by Jeff Grubb
Tawnos blushed, the blood in his face clear even in the candlelight. “It is my pleasure. The kingdom can’t take much more of everyone walking on eggshells around you two.”
“Not that,” she said. “That was for being a better person than I might be.”
Tawnos made sure Urza read the message, and fifteen minutes later, the Chief Artificer poked his head into his own living quarters. “My queen?” he said. “Kayla?”
Queen Kayla bin-Kroog was seated at a table set with fine crystal and laden with meats and cheeses.
“Ah, my Chief Artificer. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
“Your note said there was an emergency,” said Urza, his eyes adjusting to the candlelight. “A technical emergency?”
“Yes,” responded the queen. “I have a small music box. An heirloom. I think it’s broken.”
She motioned to the place setting opposite her. On the plate was a small silver box.
Carefully Urza opened the box, then turned it over slowly in his hands. “I think that all is wrong with it is that the spring has wound down again.” he said at last.
Kayla opened her eyes wide. “Wound down?”
Urza nodded and cleared his throat. “Yes. I would need a key for it.”
“A key,” she said, and opened her robe. The sheer gown she wore was almost translucent in the candlelight. Around her neck she wore a pink ribbon, and hanging from that ribbon was a battered metal key, red with rust along one edge. “Would this one do, Lord Artificer?”
Urza looked at the key and at the music box. He stared long and deep into the queen’s eyes. “Yes,” he said at last. “I think that will do indeed.”
And for the first time in a month, Urza smiled.
The Chief Artificer did not come to the orniary the next day, nor the day after that. On the third day, Tawnos arrived to find a sheaf of parchment marked with detailed instructions, starting with recalling the students and quickly moving on to a list of improvements to ornithopter design and plans for building new avenger-style mechanical men. There was no sign of Urza, and a marginal note to Tawnos indicated that he should not be expected until mid-afternoon. If then.
Tawnos allowed himself a healthy grin and quickly began to fulfill Master Urza’s list of demands.
The winter dust storm boiled out of the south, a major sirocco that reached from horizon to horizon and climbed almost to the zenith of the sky. It was a grandfather storm, one that the old people spoke of, a storm that blotted the sun with its shadow. The storm breathed dust-laden winds capable of flaying the living flesh from those caught in the open. Along its leading edge great tornadoes spawned and danced, only to be sucked back within the advancing wall of churning black dust.
The storm overtook the lumbering form of the mak fawa and swallowed it whole, disturbing neither the storm nor the dragon engine. The mak fawa continued to roll forward, unfazed by the swirling winds and pounding sand that assailed it. Though one could no longer see across the width of the creature’s body, the engine plodded forward with the resolute and absolute confidence of a machine.
Mishra and Ashnod huddled in a cramped space beneath the creature’s back plates. The dragon engine had not been designed to carry passengers within, but there was a low-roofed hollow along the beast’s spine, and the raki and his apprentice crouched there, listening to the sand rasp against the metal flesh around them.
“How can it see where it’s going?” shouted Ashnod over the clatter of blowing sand.
“It does not need to see,” replied Mishra. “It knows, as surely as I know, what direction it needs to go. It seeks out the Secret Heart of the Thran. I can feel Koilos’s call, and because the machine responds to me, so can it feel the pull, like a raptor returning to the same nest with each passing season.”
Ashnod stared at the stocky man huddled next to her. Mishra’s tendency to cloak his words in allusions and mysticism bothered her. Did he truly believe what he said, or was it all just verbal play to cover the fact that he did not know?
Ashnod wanted to believe the former, because otherwise they were charging blindly through a Grandfather Storm, navigated only by a vague feeling in Mishra’s heart.
It was in the winter of the year of the Korlinda massacre, the year that the warlord of Kroog perished at the hands of the young qadir, that Mishra and Ashnod set out for Koilos, the Secret Heart of the Thran. They told no one among the Suwwardi of their plans or of their destination, not even Hajar and particularly not the qadir. The idea that the tribe’s raki was seeking out the Secret Heart of the Thran once more would not have been a comforting thought to the leader of the Fallaji.
The retreat from Korlinda had been harrowing, and only one of every five men who entered Korlis returned to Fallaji lands. The survivors had traveled by night, cowering in mountain passes, constantly seeking places to hide the huge mak fawa from the pursuing ornithopters. The qadir had at first wanted to turn around and launch an immediate counterattack. Cooler heads, and the fact that they were a mere fraction of their initial numbers, convinced him to withdraw and take comfort in the apparent death of the warlord.
Ultimately the qadir blamed his raki for the ambush. Mishra should have known that his talented and treacherous brother was among the enemy. Mishra should have told the qadir immediately upon discovering that fact. Mishra should have concentrated on protecting him, the qadir, instead of giving commands to his dragon engine during the attack.
And of course, Ashnod thought ironically, Mishra was at fault for coming out of this debacle more popular among the Fallaji than ever. The other tribal chieftains made sure that the raki was all right and asked about the health of the qadir as a secondary matter. While the qadir had slain the ancient warlord, it was Mishra and his engine who were credited with saving those who made it back to the Fallaji lands. No one blamed Mishra for the ambush save the qadir, but the chieftain made his complaints well known to anyone who was nearby, and no one would disagree with the corpulent young man.
The qadir had other complaints upon their return. Mishra should have found more machines by now similar to his mak fawa. A single dragon engine was too big a target and too vulnerable. He reminded Mishra of the difficulties they had experienced at Zegon. If the Yotians could field dozens of their machines, the qadir should be able to do the same.
Of course no one doubted Mishra’s loyalty, the qadir said, or his talent, though in mentioning them the young chieftain managed to bring both into doubt. It had been many years since the raki had first conjured the mak fawa, and now his people needed more. There were whispers, which the qadir assured Mishra were completely disbelieved by anyone who truly counted, that the raki was afraid of his brother’s flying machines and his brother’s power.
Ashnod had watched the entire dressing-down, silent as a woman among the Fallaji was expected to be. After the qadir had dismissed them, she snarled quietly to Mishra, “But what have you done for me lately?” Mishra merely returned to his own tent and began to issue orders.
They needed to locate more finds of Old One artifacts, preferably ones that were nearly operational. Scouts were sent out with orders describing what to look for. Within the month they had returned with news of a large device located near the banks of the Mardun River. The qadir, busy reconfirming his power over the other tribes, allowed his raki and the raki’s woman to investigate.
The site was large, and the remains were generally complete. The machine was evidently some sort of transport used by the Thran to haul unknown equipment. It appeared to be a great wagon or wain and had been overturned in whatever accident that had claimed it. Rust blossomed along both sides of its skeleton, and its spoked wheels were twisted and shattered. The wire-laden framework that held the power crystals was missing, if it had existed at all.
Mishra shook his head. It would require time and effort to put this monstrosity back together, and even then it would be but a fraction of the grandeur of the mak fawa. The qadir would not be pleased.
The morning after surveying the find, Mishra left Hajar in charge of the excavation and departed, taking both the dragon engine and Ashnod with him. They headed east, and traveled night and day, the dragon engine a tireless mount. They slept within the creature’s metal carapace and now hid there while the great storm blossomed out of the southern horizon.
They were trapped within the beast’s body for ten days and nights while the storm whirled around them. They had sufficient supplies and light, but the protected hollow was barely comfortable for one and tight for two. To pass the time, Mishra told Ashnod the story of his first visit to Koilos. He also took the opportunity to inform her how she might better conduct herself among the Fallaji. Soon Ashnod was willing to consider braving the storms outside to avoid listening further to Mishra point out her foibles, great and small.
“I did nothing wrong,” she finally said in frustration on the tenth day of the storm, after Mishra mentioned (for the fifth time that day) a recent incident in the qadir’s camp.
“The warrior you struck down would disagree,” replied Mishra.
“He said I thought like a man,” she said, exasperated.
“It is an old desert saying,” replied Mishra. “It is meant to be a compliment.”
“Trust me,” said Ashnod, “it isn’t.”
“You did not need to cripple him,” said Mishra sternly.
Ashnod forcefully placed a hand against Mishra’s broad chest. “Would you prefer if I said I turned my staff on him because he insulted my gentle, feminine ears with lewd and guttural suggestions?” she asked. “Because he did that, too.”
Mishra did not respond immediately. Instead he pointed to the outer hull and said, “Listen.”
Ashnod paused. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Exactly,” said Mishra. “I think we have passed through the storm at last. Check outside.”
Ashnod blinked at the man. “And if this is only a momentary lull in the winds? What happens if they kick up again while I’m outside?”
Mishra leaned against the inner wall. “You’re the apprentice. That means if a task is dangerous or unpleasant, it’s your job.”
Muttering, Ashnod inched toward the access plates and carefully peeled them back and peered outside. There was a wall of blackness along the north, but the sky above was bright blue, and the sands had already settled in the wake of the great storm.
“It’s over,” said Mishra, following her out from their hiding place within the mechanical beast. “We can ride on the outside for a while.”
“And not a moment too soon,” muttered Ashnod, not caring if Mishra heard her or not.
In the wake of the storm, they saw no other living thing. The desert had been wiped clean, and old rock formations had been buried as new ones were exposed. At last, after another week of travel, they reached the canyon of Koilos.
The site was untouched by the storm and apparently undisturbed since Mishra was last there. The bleached bones of the roc were still scattered in front of the cave entrance, mixed with the wreckage of other ancient Thran machines.
As they moved through the valley, Mishra grew quiet and somber. Ashnod thought the man was reliving old memories, some apparently painful.
They pawed through the wreckage and the ruins immediately around the cavern’s mouth, but after several days work the two had come up with nothing that could be immediately pressed into the qadir’s service.
“Those metal spiders might have been useful, once,” said Ashnod that evening. “But your brother definitely did a number on them when that machine exploded. They weren’t in the best condition before, and now they’re little more than scrap.”
In the firelight Mishra flinched just a bit at the mention of his brother. Ashnod had discovered that the subject of Urza was off-limits around the younger brother, a fact that made her all the more curious about their relationship. Mishra did not respond to her comment, and Ashnod saw him staring at the roc bones at the base of the plateau and the cavern they partially concealed.
Whatever answer was at Koilos lay within the caverns.
That night Mishra slept badly and awoke screaming. Ashnod calmed him as best as she was able.
“I dreamed of the wind, of a great dark wind,” was all he said, the night sweat evaporating in the still air. “It swept around me, it spoke to me, and it carried horrible secrets it wanted to tell me.”
“It will be all right,” murmured Ashnod. “It’s just a dream. Dreams aren’t important.”
“They are to me,” said Mishra, staring into the darkness.
In the morning they entered the caverns. The long corridor had been brightly lit once, Mishra had said, but it was now dark again, and they brought oil lamps with them. Ashnod ran a hand over the inner walls of the tunnel. There were bricks there, but she could not see the joints.
They passed the wreckage of the su-chi guardians. Mishra picked up one blackened, narrow-headed skull and smashed it against the wall. It cracked like a walnut, but instead of meat inside there was a power stone, an Eye of the Old Ones. It was slightly chipped but still held the fire of the Thran energies. He grunted approval, and they continued.
They reached an interminable set of stairs and came at last to the great cavern, the lair of the Thran machines. It was bathed in a flickering light of inconstant crystalline plates along the ceiling. The centermost machine was made up of a great series of plates and mirrors surrounding an empty spot.
Mishra placed the stone from the su-chi’s head in the void of the machine. Immediately there came a low humming, a throbbing that seemed to issue from the walls itself. The flickering stopped, and the entire cavern was bathed in a soft light.
“How did you know to do that?” asked Ashnod.
“I just knew,” replied Mishra. He sounded as if he were a thousand miles away. Then the raki shrugged, apparently shaking off an old memory.
Ashnod examined the bank of glyphs and lights before the great machine, set into a podium that looked like a huge, open-faced book. She did not touch the glyphs but studied each in turn.
Somewhere among the signs was a mechanism that opened other doors, doors that had held the mechanical humanoids whose remains littered the entrance. If they could find them, she and Mishra reasoned, they could bring back new wonders for the qadir. Working wonders.
After a short while, Mishra asked, “Well?”
Ashnod shook her head. The glyphs were simple geometric shapes and could be labels, instructions, or dire warnings. They provided no clue as to the purpose of the machines. She pointed. “This one might be the symbol of a doorway.”
Mishra looked over her shoulder, and assented. “Press it,” he said.
“Is this something else you just know?” asked Ashnod.
Mishra frowned. “I’m guessing as much as you. But press it anyway. It feels like the right thing to do.”
Ashnod brushed the glyph with her long fingertips, and somewhere in the depths of the mountain there was a low chime, more felt than heard. Something deep within the Thran machine had engaged, and Ashnod hoped that it was connected with other, working mechanisms.
She held her breath.
A light appeared in the air to their right. First a mote, hanging in space, it soon expanded, twisting the air around it until it formed a thin, glowing disk, positioned perpendicular to the ground, hanging unsupported. Slowly Ashnod walked around it. It seemed as thin as the qadir’s temper and had a soft, almost enticing radiance to it. Along the surface of the disk Ashnod could almost see a set of scribed hairlines, forming the shape of a child’s star.
Ashnod looked at Mishra, but he did nothing. The disk grew until it was twice the size of a man.
Ashnod leaned her black thunderwood staff forward and pressed its butt end against the disk. The light offered no resistance, nor did it dissipate at the touch. She leaned forward, and the staff passed easily through the disk.
But the staff did not come out the other side. Ashnod had shoved three feet of woo
d into a wafer-thin glowing disk, and nothing came out the other side.
Ashnod withdrew the staff. The immersed end seemed unharmed.
Ashnod looked at Mishra again. “We’ve found our doorway,” said Mishra calmly.
“Who goes in first?” asked Ashnod. Mishra looked at her. After a moment, she nodded. “Right,” she said. “If it’s dangerous or unpleasant, it’s the apprentice’s job.”
Ashnod stepped through the glowing disk. The light surrounded her and saturated her. For a moment she thought she heard, faintly, the voice of an old woman shouting. But then that passed as well, and she was in another world.
The first thing that she was aware of was the heat: not the desert heat, dry and comforting, but a wet, damp heat she had not felt since the swamps of Almaaz. It settled on her like a blanket.
Now she felt the smell, a pungent scent of rot and decay. No, there was more to it than that, she thought. It smelled of oil and chemicals, too. It smelled of goblin powder, of fire, and of steel. For a moment she thought she was back at Korlinda, fleeing as the bombs dropped around them.
There were colors. A riot of jungle plants surrounded her, all in bloom, bright splotches against a sea of dark green leaves and vines. But the colors were wrong. They were too hard, too bright, too alien, and they had a metallic sheen to them. And the vines—they were uniform, more like cables than any natural thing. She touched one of the flowers and pulled her hand away quickly. Whatever juice the bloom was leaking was slightly caustic and stung her skin.
A dragonfly settled on the flower, but on closer inspection Ashnod saw it was not truly an insect but rather a tiny machine made of silver wire and gold plates. She reached out to grab it, but the dragonfly was gone in a wink, darting deeper into the jungle.
She turned around. Mishra was stepping through the radiant disk, emerging like a swimmer from the sea.
“Yes,” he said, “it is just as I remembered it.”
“You’ve been here before?” asked Ashnod.
“Only in dreams,” replied Mishra. Indeed, there was a distracted, dreamlike quality in the way he spoke. Ashnod gripped her staff more tightly and looked at the sky. It was overcast and glowed with a reddish hue, like hot coals under a blanket of snow.
