by Dyrk Ashton
“Not your ordinary dog, like Edgar said,” says Zeke. “And not your ordinary Fi either, I guess.”
“Shush.” She pushes her hair back behind her ear, puts her hand to her mouth to bite her nails, but yanks it away. “I killed a guy today.”
“What?”
“One of those soldiers. He was going to shoot Edgar. I picked him up and broke his back against a rock.”
Zeke doesn’t know what to say. She’s obviously bothered by the incident. He almost says, “Oh, that’s cool,” but stops himself at, “Oh.” Then he adds, “If it was him or Edgar, you did what you had to do.”
“It was. But still.”
“We have all killed, Fi.” Mrs. Mirskaya’s voice is sympathetic, but still firm. “Every one of us. Sometimes to protect loved ones. Sometimes for reasons not so good.”
Fi says, “That’s what Edgar said after it happened.”
Mrs. Mirskaya takes Fi by the shoulders, looking into her eyes. “He is right. Like it or not, you are one of us.”
Fi swallows and nods. Mrs. Mirskaya pulls her into a hug, smothering her in her giant breasts.
Zeke feels awkward, like an outsider, until Mol nuzzles his hand with his nose. Zeke smiles and scratches him behind the ear.
From out in the vault, through the roar and crackle of the fire, comes the bellow of a Nidhogg. Over the door, now risen four feet high, they peer through the smoke and flame to see burning beams and rubble tossed about as a Nidhogg bludgeons its way toward them, leaping like a dog through deep snow. It’s the wounded green one that chased them after Fi retrieved the Singing Sword. All but Peter back away, further into the darkness of the chamber. With another roar, the Nidhogg makes one last leap that will carry it to the door.
Peter charges up his spear, but as the Nidhogg bears down on them the monstrous form of Kali tackles it from the side. They tumble out of sight.
The walls quake at the Nidhogg’s roar and shrieks of Kali. The crack above the door widens and spreads to the ceiling. Peter backs from the doorway, gazing up as pebbles and dust fall through smoke that’s now flowing into the chamber.
“The wards are all failing now,” says Mrs. Mirskaya. “The spellcraft of the Lady of the Lake is dismantled by Myrddin Wyllt.”
Myrddin is about to apologize, but the look Mrs. Mirskaya gives him is one of respect, not admonishment.
“Myrddin,” says Peter. “Get that thing started, will you?”
“Right!” says Myrddin. He scampers to tap a large crystal on the wall, triggering more crystals to illuminate throughout the room.
Only now do Fi and Zeke get a good look at the room. Square, a hundred feet to a side, and the same distance high. Centered below a circle of brightly glowing crystals, a ring of dusty white curtains hang from a runner attached to the ceiling.
Myrddin trots to it and throws it wide. Both sides continue to retract, all the way to the back, revealing what looks like a wheel, or flat-sided ring, of patinated bronze.
To Zeke it looks like a steampunk fan’s dream. Standing up like it’s ready to roll, it’s nearly eighty feet tall, the flat “tread” of the Wheel twenty feet wide. Its sidewalls, if one could call them that, are twenty feet high as well.
The whole thing appears to have been riveted together from stamped-out panels, its surface a frieze of pipes and glyphs, with silver lines like those on a circuit board. Tubes and wires run between fittings in a nonsensical arrangement, and there are portholes of glass around the circumference of the walls, as well as on the tread. The open center has spokes of metal rod coiled with thick copper wire, which radiate from a spherical hub that looks like a spiky underwater mine.
Myrddin twists the latch of a large round hatch, grunting with effort. It squeaks and grinds, then he tugs it open and hops inside.
The door to the room has two feet to go before it seals. Black smoke rolls in, forming a cloud below the ceiling. But Pratha has yet to enter.
Something hits the door, cracking more of the stone around it. Peter clenches his jaw, then steps to the door’s latch and is about to pull it down when a shining blue streak flies in through the opening and over their heads.
Using her arms like a gymnast and her tail for balance, Pratha performs a twisting somersault and lands lightly on the balls of her feet, facing them. In one hand she has a dead locust, its neck crushed and veined wings torn.
For the first time, Fi gets a close look at The Pratha in Trueface. Svelte and long-legged, sparkling blue scales, lighter colored and smaller on her belly, breasts and neck. Red claws on hands and feet, slim lashing tail. A ridge of dark scales runs from the crest of her skull down the center of her back to her waist. Half-human, half-lizard face, with a dime-sized dot of red scales at the center of her forehead, high cheekbones, and a mouth full of sharp white teeth. But it’s her gleaming golden eyes with vertical reptilian pupils that are most arresting. She still wears the red pendant at her neck, as she has through all her transformations.
Altogether alien, but still beautiful. Stupidly so. Ridiculously fit, yet voluptuous. And naked. To Fi she looks like a nerd-boy’s wet dream straight out of a comic book.
One of Pratha’s shoulders is dislocated. She jerks her arm and it pops back into the socket. Though she has blood on her scales, her wounds are minor scratches, healing so quickly Fi can see it happening.
Peter says to Pratha, “We already have a locust head to study.”
“Now we have the whole thing.”
Fi and Zeke both jump as the door behind them is rammed from the outside. The cracks widen.
“That’s the big one,” says Pratha, calm as can be. “Gutted and without eyes or tongue, missing a few teeth, a leg mangled, but still kicking.”
The Nidhogg rams the door again. Pratha turns to the Wheel. “You still haven’t got it activated?” she shouts. “Myrddin Wyllt!”
“Yes?” comes Myrddin’s muffled voice from inside.
Pratha huffs, snaps her tail like a whip, and strides to the hatch. Without looking back, she beckons the rest of them with a red-clawed hand. “Let’s go, before this place becomes a tomb for more than the Lady of the Lake.”
Mrs. Mirskaya says, “She has always thought she is boss. Come, let’s get this over with.” They gather up their gear and head for the Wheel.
Gazing up at it as they approach, Zeke asks, “Why didn’t we plan to use this in the first place?”
“Because it is evil,” snaps Mrs. Mirskaya.
“It’s not evil,” Peter says. “It may have been made in Meropis with fell science, but it’s just a machine.”
“Then because is old junk,” Mrs. Mirskaya retorts. “Could fall out of sky and go boom.”
“That was my reasoning,” says Peter.
Zeke, Fi, Edgar and the colonel all share a look. Edgar says, “It should function properly, I would think. The Lady has been known to take it out for a spin on occasion.” Peter and Mrs. Mirskaya look to Edgar, wondering how he could know that. “There have been sightings in Great Britain for centuries. Some quite recently. What else could it be?”
Zeke and the colonel get the same idea, but the colonel speaks first. “We track the sighting reports, but... this is Ezekiel’s Wheel from the Old Testament, is it not?”
“It is the one he would have seen, yes,” says Edgar.
Peter and Mrs. Mirskaya board through the hatch with Baphomet. Mol hops in eagerly. Fi and Zeke climb up with caution, Edgar bringing up the rear with the colonel.
Once inside, Peter helps stow the gear in lockers on the far wall. Myrddin has climbed halfway up the curve of the Wheel and sits in the pilot’s seat, which is hung in such a way so it can pivot, but also swing to hang in about any direction, like a chair in a carnival ride. Right now he’s oriented in the same vertical position they are, pulling at big Terry Gilliam-esque levers on a console. In front of him is a large round porthole of thick clear glass.
Still crowded with the others inside the hatch, Zeke asks, “How does this thing w
ork? I mean, how does it fly?”
“On principles of anti-gravity and magnetic propulsion,” says Peter.
Zeke doesn’t have any idea what kind of answer he was expecting, so that’s as good as any. “What’s the power source?”
“It draws on the life force of the pilot, crew and passengers.”
Fi says, “What?”
“Not much, and it’s taken from the most powerful first. You’ll be fine with me aboard. I have plenty to spare, and it replenishes anyway, after a bit.”
She frowns at Zeke, who doesn’t look happy about that idea either. “Okay. I guess.”
The floor of the aisle has a flat strip at the center, but to either side are grids of bars apparently used to walk on and climb to reach more of the swinging seats like Myrddin’s that hang along the walls. The whole thing resembles a bizarre amusement park ride or some kind of fucked-up jungle gym.
Myrddin engages an oversized switch like those seen in old factories in the early days of electricity. Nothing happens. He pokes his head under the console. “Aha!” He fumbles with wires and flexible tubes and a puff of steam floats out. He tries the switch again. This time it sparks and the Wheel shudders, clanks, and hums to life.
Lights of red crystal blink to life on the floors and ceiling, and Fi feels a tingling sensation.
“All right everyone, take a seat,” says Peter. He walks up to Myrddin, right up the curved floor until he’s completely horizontal, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. He doesn’t even look back to see their reaction. Then he climbs onto a weird hanging platform behind the pilot’s seat and is once again vertically oriented between the floor and ceiling of the vault.
Mol realizes what’s happened before they do. He barks and runs up and past Peter, higher into the Wheel. Zeke’s speechless. Not only does this thing defy gravity, it makes its own and warps it on multiple axes.
Fi takes a tentative step to discover walking up the curve is as easy as Peter made it look. Zeke follows. Mol barks from behind them and comes running up, nearly knocking Zeke down, then Fi, and continues on for another round.
Edgar, advancing with the colonel behind them, says, “Molossus, for Heaven’s sake.” Mol barks happily from somewhere above.
The seats are of various shapes and sizes, but adjustable. They climb into four near the pilot’s seat so they can see out the round windshield, and fiddle with the adjustments.
Pratha remains near the hatch, where she guides Baphomet to a seat next to the lockers and loops one of his chains around a pole for good measure. “You’ve been a very good goat,” she says. “Perhaps later I shall give you some clover.” His lips twist sardonically, but he says nothing as she closes the hatch and joins the others.
Mrs. Mirskaya walks up past Myrddin and takes a seat. Molossus zooms past again, ruffling her skirt. “Beshenyy pes!” she shouts after him. Fi leans to Zeke, “That means ‘crazy dog,’” but he’s fumbling with his seat adjustments.
He looks up, “Hmm? Oh, cool,” then goes back to what he was doing, repeating the words absent-mindedly to himself. “Beshenyy pes. Beshenyy pes...” as if trying to learn the language.
The Wheel shakes. Looking through the windows, they see the wall around the door beginning to crumble and smoke leaking through.
“Vault is coming down,” says Mrs. Mirskaya.
Edgar says, “Buckle up everyone. Safety first.” Fi and Zeke share a smirk at the irony in that statement, then fasten their shoulder and waist belts.
Myrddin flips another big switch. The Wheel whirs and vibrates as light glows through the portholes of dark green glass in the Wheel’s inside rim. Fi, Zeke and Edgar turn their seats so they can see through the inside rim windows. Mol stops his crazy doggy run and jumps up, paws on the rim wall, to look through a window as well.
The spiked inner core has begun to rotate and glow, and the spokes are retracting telescopically. A ring pivots out from the rim, then another ring separates from the first, and a third splits from that one. Three intersecting rings, one within the other, all pivoting on different axes around the rotating core. The Wheel jolts and floats to just off the ground.
Mol hops into a seat next to Edgar, who secures his safety belts.
Myrddin pulls another lever and the Wheel itself turns, rolling Myrddin and the rest of them upward until they face the ceiling. Zeke’s stomach is getting queasy. As cool as he’d like to think this might be, he can already tell it’s not going to be a pleasant ride.
“Pater, if you would?” says Myrddin, indicating a large switch on the wall. Peter flips it up, but nothing happens. Myrddin says, “Um, that’s supposed to open the... bay doors, I believe they’d be called today.” Peter tries it again, with the same effect.
The frame of the chamber door is nearly destroyed. Smoke billows through the gaps.
Peter drops the switch down again then slams it up with such force it dents the metal wall. This time it works.
The ceiling splits in the center and each side slides back. A second set of doors does the same above, then another layer, then another, on up until the last. Dirt sifts in from the edges, rocks fall to break on the floor and clang on the hull of the Wheel, but they can see clouds lit by dull moonlight.
Myrddin fiddles with more switches and knobs. The core glows brighter and the rings spin faster around it.
The door of the room crashes down. Fi and Zeke turn to peer out the windows at a vision from hell.
The black Nidhogg has broken through. Black smoke rolls in with it, and beyond, the vault burns like a forge. From the condition of the beast, it’s astonishing it’s alive at all. Both eye-cones are gone, leaving seeping holes in its skull. Its lower jaw hangs torn at one side, several of the teeth broken off. One of its legs is twisted grotesquely, and entrails unspool from a wound on its side, trailing a gruesome slick on the floor.
The wall around the doorway collapses, as does part of the ceiling, but the monster shrugs off the falling stone and roars at the Wheel.
Eyeing it through a side window, Peter says, “Myrddin, now would be good.” A forward push on a main lever, much like a joystick, and they begin to rise. Guiding by hearing and smell, The Nidhogg charges in spite of its injured leg and leaps, biting hold of the hull. The Wheel jolts at the impact, causing Fi and Zeke to cling to their seats. A blue electric charge zaps the Nidhogg and it drops to flop on the floor. It gains its feet and leaps straight up, propelling itself with its tail, but the Wheel is out of reach and it drops, roaring in frustration.
Now the entire vault is caving in, as are the walls of the chute through which they rise. More dirt falls from the surface, fouling the windows and obscuring Myrddin’s sight. Chunks of stone bang against the Wheel. Smoke rushes out past them, pushed from the falling vault through the chute as if it were a chimney. In near darkness, still they rise.
Myrddin shoves the joystick forward. The power unit whines louder, the light coming through the green windows incredibly bright. Falling stone becomes like the rapid beat of a thousand kettle drums.
Fi feels the tug of swift acceleration, but the dampening effect of the Wheel’s construction hides how fast they actually change speed. The Wheel shoots into the sky, blowing the dirt from the windows, free of the smoke, up through the clouds themselves, until they slow and hover to stare at the clear moon and stars. For a moment Fi is stunned by the sight, and she gets the creeping feeling the moon and stars are also staring at them.
Other than the hum of the engine and whir of the circular blades at the core of the Wheel, and occasional clank, there’s no other sound. Except for Zeke, whose rapid heartbeat is the loudest thing he hears. His stomach gurgles and he barfs—but the vomit floats to the ceiling, if you could call it the ceiling, and is sucked out through a vent. The others eye the vent with curiosity.
Edgar says, “Regurgitation must have been a common occurrence in these vehicles, and accommodations were made in its design.” Fi and Zeke stare at him.
A push on
another lever and the Wheel turns, lowering them until Myrddin’s window looks toward the horizon.
Myrddin says, “That went well, I believe.”
“Well enough, Myrddin Wyllt. Well enough,” says Peter.
Peering through a window at the bottom of the Wheel, Baphomet says, “Ahem,” bringing their attention to what he sees.
Myrddin rolls the Wheel so they’re facing straight down. Zeke almost barfs again.
Rising up through the clouds is a massive black swarm. “Damnable locusts,” says Peter.
Myrddin swings the Wheel back up and shoves two joysticks forward. They move quickly, but not fast enough. The locusts ping against the Wheel like hail, scratch and scrabble at the metal, cling to the portholes. Some are chopped and diced by the whirling gyroscopic rings.
“Faster,” says Peter. “They’ll harm the power plant.”
“I’m trying,” says Myrddin. “If only I could slip—”
Suddenly the clouds are different, the landscape below yellow and barren, and the locusts are gone. “I did it! I slipped us!” Myrddin cries with glee.
“It wasn’t me,” says Peter.
“I can slip again!”
Pratha calls to him, “The curse I laid upon you was lifted when I returned your pendant. You are fully Myrddin Wyllt, magnificent magus, once again.”
“Hurrah!” Myrddin exclaims. He slips the Wheel between worlds, again and again, in rapid succession.
“Careful, Myrddin,” Peter cautions.
Then they slam into a dense cloud of locusts, the hull ringing with multiple impacts. The pilot’s window cracks, then shatters.
* * *
The surface above the Lady’s vault is a massive crater. Dirt slides down its sides with tumbling stones.
At its edge, where the door to the vault had once been, the ground mounds up, pushed from beneath, and out crawls the orange, smaller Nidhogg, limping on a wounded leg. Dirt mixes with blood in its wounds, making black mud. It shakes itself, then spits, flopping out its tongue. Max tumbles to the ground and rights himself. He gropes at the empty socket where Peter tore off his leg, looks at the black goo on his three-fingered hand, and shrieks in rage. Hugin flies down to land on a boulder beside him.