by Markus Heitz
Here was the island’s heart. The room was full of valves, tubing and chains that disappeared up into the roof. There were five huge boilers, fifty paces high, taking up most of the floor room. Underneath the cauldrons enormous furnaces raged, producing the steam that made the island function.
Rodario saw the thirdlings next to the metal casing where narrow glass tubes emerged and led into wider funnels. A clear liquid was bubbling away. “You there!!” He brandished his sword in their direction. “You are going to pay for what you have done to my friend and to Girdlegard!” He flew down the steps to confront Veltaga and Bandilor.
Bandilor uttered an oath and moved the lever behind him. “You’ll never get out of here alive!” Veltaga ran to one of the cauldrons, swung the lever and whirled the valve wheels.
“I hope the Incredible Showman knows there aren’t any stage directions for this bit,” said Ireheart, rushing down in his wake, followed by Goda and Tungdil and the rest of the warriors.
Bandilor lifted his ax and struck the lever to disable it. Then, calmly, he turned to parry Rodario’s attack; he rammed his shoulder into Rodario’s groin and slammed the handle of his ax into the actor’s belly.
Rodario kept going. “Revenge for Furgas!” He kicked Bandilor in the privates and raised his sword to strike home. “Die!”
Distracted by the pain, the thirdling was unable to fend off the weapon. It entered his throat leaving a wound no medicus in Girdlegard would be able to treat. Blood spurted out, drenching levers and controls.
But it was not over yet.
Bandilor hit out at Rodario and struck him on the hip. The ax cut a long red swathe down the pelvis bone; clothing and flesh gaped open and the actor fell to the floor. Faster than a hammer hits iron on the forge the thirdling stood over him, aiming his dying blows at the injured man.
“No, you dwarf-hater!” Boïndil suddenly appeared, smashing his crow’s beak against the other’s weapon, striking it aside. It sang out like a bell as it hit the ground. “It’s me you have to fight!” He used the impetus to whirl his weapon above his head before hitting home.
The blunt end collided with the side of Bandilor’s head; his helmet could not protect him against the blow. Bone cracked, his face distorted and blood shot out from his nose. He was thrust against the wall and slid down beside Rodario who was lying there groaning.
“One less of you!” Ireheart spat on the thirdling and looked at Goda. “Nothing against your people. Just these blasted dwarf-haters.”
Meanwhile Tungdil was trying to stop Veltaga’s furious activity. Whatever she was doing at the controls was not good news for them. He felt the pressure in his ears and thought the floor under his feet was moving about less.
“Water!” yelled Dergard, pointing to the entrance. “They’ve let the water in!”
Tungdil guessed what that meant. The two thirdlings, faced with obvious defeat, had opened all the valves and started a dive. “Close up the vents! Close everything,” he called to those behind him, and then he was hard on Veltaga’s heels, chasing her up the iron stairway to the second floor. There were more levers up there she could wreak havoc with.
“You will die with us!” she screamed, grabbing two handles.
He reached her just as she was operating the wheel.
She hurled a dagger at him but he deflected it using Keenfire. Then she pulled out a sharp-edged cudgel for close-range combat—in her left hand a drawn sword.
From where he stood Tungdil could see a huge wave heading for the forge, and clouds of white steam swirled up, hissing wildly. The hot furnaces exploded in the cold water and metal fragments shot through the air.
“Get those blasted vents shut!” Tungdil commanded as he swerved to avoid a sweeping blow from her cudgel. It missed him and struck a valve instead.
At last the dwarves had managed to do what Tungdil had ordered. Some of the injured Weyurn soldiers crawled through and they got the iron doors closed. For the others there was no hope. Water still shot through tiny gaps in a fine spray.
“How did you find us?” hissed Veltaga, raising her weapon for the next blow.
“You dwarf-haters can’t hide from us,” he answered, blocking the attack aimed at his left shoulder. Then he sprang to the side to avoid her sword. “Furgas escaped. He helped us.”
“The magister? He’s here?” The dwarf-woman laughed. “Oh, he’ll have thought up a special trap for you, if he’s brought you here.” She followed through with the blade of her sword and swiped at his arm, but his chain mail protected him. “You must be Tungdil Goldhand. The magister always said he wanted to kill you.”
Tungdil could not understand what she was talking about. “A trap?” He aimed Keenfire at her middle.
Just in time she moved her cudgel to take the blow, but it bounced back and she was hurt as she swung it. Gasping, she fell backwards against a wall of valves. “He always said everything that befell him was your fault. That’s why the magister helped us with our plan.”
“These are the lies of a dwarf-hater.” Tungdil laughed at her. “You won’t catch me out like that.”
“Why should I lie to you?” Veltaga launched herself against him, attacking with both weapons at once. “You are here and you are going to die. What more proof do you want?”
Tungdil took the sword thrust on his chest. It was painful and broke one of his ribs, but it didn’t kill him. The blade of Keenfire struck the metal head off the cudgel, rendering it useless.
As quick as lightning he hit Veltaga on the head with the haft, forcing her down to the iron floor-plate. “A fine plan to sow discord between Furgas and myself. But it won’t work.” He placed his boot on her breast and exerted pressure. “Do you surrender?”
The dwarf-woman was bleeding from her mouth and nose. The sigurdacia wood handle of the haft was hard as steel. “I don’t have to invent anything, Goldhand. All this is the work of the magister. He thought it all up and built it. He created the monsters for the unslayables. They promised to use the power of the diamond against the dwarves.”
She jerked her arm up and slashed at him with the sword she still held, but Tungdil swung the broad side of the ax, forcing its barbed hook into her forearm, holding her fast. “Will your lies never cease?”
Veltaga screamed with pain. “I’m not lying. The magister planned everything. He planned for you to be here. He wanted vengeance for his family.”
A terrible metallic grinding noise filled the space.
“The doors!” yelled Goda. They’re giving way!”
Ireheart stood facing the damaged levers and, with the other dwarves’ assistance, tried to operate them; one broke off, another bent and moved the opposite way.
Tungdil turned the ax round and pushed down harder onto Veltaga’s arm. “How deep are we going?”
“One thousand seven hundred paces. That’s what the magister said. It’s the deepest part of the lake,” she howled. “You are going to your deaths. We’ve flooded all the chambers. You will die.” She gave a tortured laugh. “Girdlegard’s greatest hero and the only weapon that can hold back the unslayables and they’ll both be lying at the bottom of the lake. That is a fine revenge.” She spat bloody saliva at his face. “That’s exactly what the magister wanted. He never needed the tunnel into the Outer Lands at all.”
Tungdil gave a jerk on the barbed hook, jolting it free of her arm. Her lifeblood ran out onto the floor-plates. “You thirdlings are beneath contempt,” he growled.
“You still don’t believe me, do you?” Veltaga looked at her shattered arm. “Ask the actor. The magister sent Bandilor to pay him a visit in Mifurdania and threatened him so he wouldn’t pursue him any further. He was too good-hearted. I would have killed the man straightaway, but the magister spared his life.” Her eyelids were fluttering now, she was about to lose consciousness. “Girdlegard will perish, that’s what he wanted. And you won’t be able to stop it.” She lowered her head, breathing only faintly. It would not be long before she died.
The mountain shuddered. They had arrived on the bed of the lake and the groaning of the iron watertight doors was getting louder.
“You can’t reach the tunnel,” she laughed through bloodied teeth. “You will…” Her gaze went straight through him and her eyes glazed over. She was dead.
Tungdil let go and her body fell back.
“Did she tell us anything?” asked Rodario. “Is there a way out?”
He shook his head. “We’ll have to come up with something ourselves.”
“Over here!” They heard the excitement in Sirka’s voice. “Take a look at this!”
Six pillars ten paces high soared up from the floor, leading to a hexagonal platform, with chains and belts hanging from it. Next to it was a cage-like machine-lift operated by a pulley.
“What’s the meaning of that?” murmured Goda, unconsciously copying her master’s way of speaking. She touched one of the pillars. “Cold. Nothing special.”
Dergard stepped forward. “That’s it,” he whispered in a voice full of awe. “That is the new source. I can feel the energy flowing through the iron.”
“But it’s not iron.” Tungdil inspected the metal. “It’s an alloy. It can conduct magic. Of course! Probably these pillars go down through the floor and stick out of the bottom of the island. They conduct energy from the new source up to that platform.” He looked up. “Up there. That’s where the unslayables’ monsters were created.”
“Now it’s our turn,” said Ireheart, pulling at Dergard’s sleeve and pointing to the lift. “This will turn you into a proper magus. Have you thought up a nice wizard name?”
Dergard cleared his throat. “I shall call myself Knowledge-Lusty in honor of Nudin.”
Tungdil tutted. “That’s not a good idea, Dergard. It has bad connotations for us. Think of something else.” He went over to the lift and went in. “Come on. The sooner you get the force inside you the sooner we get out of this prison of ours.”
“You will be able to get us out of here, won’t you?” Ireheart glowered at Dergard. “You magi can always do stuff like that. You have to!”
“I shall try,” promised Dergard and he climbed up to join Tungdil. The others operated the pulley hoist and heaved the two of them into the air.
“The Lonely,” the man said when they were halfway up. “I shall call myself Dergard the Lonely. There’s no one left except me. No other famulus to use the magic. Only me.”
“Sad but true,” Tungdil agreed. He was watching the platform. Suddenly he perceived a slight glimmering.
Then they saw it clearly. Faint sparks were dancing along the edges, licking at the iron walls of the cauldrons.
“Magic!” said Dergard softly, with a trace of fear in his voice. “What will it be like, to be suffused with magic?”
Tungdil smiled at him encouragingly as the lift drew close to the platform. “Hundreds of magi in the past survived to live longer than any soul in Girdlegard.” They slid up past the edge and looked down on its surface. “We…” He stopped abruptly. “By Vraccas!” he exclaimed. Dergard retreated to the back of the lift.
One pace above the platform an älf floated, supported on a cloud of vapor and lightning bolts that flashed between his torso and the metal. For the most part his breast, belly, lower torso, shoulders and upper arms were covered with armor fused to his flesh. His hands were in armored gloves. The rest of him was naked. A slim narrow-bladed spear rotated next to him; runes on the blade were glowing green.
“Not a monster, but an älf,” said Tungdil, trying to open the lift door. “Let us send him to his death before he wakes up.” The door bolts were jammed. “Curses!” He raised Keenfire and whacked it down on the lock. The fastenings shattered and the door swung open.
At the same moment the creature opened its eyes, showing nothing but black sockets under the lids. It hissed at them and showed its teeth, grabbed hold of the spear and sank down onto the platform. As soon as its naked feet touched the metal numerous symbols shone out on the armor.
“Come here!” Tungdil stormed out, his ax raised to strike.
The älf sprang up onto the nearest boiler, pushing off from there like a cat leaping. It catapulted itself up to a gap in the rock. It had gone for now. Sparks and lightning faded away.
“What’s going on up there?” came Ireheart’s worried voice.
Tungdil stepped over to the edge of the platform and looked down at his friends. “Watch out. There’s an älf in the cave. It was on the platform bathing in magic. It was meant to be our enemies’ little surprise.” He turned cautiously to the walls again. “Dergard, come here.”
“Where has it gone?” asked the famulus, feeling safer back in the cage.
“I don’t know. We’ll see it soon enough.” Tungdil went round in a circle, searching; his eyesight was good in the half light. No trace of the enemy anywhere. Unusually for him he didn’t mind. Apart from Keenfire they had nothing to match the power of a magic-empowered älf.
Dergard left the cage. He stepped onto the platform and walked into the center. He closed his eyes and raised his hands. Neither he nor Tungdil said a word.
There was a loud crash and a metallic grating sound destroyed the air of reverence. “The water’s coming in!” Goda screamed. “The doors have burst! We’re all going to drown!”
“Use the lift. Get up here to the platform.” The cage clattered down to the ground. Tungdil called Dergard’s name, but there was no response. “Wake up! You have to do something!” he demanded, giving him a push. “Dergard! Act now or we’ll die!”
The magus staggered. Then he gasped for air and held his breast. “What power!” he breathed, overcome. “I can feel it! Tungdil, I can feel it in me!”
The dwarf grabbed him by the shoulders. “Then use it to save us from the flood here. Bring the island up to the surface!”
The cage appeared with the survivors from down below and they jumped one by one onto the platform. Foaming masses of water surged around the massive pillars, extinguishing the fires under the boilers in vast clouds of steam. The change in temperature put the hot metal under incredible stress and rivets burst, flying out in all directions.
The danger they were in grew by the moment, but all they could do was watch out for the älf and hope Dergard could save them.
The magus was acting as if in a trance. With a grin on his face and hands raised he mumbled something until his fingers started to write glowing symbols in the air. These jumbled about and came to rest on the inner walls of the mountain.
Again there was a shudder; they felt pressure in their ears. It could only mean one thing.
“He’s doing it!” Rodario whooped, still holding his injured side. “He’s actually doing it! That’s what I call a proper test for a new magus!” He sat down again. “And when he’s finished saving our lives, can he please sort out this wound for me if I’ve passed out,” he added through clenched teeth.
“Keep watching the walls,” Tungdil shouted, reminding them of the presence of the älf.
“Why are we doing it the favor of saving its life, too?” grumbled Ireheart. “Don’t let it get away when we get up top!” He was deliberately sounding certain of success.
But the water had reached their thighs and had filled their boots. They could only hope that Dergard was going to pass his test and save them all. And as the water level started to sink there seemed no doubt that he was succeeding.
“Let’s get down. And out! Who knows how long Dergard can hold the island?” exclaimed Tungdil. “Look for something we can use as a boat.”
They hurried off the platform and ran back all the way to the cave—past ruined forges and the corpses of dwarves, soldiers and workers, over great lumps of rubble still radiating incredible heat. In the grotto they found some long boats t
ied up in a niche. Rodario remembered seeing guards rowing them, disguised as älfar.
Outside it was dark. Night had fallen. Elria spared them the trial of a new storm and let the stars shine down. They ran out onto the foreshore and launched the boats.
“Anyone seen that älf?” asked Tungdil, looking round.
“No idea where it’s got to. But it’ll go down with the island, I hope,” said Ireheart. “Though I’d have preferred to split it down the middle.”
Dergard, sitting in Tungdil’s boat, suddenly collapsed wordlessly. The strain had been too much for him to bear. For a magus with absolutely no experience, he had achieved miracles.
But the island did not submerge. So long as the chambers were not flooded it would float on the waves like a cork refusing to sink.
“We must repair the mechanism,” said Tungdil. “We’ll need it again. Dergard will have to recharge.”
“Without Furgas?” Rodario’s boat came alongside. “How can we do that?”
Tungdil struggled with himself. Should he tell them what Veltaga had said? It was all lies, wasn’t it?
On the other hand, even if some of it were true it made no difference now. Furgas and the thirdlings were dead; there was no danger of new machines. Thus far everyone thought Bandilor and Veltaga were the evil master-minds. He decided that was the way it should stay.
“We’ll manage somehow,” he told Rodario. “We don’t have to do it all quite as perfectly as he did. We just have to be able to get down to the magic source and back up again. Perhaps force fields will form, extending as far as dry land. But until then Dergard will have to go diving from time to time.” On his left he saw some lights and a dark silhouette. “There’s an island with people on it. We’ll row over there and then return with one of Queen Wey’s ships. The soldiers can guard our conquest. We’ve got to get to Toboribor, or wherever the unslayables are now.”
There were no objections. They rowed over to the island, found a little fishing harbor and asked their way to the village leader, who they hoped might be able to provide them with soldiers.
