by Markus Heitz
The mariners looked at each other fearfully, uncertain what to do.
Tungdil went up to the nearest of them. “We must take this risk or else be blamed for all the misfortunes Girdlegard will suffer,” he insisted. “We can only defeat the evil by landing on the island.”
The sailors started to move, acting on his orders although aware it could mean the end for their ship. Tungdil recalled how the initial capture of the island had cost two ships. It must not happen again.
The Waveskimmer increased speed and with each new bump they feared they might be taking in water. Prayers to Elria were offered ceaselessly; the sailors would do nothing without asking the goddess for her protection.
The island sank quickly, flames extinguished now that the gas had been burned off.
Under Rodario’s direction the helmsman maneuvered them close enough for the ubariu, Tungdil and company to jump onto the slowly submerging island. The flat shoreline was already under water.
Rodario gasped in pain when he landed. His injured leg hurt hellishly. “That way,” he said, indicating a narrow rock chimney. “Climb down there. It ends in a chamber leading inside.”
The last bit they had to jump. It was a good twenty paces down but there was already enough ballast water at the bottom to make it safe for them to do so.
“What have I let myself in for?” sighed Rodario. Lot-Ionan nodded in silent sympathy.
One by one they dropped into the foaming water, then climbed the stone steps to get through a hatch to the passageway. Water was pouring from their clothing and shoes, the drops leaving a dark trail. A trail that could betray them.
“I know where we are.” Tungdil had used his dwarf instincts well on his first visit: he pointed to the right. “That leads to the furnace, I think. If we go through it we come to the operating room for the boilers, don’t we?”
Rodario nodded. “We should find the unslayable one there. Somebody must be using the controls.”
They advanced cautiously, amazed at the appearance of the cave where once the furnaces had stood.
The molten iron that had cascaded down, threatening to engulf Tungdil and his friends, had hardened below into solid blocks like gray ice floes. Above, dripping ore had formed stalactites, or solidified on the rock in sheets of metal. It was a weird and wonderful sight.
“Go on,” mouthed Tungdil, approaching the damaged hatch in the boiler room. It had been struck by a heavy object of some kind; distorted, the round door hung from its hinges.
“Do you think the älfar is still here?” asked Rodario, drawing his sword. “Three to fight would be too many.”
“No, I don’t think he’ll have waited for us,” Tungdil said to allay his friend’s anxiety. He entered the area that had once housed the gigantic furnaces and boilers.
Their first foe was already there.
A huge monster three and a half paces high stood next to the nearest furnace. Its arms were poles of glass and metal bars. On its head sat a tionium helmet formed like a death’s head. It was whimpering and trying frantically to get the valve wheels to work, obviously trying to prevent the island from submerging. So far it had not noticed the intruders. Rune-adorned axes were stowed on its back in a large quiver resting on top of its black armor.
“What a giant,” murmured Flagur, sounding delighted.
“Anyone see the unslayable?” asked Rodario, peering around in the half light.
“Let’s deal with this misbegotten fiend first. Then we’ll find the other one.” Flagur licked his lips in anticipation. “I wonder what it tastes like. Never tried one.”
The monster froze, its huge fingers still on the controls, and it looked back over its shoulder. A large tear slipped down from under the helmet and dripped over the lipless mouth.
“Why did he do it?” it whined. “I was a good son! I was always a good son.” The long pins connecting helmet and skull banged against the iron cauldron above him. “He wants to kill me.”
“No, we want to kill you,” Flagur grinned and motioned his warriors forward.
“Stop!” Tungdil called them back. He approached the monster, recognizing its fear and wanting to turn this to their advantage. “Where is he, your father?” he asked softly.
“Gone,” it sobbed. “He left me here to kill you. But I know he wants me dead. I’m supposed to die at the same time.” It turned round, grabbing different valves now and spinning them randomly in its panic. The pressure indicators shot up and high over their heads came the screech of escaping steam. “I don’t want to drown.”
From where he stood, five weapon lengths away, Tungdil could read the rune on its helmet: eight. “Where did he go?” he asked the creature.
“He promised we’d go through the tunnel together,” it muttered to itself, like a sulky child.
The contrast between its tremendous stature and the way it spoke and acted was almost pathetic, but the sight of the black gums and white fangs in its terrifying mouth made Tungdil shudder in revulsion. “Do you know where the tunnel is? We could take you there.” He swallowed. “I’m a scientist. I know how the machine works.”
The weird creature let go of the controls and swiveled round. “You do?” Under the oversized helmet its eyes sparkled green. “But the originator told me to kill you as soon as you arrive.” It was overwhelmed. It could not reconcile its duty and its wish to survive.
Tungdil read the simple creature’s mind. It intended to accept his suggestion, then kill them all as soon as they surfaced.
“Good. I’ll take you there,” it said, deception obvious in its voice. It stepped to one side and pointed to the controls. “Make it go up.”
“Tell me where the tunnel is and we’ll make the island go there.” Tungdil’s hand was on the lever. “But you must tell me the truth. The machine will know if you lie. It will screech and won’t obey me. It doesn’t like liars. It’ll just let us all drown.”
The creature had not expected that. Anxiously it surveyed the wall of controls, levers, wheels and indicators. “It’s in the… south,” it said, nervously.
Tungdil made the topmost valve expel whistling steam. “You’re lying!” he exclaimed, as if outraged. “Now we’ll all sink and drown.”
“Northwest!” it yelled. “Northwest, I swear! It’s in the cliff just under the giant’s nose! There’s a little sandbank with trees in front to hide the entrance.” The creature dropped to its knees in front of the boiler, its armored legs clanking against the stone floor. “Please, dear machine, don’t be angry. Bring us back up to the light!”
Tungdil was almost feeling sorry for it. “How does your father plan to get there?”
“Does it need to know?” The creature was astonished.
“Yes. The machine wants to get there first so that we can all go to the tunnel together.”
“The originator took one of the warships that were floating round the island.”
“And how did he destroy the other ones? With a diamond?”
“No.” It turned to face the dwarf. “I destroyed them. All five of them.” It lifted its shiny metal and green glass forearms as evidence of its ability. “With my special powers. I can use them whenever I want to.”
“Five,” murmured Rodario in dismay. “Would you credit it?”
The magus did not dare move. “It must be that alloy it has throughout its body. I’ve a feeling this monster may be the most dangerous and powerful of them all.” He glanced over to Flagur. “Whatever you do, don’t upset it. The weapons it’s carrying are the least of our worries.”
The ubari found it hard to do nothing, especially as the enemy seemed vulnerable, kneeling and not expecting an attack.
The island gave a shudder. It had reached the lake bed and the source.
“Make it go up,” begged the terrified hybrid, taking its two axes out. As soon as it clasped the handles in its gloved fists the runes shone out on weapons and armor alike.
“Yes, I’m going to,” Tungdil said calmly. “Watch.” He pushed and pulled a f
ew of the levers.
Just as the creature was about to stand up, Flagur saw his chance. The opportunity must not be missed. He lunged forward with his warriors.
The hybrid acted fast, throwing an ax at its assailants; it split open one of the ubariu down the whole length of his body, spewing blood and guts on the stones. Then the creature raised its free hand, the glass cylinder glowing green.
A beam of light shot from it, knocking Flagur to the ground and hurling him against the back wall by the entrance.
He leaped to his feet with a roar. His breastplate showed a black scorch mark.
“No!” yelled the monster, throwing its second ax, but the ubari dodged the missile. “Not now!”
Tungdil took his own ax and thrust it into the creature’s naked shin while the monster’s attention was elsewhere. He knew why the creature was so horrified. Its magic had been used up. Destroying all five of the warships had exhausted its power store, making the monster considerably less dangerous than they had been assuming.
As black blood sprayed out, it roared and yelled, wrenching an iron bar from the platform railings over its head, and launching it at the dwarf.
Tungdil had to drop his ax and jump out of the way. The massive iron stave missed him and pierced the control wall, smashing dozens of levers and wheels or bending them out of shape, to complete the work of destruction the thirdlings had begun in the previous battle.
“No!” it cried out. “Look what you’ve done! You’ve made me break the machine!” It launched itself from the floor, springing high onto the next platform and leaping away. “I’ll kill you all!”
“Lot-Ionan!” Tungdil called. “Stop it recharging!”
The magician raised his hands and sent out a bright blue ray of light, missing the monster narrowly as it swerved at the last moment. The beam struck the middle of one of the boilers, releasing clouds of scalding steam from a hole the size of a mill stone.
Flagur and the ubariu stormed forward at Tungdil’s command; Sirka, Rodario and Lot-Ionan followed at a slight distance.
The magus continued trying to zap the monster in an effort to prevent it reaching the platform and taking on more magic. He failed. Some invisible power was deflecting the beams.
Tungdil and some of the troop stepped onto the lift, while the others operated the winding gear. He heartily wished he still had Keenfire. “Let us hope it doesn’t see us coming,” he said to Flagur.
The monster climbed nimbly onto the nearest boiler and leaped from there to land on the platform.
As soon as its feet touched down, greenish flames flickered up and surrounded the armored figure; sparks sizzled along the rods on its glass forearms where the magic force was concentrated, and from inside the hollow glass, light blazed like small suns.
The swaying lift cage arrived at platform level, and Tungdil pushed the door open.
“You shall die!” screamed the beast in fury. “It’s your fault I am stuck down here.” It raised both arms toward the exhausted magus.
“Palandiell, give me strength,” Lot-Ionan prayed, somehow managing to cast a protective spell. The enemy responded by shooting energy beams from its fingers.
Hissing, these beams encountered magic resistance. Lot-Ionan had conjured up a mirror spell, one of the simplest to effect. But even this straightforward incantation seemed to be failing in the face of some incomprehensible power. Was the creature tapping into the entire magic source and directing its power against him? His magic mirror cracked and splintered—with devastating consequences.
The beams were diffused into countless slender rays, radiating out as if from the sun, destroying everything in the cave they touched.
“Lie down!” Tungdil shouted to his comrades, throwing himself flat onto the platform and hoping the special alloy it was made from would absorb the swirling fields of energy.
But nothing was able to withstand the rays.
The pressurized combustion chambers exploded, punching holes the size of a dwarf’s fist into the rock walls; water started gushing in. Two of the ubariu fell victim to the sizzling death rays.
The monster itself suffered the same fate: randomly deflected beams hit him, one penetrating through its teeth into its mouth. Black smoke curled up from the impact spot. It uttered a roar of pain, fell backwards and plunged from the platform, several more deadly beams striking it before it crashed to the ground.
Tungdil stood up and surveyed the havoc all around him. Broad cracks were appearing on the cavern walls. The damaged rock would not withstand the pressure much longer. “Quick, everyone, get down again!” He leaped into the lift cage. “There’s only one way to escape death.”
Before they had reached ground level the roof fell in. A torrent of water cascaded in, threatening to engulf and drown them all: dwarves, ubariu and humans.
XVII
Girdlegard,
Queendom of Weyurn,
Thirty Miles Northeast of Mifurdania,
Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
The Waveskimmer raced across the water toward the northern edge of the Red Mountain Range where the monster had said the tunnel entrance lay. The fog had lifted and those on deck were basking now in sunshine.
Sirka kissed Tungdil. “You are a very clever dwarf.”
He relished the sensation of her soft lips on his own. “No, I just used my powers of observation,” he said, watching out for the sandbank.
“Always so modest,” complained Rodario from his hammock, where he was soaking up the invigorating rays. “If you hadn’t had the idea of climbing into the empty boiler, we’d all have drowned.” He shut his eyes against the bright light. “Even Lot-Ionan. Again, my deepest appreciation and heartiest thanks.”
“It was the same principle as with the island. If something is full of air, it’ll rise.” Tungdil smiled and permitted himself a touch of pride.
Flagur, with a nasty cut on his shoulder from the sharp edges of the damaged boiler, nodded in agreement. He was seated on a barrel, naked to the waist, bandages to hand. One of his comrades was stitching the wound. “The actor is right. Things were looking very bad. As it is, most of us have survived.” He did not appear to feel the needle.
Tungdil noticed Lot-Ionan was sitting in the shade on a coil of rope a little way off, near the main mast, and looking extremely ill at ease. He went over to his foster-father. “Revered sir, what is wrong?”
Lot-Ionan raised his white head and attempted a smile. He held out his hands. “Didn’t you see? In the old days spells never went wrong. Never!” He clasped his hands as if he wanted to hide them from sight. “Now all I can do are silly little spells; my memory is playing tricks just when we need it most.” He sighed heavily. “A mirror spell in a chamber surrounded by water and at the bottom of a lake. How stupid of me!”
“It’s Nudin’s fault, not yours,” said Tungdil, trying to console him.
“I know that,” the magus replied, “but it doesn’t make it any better.” He looked at the dwarf. “I am concerned about the future. About what happens after the battle with the unslayable.”
Tungdil tried to guess at his thoughts. “The Outer Lands?”
“No. The future of magic in Girdlegard.” He ran his fingers up the weathered timber of the mast. “The new magic wellspring lies so deep. Without the island nobody will ever get there to use it.” He looked at the cliffs rearing up out of the water four miles ahead. One of them resembled a face, with a promontory like a nose. A giant’s nose. “What’s bothering me most is this: Is there anyone at all, apart from me, able to make use of it?”
“Perhaps one of Nudin’s other initiates?” Tungdil played with the free end of the rope. “Don’t worry about getting to the lake bed. If you can get up to the surface in a boiler then you can get down again the same way. It’s just a question of ballast. We don’t need the island.”
Lot-Ionan asked pensively, “But if any others trained under Nudin, why didn’t they join Dergard and his friends?” He got to his feet and r
ubbed his back where stabs of pain were still troubling him. “What if I’m the last magus in Girdlegard?”
“They might have seen Dergard going with you instead of following in Nôd’onn’s footsteps as a betrayal,” Tungdil suggested. “Dergard located the source. We’ll see if anyone else turns up in Weyurn suspiciously close to the same place.” A call from the lookout warned they were nearing the cliff. “We’re at our destination, venerable sir. Are you ready?”
“I don’t know.” His pale blue eyes seemed very tired. “But I have no choice.” He smiled. “None of us have a choice, do we?”
The Waveskimmer ploughed through the waves toward the vegetation growing on the shore.
Tungdil wished his friend Ireheart were at his side for the coming confrontation. He was not only a good fighter but could lighten even the most critical of situations with a joke or scurrilous turn of phrase.
A squall pattern on the lake surface reminded Tungdil of the last of the rune messages: the one on the armor of the creature now at the bottom of the lake together with the remains of the island.
“Eight,” he said quietly, mentally arranging the words. “Your deaths have eight faces.” It was the unslayable’s threat to the elves. Would it prove to have been spoken too soon? He was clear what the number eight meant. Five machine creatures, two unslayables and the älfar from Toboribor. Death in eight forms. Two were still around.
Rodario opened his eyes and got out of the hammock. “Where is the man o’ war the unslayable used to get here? He can’t have made it invisible.”
Flagur—his injury stitched and bound, and his armor back on—pointed to starboard. “There’s something over there.” He looked up to the crow’s nest. “What’s that?” he called to the watch, indicating a shadow beneath the water.
“A ship,” came the answer. “Sunk or scuppered and run aground on the sandbank. Looks like a warship.”
“Well, that’s that. The unslayable is here.”
Sirka got the sails furled and launched the boats, not wanting to take their vessel too close in. Who could say how quickly they might have to make their escape?