Supported by twenty-four individual legs, the vat was maneuvered over the rocky floor to the mold.
"Are you ready?" Stutts called to Birdcall. The whistling gnome gave the high sign and Stutts called out, "You may pour now!"
Two ants lifted the vat up. White-hot molten glass slipped over the rim of the vat and splashed heavily into the mold.
Torrents of steam billowed out as the water was driven from the still-damp mud.
"Higher!" Stutts cried. "Tip the end up higher!"
Parts of the vat's outside began to crumble and break off.
The molten mass of glass surged against the weakening walls. Cracks developed in the lip.
"Keep them back!" Sturm admonished Stutts. The gnomes, in their boundless urge to see everything, had crowded close to the lens mold. If the vat broke open, they would all be swamped with melted glass. Stutts pushed his colleagues to a safer distance.
The vat was vertical now, and the last gobs fell into the mold. There was more molten glass than the mold would hold, so it lapped over the edges. As the Micones lowered the vat to horizontal, the cracked sides fell to pieces.
"Phew!" said Stutts. His forehead was raw from constant wiping. "That was none too soon!"
The mold, being solidly bound by rock, was holding well.
Already the edges of the lens were turning red, cooling from incandescent white. Bubbles popped in the center as steam forced its way out from the mud liner. Sighter frowned at the sight.
"Hadn't planned on that," he said. "Bubbles will distort the glass."
"It doesn't need to be of the first water," said Stutts.
"How long will it take to cool?" asked Sturm. The shim mering heat from the poured glass was mesmerizing.
"Fully cooled, twelve hours or more," said Sighter. "It'll be hard a lot sooner than that, but we can't crack the mold until we're sure the core is cooled."
"Maybe we could get Rainspot to sprinkle it with water,"
Cutwood suggested.
"No! It would shatter into a million pieces!"
With nothing else to do but wait, Sturm and all the gnomes but Sighter left the cavern. There was still some daylight left on the surface, and the gnomes wanted to get the Cloudmaster back into flying trim.
The flying ship posed proudly on the level valley floor, and once the wings were restored to the hull, it gained a majestic air. The obelisk's long shadow moved swiftly around with the rapidly setting sun.
"Ready for wing test?" Wingover hallooed in the voice pipe. A squawky, muffled "Yes" returned from the engine room. "Engage engine!"
Kitiara sensed a deep grinding vibration under her feet.
The wing tips lifted, flexed and started down again, but balked. An agonizing shudder ran the length of the ship.
The wings hung down where they were and quivered.
"No, no! Shut off!" Wingover yelled. The door of the din ing room banged open, and Flash emerged, coughing.
Wingover stuck his head out the wheelhouse window.
"What happened'" he said.
"That stupid Birdcall installed the armature switch upside down! When I fed lightning to the engine, it flashed back through the cable and burned out the storage jar! We have no power!" Flash exclaimed, close to tears.
Kitiara grabbed the gnome by the shoulder and spun him around. "No power?" she said. "What does that mean?"
"It means, we can't fly home!"
Chapter 27
Gloom settled in with the night. Birdcall was sound ly berated for his sloppy work, but once the reproaches were finished, the gnomes went right back to their usual good-natured camaraderie. Kitiara was furious, Sturm resigned. The dragon tried to lighten their spirits.
"Be of stout heart!" he admonished. "If worse comes to worst, I shall fly to Mt. Nevermind and notify the gnomish authorities of your plight. They will, of course, mount a res cue expedition. Assuming I get clear of this tower, that is."
"Yes, assuming that," Sturm said. He went away to com miserate with the gnomes.
Kitiara sidled over to where Cupelix was perched. "Can you hear me?" she said in the lowest of whispers.
Certainly. The dragon's telepathic voice caressed her mind.
"When we get you out, I want you to take me with you," she muttered.
And leave your friends behind?
"You said yourself the gnomes on Sancrist can be notified.
It may take some months, but they'll try to reach their col leagues marooned on Lunitari." Since the ruin of the Cloud master's engine, Kitiara had begun to understand how the dragon felt, trapped on this moon. Also, once Cupelix was free, she feared he would not linger on Lunitari while the gnomes struggled to repair the flying ship. Her dreams of partnership would be over.
And what of Sturm?
"Someone has to look after the little fellows," she said.
"Don't think me uncaring; I'm just eager to be gone from here."
Fortunes to find, wars to win.
"Not to forget showing you around, too."
Yes, of course. Still, I wonder, dear Kit. If you could fly and I could not, would you leave me here also?
She grinned up at the huge creature. "You're far too big for me to carry," she said.
Supper was a subdued affair, and they all turned in soon after eating. Cupelix withdrew to his tower top, and the humans and gnomes slept scattered about the obelisk's now spacious floor.
Sturm was awake. He lay on his back, staring up into the tower's black recesses. It well matched his mood. Was this his ultimate fate, to be marooned on the red moon forever?
The dragon had said something about things never dying here. Would he live on and on, bitter, lonely, forever denied his heritage as a knight?
The dark space above him closed in. The odd, displaced sensation flooded over him yet again -
— He sat up and heard crickets chirruping in the bushes. A canopy of trees almost closed out the sky of Krynn. Sturm could see the sculpted outline of a high wall in the distance, and knew that it was Castle Brightblade.
He drifted across the night-cloaked land to the castle's main gate. To his surprise, torches flamed in the side brack ets, and two imposing figures in armor flanked the entrance.
He moved in closer.
"Uh! What goes?" said the guard on Sturm's right. He lev eled his poleaxe directly at Sturm.
He can see me! Sturm held up his hand and said, "I am
Sturm Brightblade. This castle belongs to my father."
"Fool, nothing goes," said the other guard. "Put axe away."
"I say is." The right-hand guard took a torch down from its holder and stomped toward — and through — Sturm. By the blazing pine knot, Sturm saw the guard's face. It was not human, nor dwarven, elven, kender, or gnome. The pro truding snout was green and scaly, and toothy horns sprout ed from a wide mouth. His eyes were vertical slits, like
Cupelix's.
Draconians! He was furious that these ugly brutes were in his ancestral home. Sturm pushed through the gate into the bailey. There were wagons and carts parked there, groaning with swords, spears, battle-axes, and sheafs of arrows. The draconians were turning Castle Brightblade into an arsenal, but for whom'
In the great hall he found a crackling fire built. Camp stools were set up before the hearth, and a trestle table was covered with scrolls. Sturm hovered by the table. The scrolls were maps, primarily of Solamnia and Abanasinia.
Steel rang on stone, and Sturm started, forgetting that he could not be seen. A tall, powerful figure strode out of the dark hall. He was helmetless, his face hard and expression less. Long, smooth locks of white hair fell over his shoul ders. The man crossed between the fire and the table and sat on one of the stools. He set his helmet down beside him.