An abandoned hay cart lay in the street near him, and as the guns opened up with their withering fire, he dived under it and flipped it up on its side, using it as a shield. He roared with fury and frustration as he watched swathes of his warriors being cut down by the thunderous, machine-gun-like fire of the hundreds of muskets, and the booming crashes of the cannons, which blasted their shotgun-like grapeshot loads into the mass of charging demons, blowing them to shreds and cutting them to ribbons.
Grakk’n knew that he had to take out those pains in the neck … but how?
The answer came to him like one of the many explosions that were bursting out of those barrels. Gunpowder. He would use the very thing that was powering these weapons to destroy them. Fight fire with fire, right?
Although demons knew almost nothing about gunpowder, seeing as they possessed little in the way of alchemical skills or intelligence, Grakk’n—as a demon commander—was gifted with far bigger brains than the average minion. He had witnessed the dwarves’ gunpowder-based machines in action, and knew just how deadly they were. He also had a basic understanding of how these weapons worked; they required a strange, gray-black powder, which, when touched with flame, exploded.
He had seen the barrels the dwarves carried around to supply their gunpowder-based units … and had noted how careful they were with these containers, keeping them far away from any open flames or sparks. And if one handful of this strange powder was enough to detonate a musket, and a few cupfuls to generate an explosion that could power a cannon … then if a few barrels of this stuff could be made to burst, it would bring the whole building down for certain.
Staying behind the overturned cart, watching his troops get mowed down by the hundreds, Grakk’n called out for his wraiths. If they could get their magic inside the barracks, and direct jets of flame right into the barrels of gunpowder that had to be stored in there to keep the hundreds of firearms continually going, he could cause an explosion that would blow up the whole building, and essentially destroy everything in it.
The problem was, of course, getting the wraiths to a point where they could actually cast their streams of fire into the structure and at the stores of gunpowder inside it. There was no way at all to approach the barracks from the front; anyone who did would be torn to shreds long before they got within even twenty yards.
Peering through a crack in the cart, Grakk’n stared for a while at the building and the others next to it. On the right of the barracks was a large house that looked like it had been a blacksmith’s workshop. Due to the constant heat in there, large windows had been placed, one of which looked out over the barracks and seemed to have a clear view of some of its openings. If Grakk’n could get a few wraiths in there, that might be their ticket to getting rid of that nuisance.
In front of the blacksmith’s was a sewer grate. A light bulb went off in Grakk’n’s head. The sewers! That’s how they would do it; first into the sewers, then out from the grate, and into the shop. Sure, some of the wraiths would probably be cut up as they rushed inside, but Grakk’n didn’t care about that. As long as he could get one of them in position to shoot into the barracks, that would be worth the sacrifice.
He dragged the cart back to the gates, keeping himself shielded from the withering, ceaseless barrage of fire, and then retreated outside of the city, where he found cover from both the mechanical geckoes on the walls and the firing from the barracks.
“Wraiths!” he bellowed. “To me!”
A number of wraiths heeded his call from the massed ranks of the demon army.
“Find the sewer outlet!” growled Grakk’n. “Find it, and when you’ve found it, call me! Go!”
The wraiths drifted off to carry out this order.
After a few minutes, one of them came back with excellent news. It had found Karak-Drang’s sewer outlet, which emptied out into an underground river around a mile and a half from the city walls.
Grakk’n gathered a number of wraiths, and then they all entered the sewers, with the wraiths’ evil green fire lighting the way through the dark tunnels. Grakk’n was determined to bring down the barracks building, and he was willing to do whatever it took.
“We do not leave these sewers until the mission has been successful! Do you all understand this?” he growled.
“We do, master,” hissed the wraiths.
“Good,” he rumbled. “Then follow me. Tonight, we destroy this city!”
CHAPTER 19
“This weapon of the Dwarves sounds like a mighty creation,” said King Pavanir, stroking his long, grey beard with his hand, which was adorned with many rings of precious metals and gemstones. “Yes, mighty indeed.”
“I have observed it with my own eyes, your grace,” said Ser Greenfield, “and witnessed its power. If we could bring it under our control, we could use it to build an empire the likes of which have never been seen.”
King Pavanir, ruler of the city of Merador, nodded slowly. He was old now, in his seventies, but age had not robbed him of his ambition. Or of his desire to wage war and expand the sphere of his influence beyond the walls of his city-state. He and Ser Greenfield were meeting in the private chambers of his keep, a great stone castle which stood on a high hill, overlooking the whole city of Merador.
Inside the king’s chambers stood suits of steel armor, while rich and colorful tapestries hung from the walls. Torches burned in their sconces, and the two men’s voices echoed in the high, vaulted ceilings as they talked.
“For too long have our rivals wielded power,” said King Pavanir, his blue eyes burning with determination. “As one of the smaller cities of Men, we have not been able to match their armies in the field. But with a weapon like this one you speak of, we could not only even the odds, which have always been stacked against us, we could turn those odds to be in our favor.”
“This was my first thought too, your grace, when the dwarven archwright was showing me the machine, and telling me of its potential. All we have to do, your grace, is figure out how to bring it under our thumb.”
King Pavanir frowned, the lines of his face deepening. “These cursed dwarves now sleep in the crypts beneath my city. I was reluctant to grant them my aid, but their offer of gold was most generous. Yes, most generous indeed. Is there some way, Ser Greenfield, that we could use our newly-stuffed treasury to acquire that secret dwarven weapon?”
Ser Greenfield thought about this for a while. “The dwarves would never sell it to us, I know that much. Well, at least the ones who control it wouldn’t.”
“The ones who control it? I thought that this thing had a mind of its own.”
“Yes, your grace, this creation does possess a conscience of sorts. It is imbued with the minds and souls of many ancient heroes, all operating as one super-mind, as such. But some of the dwarves—like Archwright Bomfrey and his inner circle—are able to communicate directly with the mind of the weapon.”
“And you do not think they could be persuaded to part with it?”
“No your grace, I do not. Especially Bomfrey. He is the closest to the weapon. Indeed, he regards it almost as his son, and seems to see himself as something of a father figure, as strange as this is. I do not think that any members of his inner circle could be bribed either. However, there is one among the dwarves who we could perhaps persuade to come over to our side and assist us.”
“And who might that be, Ser Greenfield?”
“The general of the Dwarven Army, your grace,” answered Ser Greenfield with a smile. “A dwarf called General Khazum. He dislikes this invention and views it with disdain and distrust. He believes that it is capable of turning against the dwarves, and making war on them.”
Now King Pavanir looked concerned. “And what if we used this thing, and it turned on us?”
“Bomfrey and his colleagues seem to think that this is an unlikely possibility, your grace,” answered Ser Greenfield. “And I would trust them far more than I would trust General Khazum’s
assessment. However, I believe that the real reason he hates the weapon is out of a far more selfish reason.”
“And what might that be?”
Ser Greenfield smirked as he answered. “Jealousy, your grace. Simple jealousy, and envy, that this sentient structure, this ‘Factory Core’, as the dwarves call it, is better at fighting demons than he and his soldiers are.”
King Pavanir chuckled, and his laughter rippled the shimmering royal blue robe in which he was clad, and rocked the large gold crown on his head.
“These base emotions make men, and dwarves, so easy to manipulate,” said the king with a dark smile. “Jealousy is like rage, it impairs one’s judgment immensely. Good, good … I am glad you noticed this, Ser Greenfield. With a secret ally among the dwarves, especially one motivated by such a primitive, fierce emotion as jealousy, we have a good chance of nabbing that device for ourselves. Go and talk to this General Khazum, Ser. Do not make your intentions too obvious at first, of course. Just get a feel for whether he could be bribed and brought over to us.”
“I will do this, your grace,” said Ser Greenfield with a bow.
***
The next day, General Khazum awoke with a hangover—as he had since arriving in the crypts of Merador. Like all the dwarves, he had had to leave everything but the most essential of his belongings behind in Karak-Drang. Unlike most dwarves, however, he was used to sleeping rough, and sleeping on the hard ground; he had, after all, been a soldier, away on various military campaigns, for most of his life. It wasn’t the lack of luxury around him, the loss of many valuable possessions and treasures, or the fact that he was sleeping on the ground that bothered him. No, it was the loss of dignity that made him drink himself to sleep every night.
His primary task, as general of the Dwarven Army, his main mission, had been to protect their civilization. And in this task, he had failed miserably.
Many of his military officers had, in the days since the dwarven population had settled into the crypts of Merador, drifted away from the general, shifting their loyalty more to Bomfrey and the inventors, realizing that this camp would have more sway with King Odok-Kram, and that when the Demon War was over, the Factory Core would likely play a major role in the dwarven military … perhaps even lead it.
General Khazum hated this idea; he did not want to be made irrelevant by what was essentially a machine—even if it was a sentient, hyper-intelligent machine—and he did not want to see the old ways and tactics of dwarven fighting die.
The more he thought about the Factory Core, the more he despised it—and the more he hated the man who had been the architect of the Core’s creation: Archwright Bomfrey.
One dwarf who had remained loyal to General Khazum was the one soldier who had survived the skirmish in which Grakk’n had turned the dwarves’ own cannons against them: Sergeant Balion, with his immensely valuable mithril vest. Like Khazum, Balion was fiercely devoted to the old ways, and abhorred seeing time-honored traditions pushed aside by a dwarf-made device.
Together, the two of them drank themselves into oblivion every night, complaining about Bomfrey and the Core, and just generally feeling miserable about their situation and the failure of the Dwarven Army to effectively repel the invasion.
Today, though, the pair of them had an unusual visitor: Ser Greenfield.
Having to make an alliance with Men was another reason why General Khazum was so bitter about this whole situation. He had personally fought in battles against them, and to now have to beg for their help made him feel completely humiliated. The last person he wanted to see at this point was a human, but he realized that he was not exactly in a position to refuse to meet with his host. Thus, when Ser Greenfield came looking for him, General Khazum had to bite the bullet and accept his request.
“Why have you come to see me?” asked General Khazum when Ser Greenfield entered his chamber—a room in the crypt that had once served as a tomb for plague victims, the walls of which were stacked with skeletons.
“General,” said Ser Greenfield with a disarming smile, “I realize that this is not a situation you wish to be in. Believe me, I understand. If I had been forced, due to circumstances beyond my control, to make alliances with my former enemies, I too would be less than pleased.”
“You still haven’t answered General Khazum’s question, Ser,” said Sergeant Balion, suspicion glinting in his eyes. “Why are you here? Can you not see that the rest of our people have flocked to Bomfrey and his damn engineers? Why don’t you just leave us alone and go join the rest of them in praising him about his cursed weapon.”
“I came to you two,” answered Ser Greenfield smoothly, “because I am like the two of you. I am a traditional warrior, a fan of customs. And yes, I realize that the traditions of Men and those of Dwarves are different … but we have more in common than you may think. Yes, you prefer to fight with battle-axes, on foot, and we Men favor horses, swords and lances … but the common factor is that of a living, breathing soldier, with a heart that pumps blood through his veins, and a brain that obeys orders. Wouldn’t you agree, General Khazum?”
Khazum didn’t like this man, yet he couldn’t help but notice that his views were similar to Greenfield’s.
“Yes, yes,” he said, warming up to the knight somewhat. “What you say is true, Ser. The old ways, whether of Men or Dwarves, are the noble ways, the honorable ways. There is no honor in allowing a machine to fight your battles for you.”
“None at all,” agreed Ser Greenfield. “In fact, my fellow knights, who I have told about this Factory Core, think that it is a terribly cowardly way to engage in warfare. I mean no disrespect to you, general, by saying this. I know how bravely you and your warriors fought against the Demon Horde, and how fiercely your soldiers battled in the tunnels, giving their lives and blood to stop the advance of the demonic forces. What can a machine, a structure, know of these things? How can a factory understand what it is to sacrifice one’s life for one’s people? That … that thing doesn’t even have a people! It’s just a construct of stone, metal and wood!”
General Khazum’s hands curled into tight fists as Ser Greenfield spoke, and after the knight finished talking the general nodded in agreement, his jaw set tight.
“Aye,” Khazum muttered. “It is a cowardly way, and it makes a mockery of my warriors, who sacrificed everything against the demons. It brings great dishonor on my people.”
“Sadly it does, in a way,” said Ser Greenfield sympathetically. “But I just wanted you to know that some of us remember who the real heroes of the Dwarves are. We are all warriors, are we not? My knights, your dwarven warriors … even though we were once enemies, we can at least respect the fact that we all fought hard in the wars we engaged in, that we were all brave and strong, willing to face any dangers in the defense of our people. I think that we can agree on these things, yes?”
General Khazum nodded. “Aye, it is as you say, Ser. We were enemies, yes, but I can respect any warrior who has courageous blood running through his veins, and a stout heart beating in his chest.”
“And we extend that respect to you, General Khazum, and those of your warriors who remain loyal to you.”
“Thank you, Ser,” said General Khazum. It was strange, he thought; he was beginning to actually like this human. He had never expected to find a kindred spirit among his former foes. But now, with so many of his people, and his own troops even, having turned their backs on the old ways in favor of this new, strange technology, he had been finding himself isolated, and jaded. Now, it seemed like he had made a friend. An unlikely one, but a friend nonetheless.
“Ser Greenfield,” said General Khazum. “Do you enjoy beer, ale and wine?”
Ser Greenfield grinned. “I do, General. As do many of my knights.”
“Perhaps you would like to drink with us one night, Ser? We could share war stories, talk of battles and military campaigns … fought by real warriors of flesh, blood and bone … not some soulless m
achine.”
The smile on Ser Greenfield’s face broadened; General Khazum was playing right into his hands. “That would be most excellent, General Khazum,” he said. “But not down here in the darkness of the crypts. You and some of your loyal warriors should come up to the city, and myself and my knights can show you a few of our famous pubs. We have beers, ales and wines from all over the world. I’m sure a warrior of such refined taste and experience as yourself could appreciate everything our city has to offer.”
“Indeed, Ser, indeed,” said General Khazum. “I would like to see Merador. We dwarves are underground creatures, that much is true, but these crypts under your city are nothing like our magnificent Below World—as you have seen yourself, when you visited Karak-Drang. It is gloomy and damp here, and I wouldn’t mind getting up above the ground to get some fresh air.”
“Done,” said Ser Greenfield cheerfully. “I’ll send some of my knights this evening to escort you and your most trusted warriors to some of Merador’s finest pubs. Yes, I will meet you this evening for a few pints of our choicest ales and beers, and many war stories!”
For the first time in a long time, General Khazum smiled. “That sounds like the makings of a fine evening, Ser.”
CHAPTER 20
“Akzad! Akzad, are you in there?”
The urgent voice coming from outside the crypt room was that of Archwright Bomfrey. Surprised that he was calling on him at this hour, Chiefwright Akzad put his book down, looked up from his makeshift desk—a crude table, shoved into the small crypt room that would be his home for the next few months—and got up.
“I’m coming, Bomfrey, I’m coming, hold on,” grumbled Akzad, annoyed to have his reading time disturbed. He trudged over to the door, which wasn’t really a door but rather a curtain that had been hung in the crypt room’s doorway to at least give Akzad a measure of privacy.
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