Akzad pulled the curtain aside, and saw Bomfrey standing there in a black hooded cloak, with his travel boots on. Perplexed, Akzad frowned and looked at Bomfrey with his head askance.
“Archwright, you are dressed for traveling, but it is late! Close to midnight, is it not?”
“Get your cloak and put your boots on,” said Bomfrey gruffly. “We’re going up to Merador.”
Akzad frowned, wondering what on earth had gotten into Bomfrey. “Going up to Merador?” he asked, his frown intensifying, his voice laden with confusion. “But, whatever for? Why would we want to go up into that dirty city of Men, especially now, at this late hour? From what I’ve heard, the streets will be crawling with drunks, thieves, pickpockets, rogues … even murderers. These Men are not law-abiding like we Dwarves are, Bomfrey. Many criminals and ruffians live among them. I … I don’t know why you want to do this, but I must say that I do not think it is a good idea. Neither you nor I are warriors, and as Dwarves, these criminals might see us as easy targets, and—”
Archwright Bomfrey opened his cloak, revealing two flintlock pistols tucked into his belt.
“I may not be a warrior,” he said with a cheeky smile, “but I’ve shot pistols before, and at a few paces, you don’t need to be a great shot to hit as large a target as a Man. Don’t worry about rogues and thieves. The criminals of Men are cowards. If they see these, they’ll go away; if we run into problems, the mere sight of these pistols will probably get us out of trouble. We won’t even need to fire them.”
Akzad still looked doubtful. “Well, that may be true,” he said warily, “but I still don’t understand why you would even want to do this in the first place. What is there in that dirty city above that you want to see anyway, especially now? Ser Greenfield did say that if we wanted to go on a tour of Merador, he would send an escort of knights to show us around. Can we not just speak to him in the morning and do that instead?”
Bomfrey shook his head, and then reached into one of the pockets of his cloak. From it, he pulled out a soul gem. One that had been cut in half. Akzad stared at the jewel in surprise.
“That is one of the soul gems we used in the Factory Core!” he exclaimed. “Well, half of it anyway. Where’s the other half? And why do you have this in your possession?”
“The other half,” answered Bomfrey, “is still in the Factory Core, fused to the structure. I secretly cut the gem and took this piece with me when we evacuated Karak-Drang. It is a link to the Core.”
“Well yes, it is, in a way, but it is a useless link. What can you do with it?”
Bomfrey’s mysterious smile broadened. “It is not what I can do with it, but what a wizard can.”
“A … a wizard?” asked Akzad, surprised. “There is a wizard in Merador?”
Bomfrey nodded. “Randor the Red,” he answered. “Although here, he goes by the name ‘Randolph’, disguising himself as an old cobbler. I did some research, and this ‘Randolph’ is indeed Randor the Red.”
“I thought that Randor was killed by the Dark One when Randor’s tower was destroyed by the wraiths and their fire wyrms.”
“So did many,” answered Bomfrey. “But Randor survived. He was almost killed, and his powers were greatly diminished; however, he survived. He has been living here undercover for decades, slowly rebuilding his powers. One day, he will reveal himself as Randor the Red, but not yet. Anyway, that is not our concern. We need his powers. With this half of the soul gem, he will be able to create a link to the Factory Core, and through a Seeing Crystal, we will then be able to see what the Factory Core sees.”
The look on Akzad’s face changed from one of confusion and wariness to one of excitement. “Brilliant!” he exclaimed. “Excellent work, Bomfrey, as always. I should never have questioned your motives. Give me a minute; let me get my cloak and boots.”
“Make sure you wear a hooded cloak,” said Bomfrey. “Secrecy is of the utmost importance. We do not want either Dwarves or Men to know what it is we are doing, or who it is we are off to meet at this hour.”
“I understand. Neither our king nor the ruler of Merador would be happy to know that we are associating with a wizard.”
“Yes,” agreed Bomfrey. “And I’m sure that ‘Randolph’ does not want to have his true identity revealed. He will certainly not want to be seen with Dwarves. That would cause a number of people to become very suspicious about who he really is, no doubt.”
As Akzad was putting on his cloak and boots, a notion struck him. “There is one issue I cannot help but bring up,” he said to Bomfrey.
“And what might that be, Akzad?”
“Well, why would Randor even want to help us? Surely he is too concerned with rebuilding his strengths to assist us?”
Archwright Bomfrey dug in his pockets again, and took out a small leather pouch, which he dropped onto Akzad’s desk. “Have a look in there,” he said.
Akzad opened the pouch and turned it upside down on his desk. What fell out of it caused him to gasp with surprise, and his eyes grew as wide as saucers.
“Mithril ingots!” he gasped, staring at the numerous little lumps of mithril, each the size of a sugar cube. “These are worth … they are worth a fortune! Where did you get them?”
“Family heirlooms,” answered Bomfrey. “I have more, but I am willing to part with a few of them for a cause such as this. And we all know how much wizards love mithril.”
“Indeed, indeed … Randor will be most eager to help us in return for a reward such as this,” said Akzad as he put the mithril ingots back into the pouch. “Best keep this safe, though,” he said as he handed it back to Bomfrey. “I’m sure many of the rogues of Merador would slip daggers between our ribs very quickly if they knew what we were carrying. And if they did know what was in this pouch, then even those pistols of yours wouldn’t do much to deter them.”
“And that’s why we’re going straight to Randor’s house,” said Bomfrey. “Come, are you ready?”
Akzad pulled the hood over his head. “I’m ready,” he said. “Let’s go.”
He and Bomfrey made their way quietly up through the crypts, emerging onto the streets of Merador. The muddy streets were lit with lanterns, and from many taverns and pubs drunkards staggered, laughed and yelled, while in the shadows of alleys, ominous figures skulked.
“Come Akzad,” said Bomfrey. “We must not linger here. This way.”
They walked briskly through the streets, staying attentive and keeping their eyes peeled for any signs of danger. It was after they had traveled a few blocks, though, that Akzad noticed they were being followed.
“There are four rough-looking fellows trailing us,” hissed Akzad as he and Bomfrey ducked down a side alley. “I don’t like the look of them.”
“We’re almost there,” whispered Bomfrey in response. “Just down this alley here to the right. We’ll find Randor’s—”
As they turned the corner into the alley, they almost collided with a tall, broad-shouldered man who was standing in their way. He was holding a cutlass, and was dressed in rough, smelly clothes and his ugly face was heavily-scarred. He grinned evilly, staring down at the two dwarves with menace in his eyes.
“Where are two dwarves headed at this time of night?” the man asked.
“That’s none of your business,” said Bomfrey, trying to sound brave and confident. “Now stand aside and let us pass.”
“This here’s our alley,” said the man, twirling his cutlass, “and if you want to walk through it, you pay us a toll.”
“Us?” asked Bomfrey defiantly. “I only see one of you.”
At that moment, the four men who had been following Akzad and Bomfrey through the streets came up behind them, blocking off any chance of retreat. The men all opened their cloaks and drew their own weapons. Some had cudgels, some had long daggers, and some had cutlasses.
“Me and my friends,” growled the rogue. “We own this alley. And we’re telling you, short-ass, t
hat you’re going to pay us a toll.” He lifted his blade and pressed the point of it into Bomfrey’s throat.
“Do you understand, shorty?” he rasped. “Pay up now, or you die.”
CHAPTER 21
“Easy now, easy,” said Bomfrey, his heart hammering with fear.
“Empty your pockets, short-ass, and do it quickly,” snarled the scar-faced rogue. “You’d best drop everything you’re carrying on the ground before I count to ten. Otherwise this here alley will be your final resting place … ever. Now do it! One, two, three…”
Bomfrey’s mind was a mess of confusion and fear. Should he try to draw the pistols and fight off the rogues? There were five of them, though, and he only had two shots. And this man looked like a killer; if he even suspected that Bomfrey had pistols on him, he might simply run him through with his cutlass before he could even draw the guns. But giving the soul gem and the mithril to these thugs would be unthinkable. Bomfrey froze, paralyzed with indecision and panic.
“Six, seven, eight, nine … you’re not emptying your pockets, you little bastard!” snarled the rogue, pushing the point of his cutlass in firmer, so that it broke Bomfrey’s skin and caused a trickle of blood to run down his throat. “Do it this bloody instant, or I’m sticking my blade right through your fat little throat! Nine and a half, te—”
“What’s going on out here?!” demanded a new voice. It sounded aged, yet it carried a weight of strength and confidence.
The rogues looked up the alley and saw an old man dressed in a brown robe, with a long grey beard, and long gray hair. He was leaning his meager frame on a big, gnarled walking stick.
“None of your business, you old git,” snarled the thug. “Now move along before we decide to leave your headless corpse in this alley too.”
“I suggest you move along and leave those dwarves alone,” said the old man with menace in his voice. “All of you. Go!”
The thugs laughed brashly, and one of them started walking with purpose in his stride towards the old man, swinging his weapon in his grimy hand.
“I’m going to teach you a lesson, grandpa,” rasped the rogue. “The last lesson you’ll ever learn. You’ll sleep in hell tonight, you stupid—”
The old man calmly raised his walking stick, and the thug flew back through the air, as if punched by a cave troll. He landed in a crumpled heap at the other end of the alley, stunned and groaning with pain. The rogue who was holding his cutlass to Bomfrey’s throat turned and made as if to charge the old man, but with a contemptuous flick of his staff, the old man used the same invisible force to hurl this man twenty feet up into the air. The thug screamed as he fell back down earthwards, and crashed onto the cobbled stone floor of the alley.
The rest of the thugs realized that this was no mere elder they were facing, and they turned tail and fled.
Bomfrey and Akzad, meanwhile, breathed out sighs of relief. Their hands were shaking from fright, and they still felt at least partially frozen by panic. The stranger—who they were certain now was the wizard Randor—walked up to them, looking them up and down with his keenly intelligent blue eyes, which were nestled below bushy grey eyebrows.
“Well, well, look what we have here,” he said amicably. “It’s not too often that we see dwarves in the streets of Merador.”
“Thank you for helping us,” said Bomfrey, his voice still shaky.
“It was nothing,” said the old man with a shrug. “Those scumbags were puny enemies, hardly worth my time. I’m Randolph, a simple cobbler, by the way. May I have the pleasure of your names, master dwarves?”
Akzad and Bomfrey looked at each other, and a quick smile passed between them; this confirmed their suspicion.
“I am Archwright Bomfrey of Karak-Drang, and this is Chiefwright Akzad, also of the city of Karak-Drang. And we have come to see you … Randor the Red.”
The wizard’s eyes widened with surprise. “How do you … I mean, um, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he spluttered. “Randor the Red? Who is that? I’m—”
Bomfrey took the leather pouch out of his pocket and pulled an ingot of mithril out, holding it in the palm of his hand. The precious metal gleamed invitingly in the moonlight. As soon as Randolph—or, rather, Randor the Red—laid his eyes on the mithril, they almost popped out of their sockets.
“My word!” he exclaimed. “Is that…?”
“Mithril, yes,” answered Bomfrey. “And there’s more of it in this pouch. All of it will be yours, Randor, if you agree to help us.”
Randor swallowed slowly; there was no point in trying to keep up his act of secrecy now.
“Come,” he said, “we’ll talk in my house. Such things should not be discussed where there are unfriendly ears to hear them.”
He led the dwarves down the alley, and then walked into a small, unassuming-looking cottage nestled among some taller buildings.
“In here, master dwarves,” he said. “You two are lucky I went out to look for my cat when I did … ah, and there he is!”
A scruffy-looking grey tomcat wandered in off the street, ignoring the dwarves, and strolled casually into the wizard’s cottage. After the dwarves and the cat were inside, Randor closed and bolted the door behind them, and set his staff down next to the door.
“It’s a rough neighborhood, this one,” he said. “As you two found out. But it’s good for secrecy, which is of the utmost importance to me right now. Come, sit, sit,” he said, pointing to a crude wooden dining table, around which there were a few roughly-made chairs.
The dwarves sat down at the table, and so did the wizard and his cat.
“Let me get straight to the point, Randor,” said Bomfrey, emptying out his leather pouch onto the table, so that Randor could see just how much mithril was going to be his if he agreed to help the dwarves. “My inventors, engineers and myself designed and built a weapon … a revolutionary weapon, one that may change the way wars are fought. It’s currently fighting against the Demon Horde in our city, Karak-Drang, which we had to abandon in the face of the demon invasion.”
Bomfrey went on to tell Randor about the Factory Core in detail. The wizard was fascinated to hear about it, and very interested in the Core’s potential. In exchange for the mithril, he agreed to help Bomfrey and Akzad.
“It has been a while since I last used my old Seeing Crystal,” Randor said. “In fact, I haven’t called on its powers since it warned me of the arrival of the fire wyrms and allowed me to escape from my tower with my life. But I always knew there would come a day when it would serve me well again. Let me have the soul gem, please, and I’ll cast the spell that will link the Seeing Crystal to your Factory Core.”
Bomfrey handed Randor the soul gem, and the wizard held it in his left hand while he placed his right on the Seeing Crystal, which was a large, clear crystal ball. Randor began to mutter a long spell, using the words of an ancient language, and as he did, both the soul gem and the Seeing Crystal started to glow. The light started as a dim, dark blue glimmer, but grew in intensity as Randor spoke the words of the spell until, after a few minutes, the soul gem and the Seeing Crystal were both shining with a bright, electric blue light.
Then, suddenly, the Crystal was no longer clear. Instead, inside the ball, the astonished dwarves could observe Karak-Drang, as it was currently being seen through the many eyes of the Factory Core.
“A great battle is raging,” murmured Bomfrey, staring at the Seeing Crystal. “And if the Factory Core does not prevail … our whole world will be lost.”
CHAPTER 22
The Factory Core was pleased with the damage the wall of muskets and cannons was inflicting on the Demon Horde, but it knew that it could not rely on this defense to completely stem the tide of the invaders. For one thing, the numbers of their army were far too vast. And secondly, but just as crucially, gunpowder was a limited resource.
The dwarves had left behind many barrels for the Factory Core to use, but even so, turning the ent
ire City Watch barracks into one giant dragon’s mouth, with hundreds of arms firing non-stop, was consuming the precious explosive at a prodigious rate. The Factory Core had performed a number of precise calculations, and had figured out that the barrage from the barracks would only last about half an hour before the supply ran out.
Still, during that half hour of ceaseless, accurate firing, the Factory Core knew it could deal massive damage to the enemy. Perhaps not enough to make them turn and run, but certainly enough to seriously slow down their assault.
The onslaught from the barracks had been going on for almost fifteen minutes now, and, as the Factory Core had predicted, the stores of gunpowder had been used up to the point where only half remained. Which meant it had another fifteen minutes before it would have to fall back on another plan.
The Factory Core’s super-mind continued to control the mechanical geckoes while all of this was going on. They had all spent their ice-enchanted arrows, and were now fighting in close combat, using their claws, tails and teeth as weapons.
Even though the geckoes were powerful, if one got cut off from the others, the demons would soon swarm over it, using the sheer weight of their numbers to overwhelm the mechanical creature. Once they had gotten hold of one, they would rip its tail off, tear its jaws out of their hinges, and pull its legs out of their sockets, leaving it a useless, immobile lump of broken metal.
While the geckoes were putting up a stiff resistance, more and more of them were getting isolated from each other and were being swarmed over and overrun by demons. One by one, the many eyes of the Factory Core—which was viewing the unfolding battle through its creations—were going blind.
The Factory Core, however, still had plenty of tricks up its sleeve. The geckoes and the City Watch barracks were simply the vanguard troops of this fight for Karak-Drang. The Core had known that they would eventually be overrun, and it had prepared many more surprises for the invaders. And, after the barracks ran out of gunpowder, it would be time to shift to the next phase of its strategy.
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