Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

“Here,” called one of the soldiers in a rowing boat, making for the place where the monster had sunk. They threw hooks overboard and came up with a torn-off arm. The ironclad fingers moved with a clicking noise; to produce this monster thin bolts and rivets had forced the flesh to join metal and limb. Shrieking with disgust, the guard threw the find back into the water. Another man pulled up a distorted metal rucksack, lumps of bloody flesh clinging to the bands of metal that had previously transfixed the body of the monster. This catch was likewise tossed back into the waters of the port.

Sirka gave the order to cast off and for all sails to be set. They left harbor, taking course for the island.

“It’s dead,” sighed Rodario with relief. “One less of them.”

“There’s still one at large. And then there’s the unslayable.” Tungdil sat down and was given something to eat and drink. He was completely exhausted. The journey and fighting had taken everything out of him. And his empty eye socket was burning like red-hot coals.

After Sirka had dispensed a dose of pain-killing powder, he dozed. The fog worried him before he fell asleep: it was playing tricks. It looked as though the executioner Bramdal was standing on the quay.

Girdlegard,

Queendom of Weyurn,

Twenty Miles Northeast of Mifurdania,

Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

T he fog refused to lift. On the contrary, it seemed keen to protect the unslayable one.

It was folly to head out over the lake in such visibility with all sails set. A collision with a floating log or rock could scupper them, yet, not knowing how far ahead their enemies were, they took the risk.

“If only I knew how they managed to overtake us.” Flagur was infuriated.

“You saw what strength these creatures possess,” Lot-Ionan consoled him. “And no one knows what an unslayable is capable of.” On his own and about to face an opponent who could use magic, he was feeling apprehensive. There was no Dergard to help him out. And no rune master either. “Will you still be able to put the stone in the artifact?”

“How do you mean, Lot-Ionan?” asked Flagur, noticing that Sirka was getting the sails furled. The helmsman had told her they were approaching the place where the island had last been sighted.

“Your rune master is dead. Wouldn’t you have needed him to activate the artifact?”

“Absolutely. Our rune master is dead. But there is another one. The acronta have one, though it won’t be easy to get him to help.” The ubari looked worried at the prospect. “They like the challenge of facing the Black Abyss beasts in battle. It’s like telling a small child not to fight the older boys. They don’t understand that they can’t win in the long run.” He looked at the wizard. “You are a magus. It would probably be simple for you to implant the diamond.”

“I’m not familiar with these artifacts, you know,” he confessed. “But I will certainly come with you. Otherwise it may be too late for both your homeland and ours.”

Peering out into the mist, the watch called out a warning; then something collided with the sailing ship’s bows.

“What was that?” shouted Sirka. “Any damage?”

“The planks are sound,” came the reassuring reply. “It was driftwood probably. Maybe from another vessel; part of the hull, perhaps.”

Tungdil was glad Sirka had reduced their sail area. If they had been traveling any faster the impact would have holed them.

As they got nearer to the island the Waveskimmer hit more floating wreckage. A troubling thought occurred to Tungdil: What was it they were sailing through?

“Where are Queen Wey’s warships? The ones sent to protect the island?” a worried Rodario asked. “They should have…” He fell silent. “Curse the alfar!” he said, catching sight of Tungdil’s expression. “He’s sunk them?”

“Do you have another explanation, Fabuloso?” Land loomed up through the mist. “The island’s still there. We…”

A column of blazing flame shot out from the mountainside, penetrating the mist; then a second one flashed bright fire into the night. Although they were a good hundred paces from the shoreline a wave of heat rolled over them. Smaller tongues of fire emerged from the main flame, forming a corona round the tip of the island. The light-show caught everyone’s appalled attention.

“It’s going down!” Tungdil could see what was happening. The unslayable was burning off gas and flooding the chambers to sink the island so that it would be out of reach. Would Lot-Ionan be able to magic himself down there to overcome the immortal enemy and the bastard? He thought it unlikely. “We’ve got to get there before it disappears. Full ahead, Sirka. Don’t worry about the ship now.”

The mariners looked at each other fearfully, uncertain what to do.

Tungdil went up to the nearest of them. “We must take this risk or else be blamed for all the misfortunes Girdlegard will suffer,” he insisted. “We can only defeat the evil by landing on the island.”

The sailors started to move, acting on his orders although aware it could mean the end for their ship. Tungdil recalled how the initial capture of the island had cost two ships. It must not happen again.

The Waveskimmer increased speed and with each new bump they feared they might be taking in water. Prayers to Elria were offered ceaselessly; the sailors would do nothing without asking the goddess for her protection.

The island sank quickly, flames extinguished now that the gas had been burned off.

Under Rodario’s direction the helmsman maneuvered them close enough for the ubariu, Tungdil and company to jump onto the slowly submerging island. The flat shoreline was already under water.

Rodario gasped in pain when he landed. His injured leg hurt hellishly. “That way,” he said, indicating a narrow rock chimney. “Climb down there. It ends in a chamber leading inside.”

The last bit they had to jump. It was a good twenty paces down but there was already enough ballast water at the bottom to make it safe for them to do so.

“What have I let myself in for?” sighed Rodario. Lot-Ionan nodded in silent sympathy.

One by one they dropped into the foaming water, then climbed the stone steps to get through a hatch to the passageway. Water was pouring from their clothing and shoes, the drops leaving a dark trail. A trail that could betray them.

“I know where we are.” Tungdil had used his dwarf instincts well on his first visit: he pointed to the right. “That leads to the furnace, I think. If we go through it we come to the operating room for the boilers, don’t we?”

Rodario nodded. “We should find the unslayable one there. Somebody must be using the controls.”

They advanced cautiously, amazed at the appearance of the cave where once the furnaces had stood.

The molten iron that had cascaded down, threatening to engulf Tungdil and his friends, had hardened below into solid blocks like gray ice floes. Above, dripping ore had formed stalactites, or solidified on the rock in sheets of metal. It was a weird and wonderful sight.

“Go on,” mouthed Tungdil, approaching the damaged hatch in the boiler room. It had been struck by a heavy object of some kind; distorted, the round door hung from its hinges.

“Do you think the alfar is still here?” asked Rodario, drawing his sword. “Three to fight would be too many.”

“No, I don’t think he’ll have waited for us,” Tungdil said to allay his friend’s anxiety. He entered the area that had once housed the gigantic furnaces and boilers.

Their first foe was already there.

A huge monster three and a half paces high stood next to the nearest furnace. Its arms were poles of glass and metal bars. On its head sat a tionium helmet formed like a death’s head. It was whimpering and trying frantically to get the valve wheels to work, obviously trying to prevent the island from submerging. So far it had not noticed the intruders. Rune-adorned axes were stowed on its back in a large quiver resting on top of its black armor.