Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

“Don’t anyone light a torch,” warned Tungdil. “The dust is too dense-it could easily combust.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that can happen,” nodded Rodario. “Didn’t a flour mill in Porista once blow up? A candle flame igniting the flour dust?” He turned to where the tunnel met the lake. Solid supports with the girth of forest trees had been inserted to hold up the tunnel roof and walls of hefty shoring timbers and strong steel kept the water from pouring in and flooding the huge passage. “Bandilor certainly knew what he was doing when it comes to mining techniques,” said Rodario. “And I thought the thirdlings were warriors first and foremost?”

“There’s a lot to be learned from books, though,” Tungdil replied with a grin. “Come on, let’s go! We don’t know how far ahead the unslayable is.”

They hurried along the tunnel and reached a set of rails like those the dwarves were used to from back home. Three wagons stood ready; they could be propelled by muscle power.

Flagur pointed to marks on the ground where the dust was thinner: “So there was a fourth wagon.”

“After him!” Tungdil jumped onto the vehicle, closely followed by the others. The journey began.

The ubariu operated the mechanism, and they soon reached considerable speed. Fine dust plagued them, getting into eyes, noses and mouths, the bitter-tasting grit grinding between their teeth and causing their eyes to burn and sting so that it was all they could do not to close them.

This tunnel took them in straight line through the heart of the Red Range.

“The monsters from the Outer Lands couldn’t ask for an easier way in,” said Rodario, spitting out a mouthful of acrid dust. “No contending with mountain peaks, precipices, biting winds or ice and snow.”

“True. But they would have to carry boats with them. Otherwise how would they get off that sandbank?” Sirka pointed out.

At the back of his mind Tungdil still had doubts about Bandilor being behind the whole plan. Though he did not want to believe it, he had to face up to the likelihood that it was Furgas, mad for revenge, who had planned the annihilation of Girdlegard’s peoples. And he was sure the technical genius would have had some means up his sleeve to transport the army of monsters over the water. Perhaps they would have used the island or one of Weyurn’s floating islets. There were plenty to choose from.

The mechanical expert’s guilty involvement would have been indisputably proved if he had followed up the detailed hints Furgas had given them about the various monsters’ weak points. But there had been no time to do that in the heat of battle. “Let’s be glad we don’t have to witness exactly how they would have done it,” observed Tungdil. “Because that would have meant we were too late.”

The tunnel was long but they were finally getting closer to the source of the rumbling, banging and hammering. The veil of dust was so thick it was like driving through an ash cloud; and the noise level increased until they could no longer hear themselves speak.

A huge black shadow suddenly appeared in front of them, completely filling the tunnel. It was a machine twenty paces long, rattling, clicking and grinding. At the front a drill was biting its way through the rock face, while dust and fine rubble spewed out behind. Rows of wheels, each the size of a hut, turned slowly to drive the drill.

Now Tungdil understood about the purpose of the tunnel. It must have been terribly complicated to fill it all in again behind them. They must have brought the excavation rig here to the Red Range via the floating nightmare island and of necessity have entered the cliff from under the water line to keep their activities secret. When they’d tunnelled far enough into the mountain, they’d been able to shore up their entrance hole behind them and then continue drilling their way down through the mountain range.

“The machine moves by itself,” shouted Sirka into Tungdil’s ear, yelling over the noise. “I can’t see anyone operating it.”

He nodded. This was by far the magister’s greatest technical achievement. A machine that can eat its way through solid rock without being steered or directed, and can keep it up, cycle after cycle. Until it reached the Outer Lands, opening the door to death and destruction.

Rodario tugged at Tungdil’s mail shirt and pointed to the missing wagon; it was tucked under the machine. The unslayable was not in it.

“He’s somewhere on the machine,” shouted Tungdil, climbing out and sinking nearly up to his armpits in the layer of dust. He made his way forward to the metal ladder near the hindmost wheel. It was like wading through powdery water.

His comrades followed him and one by one they climbed onto the machine. The iron frame shuddered and vibrated; rumbles continued unceasingly, as if there were heavy hammers at work on the inside. There was a strong smell of metal, oil and dust.

Soon they reached a narrow mesh platform: a walkway encircling the entire machine from which ladders led at regular intervals up and down to different levels. There was no sign of any levers or controls that might check the progress of the machine. Then they heard the noise level increase and noticed the juddering was getting faster. The drill was speeding up.

“We’ve got to stop it somehow,” Tungdil roared. “The unslayable has-”

A figure in black armor landed immediately behind the ubari bringing up the rear. It used both its swords on the hapless victim. Cut into three pieces the warrior fell onto the metal walkway without even having glimpsed his killer. His blood washed the dust off the iron mesh and mixed with it to form damp grayish-red clumps.

The unslayable one moved swiftly and confidently forward in his magnificent suit of tionium armor-as if there was no weight to it at all. The pale, sulfur-colored light lent him an uncanny aura and the helmet’s closed visor allowed no sight of his face. Tungdil stared at the foe and could only guess what was behind the protective armor.

The alfar did not want protracted combat at this stage. It hurried on up to the next level.

Flagur threw a dagger at him and caught the unslayable in mid-leap. The point penetrated the armor just above the right hip joint and dug its way halfway through the alfar’s body. But he disappeared, nonetheless, as quickly as he had come.

Tungdil pointed overhead. “Up there! Perhaps there’s a way in,” he bellowed. “We must get the machine first. The alfar will come and find us.”

Cautiously they clambered up from one level to the next, crawling over the back of the filth-covered mechanical digger. When they reached a hatch, Flagur went through first, followed by Tungdil and the others.

They saw that the unslayable had been busy. The machine, presumably, could be steered but there had been so much violent destruction in the hot, sticky, tight space that now it was impossible to see what levers and wheels were supposed to do what.

Sirka had found a wide door leading down to the engine room. She pointed to it, raising her eyebrows questioningly. Tungdil nodded.

Things were getting really uncomfortable. The heat had the sweat dripping off them all; oil on the rungs of the ladder made progress dangerous, and the gangways were even narrower than the one on the exterior of the machine. At least lanterns gave some light; not enough to help Rodario or Lot-Ionan, but sufficient for the dwarves and the ubariu.

They were overwhelmed by the sight that met their eyes. A collection of cogwheels of all sizes whirred round at different speeds. Rods and pistons rotated; chains and wide leather belts drove rollers, from which metal poles protruded, disappearing into iron cylinders. It was a living forest of metal. One false move and they would be dragged into the machinery.