blood poured down the rock.
Tungdil saw that the creature’s legs had been amputated above the knee and the stumps fitted with hooks and chains to enable it to move along. It was a horrific sight.
Three dwarves helped Tungdil get over to the altar. Ireheart was standing in front, holding the diamond triumphantly in his right hand. “Here, Scholar,” he called. “We’ve got it! Thank Vraccas! Come and hack off this pointy-ear’s head so we can go and tend to our wounded.” He got ready to throw it. “Here! Catch!”
An arrow whirred past and struck Ireheart on the left side. His hand was knocked sideways, the fingers opened and he dropped the stone; it fell onto the älfar’s breast, rolled down onto her belly and came to rest by her folded hands.
Ireheart stared at the second arrow lodging
in his forearm. “Treacherous elves!” he groaned. Then three more arrows hit him in the chest and he collapsed on top of the älfar woman.
Three dozen archer elves streamed out of the second entrance, raining arrows on the dwarves.
“Boïndil!” yelled Tungdil, distraught, as he stormed to meet them, ax held high. Now was no time to act out the role of scholar.
Before the other dwarves recovered from their surprise, fifteen of them had been felled. Those of Tungdil’s band still alive hurtled to their leader’s side to launch themselves at the hated foe and to stop the diamond being stolen.
These were the longest-lasting thirty-seven strides that Tungdil had ever taken in his entire life.
On all sides dwarf death-screams resounded. The skilled archers aimed at any gaps in the wall of shields and their deadly missiles repeatedly hit home.
Some of the arrows even penetrated the iron shields, nailing shields to forearms; or, going deeper still, they robbed a warrior of his life.
As the noise of war shouts, scurrying boots and rattling chain mail subsided, Tungdil, only three paces from the elves, realized he was the sole survivor. Behind him lay a trail of dwarf dead.
Eyes awash with tears of fury and hatred, he raised the ax and swung it at the nearest elf, only to receive a vicious blow on the head and a cut through his left eye. The pain was excruciating and erupted like a thunderstorm inside his head.
He lost all power in his muscles. Everything weighed a ton and Keenfire suddenly seemed as heavy as a mountain. Tungdil slid to the ground at the feet of an elf.
A boot turned him on his back and Rejalin’s face floated above him. “The time of peace between our peoples, Tungdil Goldhand,” she said icily, “is over. None of the groundlings will survive our test. You are all corrupt.” She reached past him and lifted up Keenfire. “Heavy. But unique, in that it fights for good. It will serve us better than it has served your people.” She stood tall. “We, the eoîl atár, will shepherd Girdlegard into an age of immaculate purity. The era of weakness and decay and dissolution is over.”