by Markus Heitz
Tungdil forced himself to say nothing; he must not kill their optimism. Narmora had been a powerful maga. Who knew what a demi-älf was capable of? “Have those exits guarded,” he said to the ubari. “To be on the safe side. We don’t want to be ambushed while we’re activating the diamond.” He turned to Lot-Ionan. “Are you prepared, honored magus?”
He studied the vast crater. “If it is possible to be prepared for what awaits here.”
Ireheart looked around him. “What’s happened to the advance party? We’ve seen no trace of them.”
“The escort will have gone down the ravine. But I can’t think why. Perhaps a battle? Or maybe Narmora had a trick in store and she’s woken the beasts of the abyss.”
The army split into two sections, with ten thousand ubariu and undergroundlings positioned in front of the exits from the Black Abyss, a living barrier to whatever might come storming out. They kept a hundred-pace safety margin from the precipice edges of the dread ravine.
The armored vehicles moved into position sideways-on behind the troops. Inside the tanks adjustments were made; the wind sail-wheels were running but as yet not engaged.
Flagur had explained that the sails were not just a driving mechanism but also produced energy for additional catapults. If the wagons were stationary it was possible to activate mechanical slings. These could fire off constantly using wind power and the crew only had to ensure the aim was correctly adjusted. They used their own supply of munitions or could scoop stones up from the ground below the vehicle through small hatches.
The vehicles were ready.
In the meantime Sirka, Tungdil and friends had reached the artifact. It consisted of several upright linked metal rings in roughly the form of a globe with a diameter approaching twenty paces. Symbols, runes and chiseled marks and patterns adorned the rings. A series of reinforcing rods radiated out to the circumference from a central decorated hub.
“The diamond needs to go in there, I assume,” said Lot-Ionan, getting down.
Ireheart shaded his eyes against the sun and looked up. “How do we get up? I can’t see a ladder.”
“That’s why we need a rune master.” Flagur bowed to Lot-Ionan. “Or our magus, of course. You must have a flying spell?”
“No, why would I?”
“Then you’ll have to climb.”
“Wouldn’t it be better if you carried him on your back into the center?” Rodario ventured. “You look stronger.”
Flagur shook his head. “I can’t touch the artifact. Only a rune master or a magus who is pure in spirit. Anyone else will be pulverized if they try.”
At that moment a horn sounded. It was a leaden tone issuing from the depths of the ravine, a dark, ear-splitting screech full of hatred and elation. It summoned its subjects with the promise of freedom, murder and destruction.
The friends could do nothing until the last echoes died away.
“It’s been heard,” Sirka mouthed fearfully. “We…”
Out of the ravine surged an angry chorus from thousands of throats.
“Here they come!” Flagur leaped onto his befún. “I must join my warriors. They must see I am not deserting them.” He drew his sword and nodded to Lot-Ionan. “Revered sir, it was an honor to meet you.” Flagur raced off; his commands could soon be heard in the distance.
The first rows of soldiers knelt down holding long iron spears to impale the first wave of beasts; in the ranks behind, the archers made ready their bows, while others held their huge shields to form a protective cover for their heads. The wagons opened up their shooting flaps.
Lot-Ionan approached the artifact, which was sending out enough energy to make the individual white hairs of his beard and on his head bristle and stand out. His steps slowed the nearer he got to it. He glanced behind to where the others were waiting and following his every move.
“I…” He was trying to say something, but he felt a blow in his chest. He stumbled backwards and fell in the dust, a black älf arrow in his breast. It had struck him right in the heart.
A shadow fell over him and a man leaped over his body, grabbing the bag at his belt that held the precious stone.
Warm blood spread as Lot-Ionan’s damaged heart continued to pump. Then it stopped. With a groan, Lot-Ionan closed his eyes…
Furgas?” Rodario had recognized the man who had sprung from behind one of the iron rings.
“We are in the Outer Lands. Here the dead return.” The magister snatched the diamond from the dying magus and walked slowly backwards. “I tricked even you, Incredible Rodario,” he smiled in satisfaction. When Tungdil took a step forward, Furgas raised his arm. “Stay where you are! Or the arrow will get you.” He indicated the other end of the artifact where a woman was standing with a bow spanned ready. “We shall see evil released from the Black Abyss. With my assistance it will march into the heart of Girdlegard.” He put the diamond in his mouth and swallowed it.
Ireheart raised his weapon slowly. “What a stupid idea,” he growled. “Now I’m really going to hurt him.”
“You can’t prevent it.” Furgas looked over at the ravine. “That is the revenge I wanted for Girdlegard. The land will be submerged in waves of the beasts and will be annihilated. A fitting punishment for its arrogance and for having followed the dwarves and their false beliefs.” He stared at Tungdil. “The eoîl were never a danger. It was you misbegotten dwarves interfering that robbed me of my family.”
“That isn’t Narmora,” murmured Ireheart. “She would be doing magic.”
Rodario said nothing but knew he was right. It could be the woman he had seen on the boat in Mifurdania. He was cross with himself for not having thought about her again. Now that the name of Narmora had been mentioned he was clear who she had resembled. That was why Furgas would have selected her as his ally. Perhaps in his twisted mind he actually thought she was his beloved spouse come back to life? “All that, the destruction of a whole land, all for the sake of vengeance? Do you think that’s what Narmora would have wanted? She fought with us against the danger.”
“She did not want to die!” Furgas cut in. “No, you will all pay by mourning your loved ones as I have been mourning mine. For over five cycles now.” He shook his fist and moved away. “In Girdlegard there will be not a single soul who does not experience the pain I feel.”
“And then?” Rodario carried on the train of thought. “Then Girdlegard is finished.”
“Why not? For all I care the lands can go hang.” He shrugged. “None of the worlds are anything without her; she gave me children and she saved my life.”
“You deceived me, Furgas.” Rodario went up to him.
The archer let her arrow loose and it hit Rodario in the right thigh. He fell next to Lot-Ionan. The archer woman notched a second arrow with lightning-swift and practiced moves.
“I told you. Stay there and watch.” Furgas stared at his former friend without a trace of remorse. “It’s your own fault you were hit.”
From out of the ravine the roar continued to belch.
An ugly hail fell on the allies: the remains, severed limbs and heads and chopped flesh, of the advance party, whom Furgas and his assistant had lured to their deaths. The dull thuds were sickening as the gruesome missiles fell on upturned shields and armor plating. The spraying blood and appalling smell did not fail in the intended effect.
Sirka became resolute. She had lost friends and relations and was determined to avenge their deaths.
“You have made terrible mistakes,” Rodario groaned, clasping his hand over the arrow wound. “Don’t make it worse.”
“No one will forgive me what I have done. There’s no making it worse,” Furgas cut in. “I built the machines to hound the dwarves. I didn’t take a lot of persuading when Bandilor suggested it. And I was happy enough to side with the unslayable. I knew exactly what I was doing and I planned it all in detail. Now I am at my goal. Why would I stop now?”
“We’ve found your tunnel. Evil won’t be getting throug
h there anymore,” Tungdil told him, as he gave Goda a signal; Ireheart understood as well. “How ever did you manage to make those bastard hybrids out of machines and monsters?”
“There’s always room for coincidence in my plans,” he smiled. “When we were prospecting for iron ore on the lake bed we noticed the rocks were quite different. I thought of the source in Porista and started to suspect a connection. And it occurred to me we had found the metal that conducts magic.” He looked over to the abyss. The shower of body parts did not seem to be drying up. “I wondered if the machines could use it. Narmora had told me about the magic dormant in älfar. When the unslayable left his bastards with me I just tried it out.” Pride shone in his eyes. “The two thirdlings smelted me the special metal and then I created the new machines. Nobody before me had ever thought of combining magic, iron and living bodies.”
“You turned them into well-nigh undefeatable monsters.”
“That was my plan, Tungdil.” He folded his hands and was deathly calm. “I just wanted a distraction. While you were chasing the machines nobody worried about me. My tunnel could have been finished without anyone noticing. But the Black Abyss serves my purposes better.” Furgas turned to the mighty incision in the earth and nodded. “Hard to credit, isn’t it? I was playing you this farce all along, ever since Rodario turned up on the island.” Furgas turned to the actor. “My simulated suicide made it all perfect. You believed me and you told me all your secrets. Because of you my revenge will be sweeter than I could ever have imagined. Yes, if we did but know certain things in advance… Like the existence of the Black Abyss.”
The thudding had stopped and the horn sounded once more. The Black Abyss launched its horrors onto the defenders.
Tungdil was too far away to see exactly, but the monsters surging out of the chasm seemed far worse than anything known previously in Girdlegard: some had four arms and claws, others had two long necks and heads like snakes.
He noted a big fat creature as tall as a tree, with a red body shimmering moistly like raw meat, and half a dozen tentacles waving in the air, grabbing at anything in range. When it caught its prey it simply squashed it up against its own flesh until clouds of steam rose. The victims were dissolved in acid and ingested directly via countless mouths.
Similar ghastly beings came running and riding out of the ravine; large and small, unspeakably ugly and horrific to see.
Winged monsters as tall as a house crawled up the ravine sides and threw themselves off to take advantage of updraughts and prevailing winds. They sailed over the heads of the ubariu and with their long claws ripped open the scalps of the defending warriors.
The catapults had opened fire now and were keeping up an answering barrage on the attackers.
Flying beasts attacked the armored wagons, landing on them or climbing on top to destroy the wind sails, or to strip off the iron plates to get inside. The allied army had to support the vehicles under attack.
Suddenly the shrillest of screams issued from the depths of the chasm; it was louder than any other noise. The voice was so loud that it cracked the rocks at the side of the chasm. Friend and foe alike stopped in their tracks in utter horror and the monsters ceased their onslaught. They were terrified of their own kind.
“Ubar protect us,” whispered Sirka, flinching and stepping back involuntarily. “A kordrion! Only the cry of a kordrion can split rocks, it says in the books. Nothing can hold it back if it escapes.”
Furgas scuffed. “And there isn’t anyone to hold it back, Sirka.” He pointed to Lot-Ionan. “Your last hope lies there. The old man has failed.”
The hand of the magus moved. Assumed dead, he still managed to direct a dark green beam at Furgas.
It swept the technical genius off his feet and sent him flying up toward the hub until suspended exactly above it. Then the wizard broke off the ray and Furgas sank down. At the last moment he put out a hand to grab one of the reinforcements.
The woman took a shot at Lot-Ionan but the arrow never made it. Magic forced it to hang in the air. Lot-Ionan had been prepared for the attack.
“Great! The stone is up there now. It’s just got to get into the setting.” Ireheart ran to confront the archer-woman, Goda at his heels. “I’ll take her, Scholar. You find a way to get Lot-Ionan up to the diamond.”
Tungdil and Sirka helped the magus to his feet.
Lot-Ionan drew the arrow out of his flesh and discarded it. “It’s not so easy to kill a magus,” he said with a peculiar smile. “Evil will not prevail.” He grasped the iron rings to start the climb.
A bolt of lightning struck from the center of the artifact, sending the wizard sailing through the air to land four paces away. He lay groaning as smoke poured out of his body.
“Lot-Ionan!” Tungdil ran to his side. The wizard’s hand was badly burned and the skin was flaking off onto the ground. Blood seeped out of the blackened flesh. His eyes had turned back in his head and he was convulsing.
Sirka stared. “It’s because his soul is not true,” she realized with horror. She watched the battle rage. “What now?”
Their army was holding their ground on nearly all sides, but a few of the creatures had broken through the defense line. And it was these misbegotten beings that were now heading toward the artifact. They were well aware what had held them prisoner for so long in their black ravine. They were desperate to destroy it.
“I don’t know,” Tungdil replied quietly. Raising Bloodthirster he mounted his befún and rode to confront the monsters. “I’ll keep them busy. Then we’ll have to see. Look after the magus.”
Ireheart had reached the archer and smashed her bow just as she was notching her next arrow. It fell harmlessly to the ground and she leaped back in fury, drawing her sword.
His eyes flashed. “So, you cowardly murderess. Let us see what battle skills you have now that I’ve broken your favorite toy.” He dealt her a blow with his crow’s beak.
She sidestepped deftly and launched a kick but he was able to ward it off with the handle of his ax. He drove the jagged point, where the spike had broken off, deep into her flank, tearing a gaping wound. She fell back, gasping.
“You ain’t seen nothing yet, you crafty bitch,” he crowed and, whirling his ax, was about to strike when she threw her sword.
It missed him and he heard Goda cry out.
Up until recently there would have been nothing that could have distracted him in combat, but his concern for Goda did so now. He turned.
The archer’s sword was stuck deep in Goha’s arm, and the impact had forced her backwards—right up against the rings of the artifact.
“Vraccas! No!” yelled Boïndil, thinking of what Flagur had said. In his mind’s eye he saw Goda transformed to ashes, torn by lightning bolts, consumed by flames…
But nothing happened.
Before he could realize how surprised he was, he felt a sharp pain in his side. It had a hellish kick. Turning, he faced the flying fist of the archer-woman.
“Not so fast!” he exclaimed and hit at her hand with the flat of his battleax. There was a loud crack on contact and the finger bones crunched. Without waiting to see what she was doing, he dealt her an uppercut with the jagged edge, shattering her chin.
She fell to the ground but still slashed out with her dagger.
Ireheart sprang to one side and the glistening knife-tip missed him. “My turn,” he laughed, lifting his weapon high over his head to slam it down with all his strength. “What does a skull do when it bursts?”
The woman had no answer. Under the blow from his ax her head demonstrated the solution to his riddle.
From far above Furgas shouted. He had found his footing on one of the cross-bars and sat there, condemned to watch and wait, which was what he had demanded the others should do.
“We’ll deal with you in a minute,” Ireheart called up. He raced to Goda’s side. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said. “I was careful, master.” Laying his hand on the sword hand
le he pulled it out of her arm. Goda gave a quiet moan. He showed her the sword. “Never throw your weapon unless you have a second one,” he reminded her. “She still had her little toothpick.”
Goda noticed the blood trickling out of his side. “I can see.”
“That? Only a scratch.” He inspected her back for any scorch marks on the armor. Nothing. A slight giddiness forced him to plant his feet firmly on the ground.
“Goda, Ireheart!” called Sirka. “Come over here. The magus has something to say.”
It was only now that the two dwarves saw Lot-Ionan stretched out on the ground next to Rodario. “Oh no! Did he fall?” asked Boïndil somberly. “Now we’ll need a catapult to get him up there.”
They ran to the magus. His breath was short and he was obviously in great pain. Sweat glistened on his forehead. “I didn’t fall. The artifact rejected me,” he explained.
Ireheart looked up at Furgas. “Fine artifact this one is. Why doesn’t it grill him instead of you?”
Lot-Ionan turned his pale blue gaze on Goda. “You must go and complete the task.”
“Me?” The dwarf-maiden raised her night star as if in excuse. “I’m a warrior and—”
“The rune master knew and I saw it with my own eyes, too,” he interrupted, speaking hoarsely. “Goda, you bear within you the gift to use magic. And unlike mine your soul will be pure and innocent.”
“Innocent?” Rodario scoffed. “It’s a good thing the artifact does not have ears, after what I heard in Pendleburg.”
Goda blushed. Ireheart looked sternly at Rodario. “We were doing wrestling drills, actor. She is still untouched.”
Lot-Ionan gazed steadily into Goda’s brown eyes. “I don’t know how—perhaps from the magic source, or perhaps you’ve had it from birth.”
“Is that what you and the rune master were talking about at the campfire that night?” Rodario remembered the evening he had shared the strange spice with Flagur and seen the two men talking.
“Yes. I did not want to tell Goda until we had completed our mission. You might have been my famula.” He shut his eyes, and his teeth were chattering. “Climb up, Goda.” His words could hardly be heard now. “Kill Furgas, put the diamond in the setting and save Girdlegard.”
