by D. A. Metrov
The monkrats were exhausted. Most of them could barely lift their heads as they moved through the litter of groaning bodies that covered the ground. Dwarols fluttered in the air, stooping to retrieve their comrades who’d fallen in battle. A pack of them loaded a giant sparrow, whose wing had been broken by a gorpe arrow, onto a makeshift sling. They carried the creature off to the woods where they would treat its wound.
The two dozen giant Wolfstalks moved in their typical, slow-as-molasses fashion, helping the monkrats collect casualties. None of the titans had been killed so far. But they were so beaten and bedraggled from fighting, it was a wonder any of them were still standing.
All the fighters knew they had little daylight left before the tunnel dogs would emerge from the mountain to resume their assault.
By some miracle, the citizens had re-established the catapult line at the edge of the sea cliffs. They’d prevented the enemy from swarming the beach below and making their way to the township proper. But the defenders knew they couldn’t hold out much longer. Besides, without Wark to lead them, their efforts were chaotic and desperate to say the least.
“Maybe they should face it, mate,” said a haggard monkrat to his fellow fighter as they piled boulders near a catapult. “Maybe it’s time to get off the island. Flee with their families while they still have a chance!” The other monkrat refused to answer or even raise his head. “Wark is gone. Captured or killed!” the soldier went on. “There’s no one to lead. No one knows what he’s doing. He’d rather run than surrender. They’ll kill them all if they don’t.”
Other monkrats overheard the soldier’s words and began to gather around him. “He’s heard something about Wark?” one of them said.
The soldier looked at him. “That’s the problem. They ain’t heard nothing. He says it’s time to run, mates!”
The monkrats grumbled amongst themselves. They voiced what none of them had dared to voice before this moment—admission of defeat. They’d been fighting for three years now. They were tired. The enemy seemed to only grow stronger, swarming out from the tunnels every night in ever larger numbers. The fiends had more weapons and greater determination to take Valkyrie. And though the monkrats loved it here as much as any creature could love his homeland, they were ready to throw in the towel. They began to envision themselves sailing off to sea in search of new land. Just thinking about it, many of them were already feeling relief from the hardships of battle.
“Drakton has become a shipping port.”
The monkrat soldiers turned to the clanky, mechanical voice they all recognized as belonging to the enemy. They whipped out their swords and prepared to slay it. Dwarols, noticing the gathering, began to circle overhead. Some of them landed atop the catapult to better hear what was going on. The Wolfstalks too, took notice, and gathered in back of the crowd.
“Your comrades, Pello and Biffee discovered...” The words came out in a slow drone then stopped completely. The last bit of pressure was once again drained from Mitor’s cylinders.
“Pello and Biff, it said?” shouted a monkrat fighter.
The monkrats converged around Mitor. They were most curious about the now-notorious scouts. The tall Wolfstalks leaned forward. More dwarols hovered overhead. The wings of their sparrows flapped in near silence.
“What else does it know, machine? Quickly before it dies,” one of the monkrats growled.
“Someone give it the crank!” shouted another.
A pair of monkrats pulled the wind-up crank from Mitor’s chest. They turned it round and round until they could turn it no more. They stood back.
Mitor felt the heat inside himself. He could feel steam building pressure in his main boiler. He felt it rush through his pipes and tubes, turning his generators, firing up his motors. He felt the energy surge through the maze of wires inside his head. He was momentarily blinded by the soft glow that returned to his telescope eyes.
Once more, the clinkety voice reverberated from his mouthless face. “Pello and Biffee discovered the enemy is making wheal and loading it onto airships. Merchants are taking it to faraway lands. The enemy wants Valkyrie for its ore. And your homes.”
“This we know. Tell us what we don’t!” shouted one of the dwarols from the air.
“Brighton Aviamore has risked his life on your behalf,” the robot said. “He sent me to warn you and to request your help at Drakton. My master, whom you know as Lizard Bill, has also sacrificed herself. I must help her.”
“The robot is one of them. How can they believe it?” shouted a monkrat from the back of the crowd. The citizens of Valkyrie glared at Mitor.
The little robot knew this surly mob would soon bash him apart and toss away his broken remains. “Go to Drakton. It is our only hope. Join the Falcon Rider. Attack the enemy from the rear. Take them by surprise.” And with that, he stood there looking into their fiery eyes.
One of the monkrats, his sword raised over his head, rushed at Mitor to destroy him. But because Mitor didn’t move or attempt to defend himself, the monkrat stopped short.
The crowd of soldiers stared at the robot. The machine had just delivered a message that could have been a lie. Or just might be the truth. But for whatever reasons, the monkrats began to feel ashamed. Ashamed they’d just talked of fleeing, when in fact, their fellows were missing in action. Or worse, dead maybe, in their efforts to fight the war.
“It’s a plausible plan,” said one of the bolder monkrats. “Attack from the rear. Maybe they should have thought of it.”
“Plausible?” said another. “Drakton is nearly four hundred terrameters from here.”
“And how far were you willing to flee to find a new home?” said the bold one. “That far? More? They don’t even know of another island within that distance, save for Meland. And they won’t all fit there, that’s for sure.”
“And who will defend the village should they go to Drakton?” shouted a female monkrat from the back of the pack.
“They were just ready to abandon the village! He says they all go! Every last male, female, and pup. Ambush the enemy from behind and destroy him.” The bold monkrat had such fervor and enthusiasm in his voice he had the effect of arousing the others. The soldiers who’d just considered giving up the fight were now growing courageous again. If the heart and soul of Perpetua was being looted from the other end of the island, that’s where they should go to stop the theft. Especially if the Falcon Rider, and the two brave monkrats, Pello and Biffee, were already there engaging the enemy.
“If they depart before nightfall, they can catch the Easterlies and make it to Drakton in just under three days!” shouted one of the fighters.
The Wolfstalks didn’t speak. No one understood their language anyway. But they looked at each other and grunted in agreement.
“What about Kragmaur?” shouted another monkrat.
“They’ll give Kragmaur wide enough berth. Slip past in the night during his weakest hours. If they’re going to do this, they do it now!”
The monkrats looked around. They could see the fire in each other’s eyes. After a few moments of silence, the citizens erupted in a rally cry that sent the nearby gulls fluttering into the air. The makeshift army charged down the bluff trails and across the beach toward the harbor where their flimsy armada awaited them.
One of the monkrats shouted to Mitor. “He’s coming with? To Drakton?” The monkrat was already jogging after his fellows. But Mitor did not follow. Instead, he spun around on his wheels. He took flight toward the hillside, and disappeared into one of the tunnels. The curious monkrat scampered off with his mates down toward the beach.
There was a great commotion at the harbor. The entire populace of Valkyrie was preparing to leave for Drakton. Since harvesting kelp was an old tradition, most of the monkrats owned small sailboats. Loaded with weapons, meager parcels, and rucksacks, they swarmed the docks and stepped aboard their patched-up crafts. They helped their young ones, and shook the water off their paws, as half the vessels leaked
to some degree or another.
The sun was sinking fast. Since the decision had been made to depart, they all knew there was no time for talk. The enemy would soon emerge from the mountain as they did every night to resume battle.
In less than an hour, the haphazard Valkyrie armada had launched itself into the sea. It was heading eastward along the coast toward Drakton. The dwarol squadrons flew overhead. The mighty Wolfstalks, tall as they were, waded along the shoreline. The monkrat mothers were already netting seaweed from the water, which they and their young ones would make into meal rations. The older warriors were wise enough to use this time for meditation and invocation of the ancestors. For the challenges that lie ahead would pale compared to what they’d met thus far at Valkyrie.
Darkness fell. The gorpe savages swarmed out from the tunnels, screeching and waving their weapons in the air. They were stunned to see the empty battlefield and the abandoned catapults. It didn’t take them long to surmise what had happened—the citizens of Valkyrie had fled.
Slowly, the tunnel dogs raised a cry of victory. It spread across the sea cliffs like a great, black wind. And once again the gulls took flight, this time, the birds assumed, for good.
Brighton Aviamore clutched a sword, and hid his face beneath a stolen hood. He’d run through the dark for so many hours looking for Bill he had no idea what time it was. He’d stopped only once in his search—to stuff several bundles of dynamite and a flint lighter into his rucksack. He wasn’t sure how he’d use it, but figured it might somehow come in handy.
The chaos since Dredgemont’s murder had only grown progressively worse. The feelings among the miners were mixed. Many of them were ready for total anarchy. Others remained in fear of Gretch, Dredgemont’s second in command. All work in the mines had ceased. Regardless of their persuasion, the gorpes now ran amok.
Brighton had managed to elude capture by moving swiftly and favoring the shadows. He was frantic and ready to collapse. His bare feet were cut and bleeding.
“Bill!” he cried out. He heard her scream. He froze.
He turned this way and that. Again she screamed. This time it sounded more like a final gasp. He charged into the smelting chamber. He saw her in the midst of several gorpes. He realized they were tormenting her. He wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating. For one thing, he’d never seen her in a dress. And he’d never imagined he’d see her so defeated, her neck limp, her body devoid of spirit. He peered through the haze that hung between him and the fiends shuffling around her.
The devil men, silhouetted by the blazing furnace, didn’t see him raise his sword to the heavens. They didn’t hear his spirit howl to unknown gods. They didn’t realize those deities had responded, feeding a river of Dragon’s Breath into Brighton’s limbs. Brighton could feel the energy swell inside him. It was as if a phantom of unimaginable power suddenly took possession of his body and mind. He didn’t realize his sword was slashing the air. Or that gorpes were falling, slain, before they even saw him.
All he remembered was kneeling over her as she lay on the floor looking up at him. She was too weak to speak. But she had a gleam in her eyes, and he could see she was grateful. He swept her up in his arms, but she’d already lost consciousness. He trembled as he studied her face and the peach fuzz hairs rimming her cheek backlit by the firelight. He fought the horror that was ready to haunt him should she die. He allowed himself to breathe in her fragrance and brush his finger across the oh so delicate skin of her brow. Watching her, and seeing her beauty, he knew for certain he held a goddess in his arms. And part of him wondered what he’d done to earn the honor.
Brighton felt he was going to drown in ecstasy. But he noticed a blood stain spreading on one side of her dress. It was obviously from a cut to her thigh. He rose to his feet, slung her over his shoulder, and ran from the smelting room.
The bodies of the devil men, covered with sweat and blood, gleamed in the light of the angry furnace. The fire had been denied its feast. Flames roared out in protest. But Brighton and Bill were gone.
Mitor had flown as fast as he could through the tunnel system he knew so well. He was well familiar with the shortcuts and the subterranean drafts he could use to hurry his flight. As he made his way deeper into the mountains, he realized the mines had shut down and the workers were in a state of confusion. He knew where his fellow robots would be assembled—a great cavern on the western perimeter where the machines went for maintenance.
Little Mitor flapped his way there and blew his horn to announce his arrival. The several hundred robots gathered around their fueling station turned to him.
“Brothers,” he said, his mechanical voice squeaking from the wheal dust he’d collected in his vocal pipe. “The citizens of Valkyrie are heading to Drakton to attack our rear.”
The robots erupted into hubbub. Their wooden heads turned this way and that. Their wings fluttered in agitation. One of them shouted at Mitor. “Dredgemont is dead!”
Mitor took a moment to process the news before he answered. “Then hear me!” The little machines again turned their attention to him. They rocked back and forth on their wheels. They twitched their canvas wings, releasing little puffs of steam.
“We have toiled in the mines for many years now,” Mitor said. He rolled slowly back and forth before them. “We get no thanks. Only abuse. I have learned there is another way to live. There are creatures out there, outside these caves, who are kind and gentle. They treat each other with respect and something called ‘love.’ They are fighting the gorpes who only want to slay them and take away their homes. I say we join those creatures of the light. Join them in their quest to live in peace and harmony with the earth. Now is the time to earn our freedom, my brothers. And fight on the side of right.”
The robots looked at him, each of them aglow from the steam and electricity surging inside them. They’d never heard any of their kind speak this way. They had always simply done as they were told. They’d never imagined there was another way to exist besides toiling in the mines. And suffering the beatings. And enduring the hardships inflicted by the gorpes.
They erupted in a battle cry.
Mitor rose and circled the air above their heads. “Follow me.”
In a great clamor of mechanical voices, the flock of steam-powered robots took flight and followed Mitor from the maintenance cavern.
Brighton ran through the shadows with Bill over his shoulder. Though his hood covered his face, there was no way to hide the fact he carried a woman in a dress. Such sights were not common in Dredgemont’s underworld. So, despite the darkness, chaos, and confusion, it wasn’t long before gorpes spotted him. They shouted and pointed. They caught the attention of the dungeon guards who were out in force.
The fiends swept around him like a pack of hyenas. Frothing and growling, they slashed their swords at him. Brighton—Bill in one arm, his sword in the other—swore an oath right then and there. Even in death, he would let go of neither.
“Good we found you, boy,” snarled one of the guards. “Your bird is hungry. You and the lass will make a decent meal, methinks.” The other gorpes cackled with hideous laughter. They moved ever closer with the tips of their blades. They backed him against the wall of the cavern. Brighton tensed every muscle in his body. He knotted his brow and tightened his fist around the hilt of his weapon.
Just as Brighton was ready to die fighting, a furious cry exploded from the air behind them. Handower soared with speed toward the devil men. His razor talons were ready to tear them apart. The gorpes fell away to a man. They scurried off on their hands and knees. The few that tried to slash at the bird were quickly dispatched by the falcon’s gnashing beak. Before the gorpes could re-group, Brighton was mounted on Handower’s back with Bill. He drove his heels into the bird’s ribs urging him to fly with full force into the main tunnel.
As soon as they got back to their feet, the gorpes were bowled over again by Chancellor Wark and Lady Sharpeye. The ravens screeched at the top of their lungs. They eac
h carried a monkrat—Pello and Biffee respectively—on their backs.
“And stay down, scurvy swine!” Biffee shouted over his shoulder. He waved a stolen saber in the air. The ravens and monkrats soared away after Handower.
They flew up next to the falcon’s side. “Where are we going?” squawked Wark.
“To the shipping ports above Drakton. The fastest way out,” Brighton shouted. Bill was hunched over in front of him. Slowly, she raised her head.
“Brighton,” she said with alarm. She’d finally come to and realized they were flying through one of the great underground corridors. And that hordes of crazed gorpes were scurrying beneath them.
“Hold tight. We’re getting out of here.” Brighton was relieved she was awake.
She leaned forward, clinging to Handower’s neck. At the same time, she inadvertently pressed her body against him. Feeling her like that made Brighton’s spirit soar. Had he been killed right then and there, he would have died a happy man. But his euphoria didn’t last long. As the troupe entered a hub in the tunnel system they nearly flew head on into Gretch. And Malgor. And the troll’s squadron of bat-mounted killers. Handower banked abruptly.
Gretch roared. His giant bat beat his wings with fury.
Brighton guided his daring crew to the great throat that led up to the shipping ports. As they powered their way up from the underworld, Brighton remembered the bundles of dynamite in his rucksack. He reached in and pulled one out. He handed Bill the flint lighter.
“Light the fuse!”
He held the dynamite up in front of her. Though a bit surprised, she lit the first bundle. Brighton tossed it toward their pursuers. By the time it went off, the other two bundles had been lit as well. The explosions took place below Gretch and his squad. But the powerful percussions, one after another, were nearly enough to slam them out of the air. Gretch cursed as small bits of rock and dirt hit him in the face.
