“By Samusin!” whispered Dergard in fascination, unable to take his eyes off the alfar woman. “How exquisite she is.” Even lying there like this, still and stiff, she had more grace, more elegance, more beauty than the elf princess Rejalin.
Tungdil and the other dwarves could not endure the sight of her features. It was like asking them to look into a dazzling reflection of a bar of gold. Or to go right up to a glowing furnace. They could have done none of these.
At last even Dergard had to lower his eyes. But the fascination had not left him. Blind to any danger, he approached the altar, lifting his trembling hands in his desire to touch the dark goddess. The brittle orc bones scrunched and crumbled under his feet.
“Leave the Creating Spirit alone.” A voice as clear as a mountain spring sounded suddenly on all sides. “She has been tired for so very long.”
Dergard stood stock still and looked to the right and left without seeing a soul. “I don’t want to hurt her,” he called in ecstatic tones. “Only… to be near to her. To kneel and gaze upon her.”
“Can the pointy-ears have deprived our magus of his senses, Scholar?” asked Boindil in dismay.
How Tungdil wished he had translated the runes in the inscriptions on the doors of the throne room in Dson Balsur. Perhaps it would have helped here. But he did not speak the alfar tongue. “I fear so,” he replied under his breath.
“Shall we drag him away?” suggested Goda.
“No, stick together. And do nothing to provoke Dergard.” He was afraid the magus would use magic to defend himself.
Dergard moved two paces closer to the altar. He lifted his gaze. The diamond illuminated the immaculate features, the sight of which burned itself into his brain. The magus was sobbing like a small child; he sank to his knees and crawled over toward the unslayable one through the mass of orc bones, unaffected by this ghastly detritus.
“Do not approach the Creating Spirit.” The voice whipped him back.
“But I must,” begged the awestruck Dergard, frightened at the thought of withdrawing.
They heard cogwheels clicking into action, the clanking of iron, the rattling of a drive mechanism and then a hissing sound. Out of a dark corner of the cavern swept a white cloud of vapor that wandered around randomly. Tungdil thought of the mist demons that had taken over Nudin.
“I shall not let you disturb her,” said the elfish voice, with a terrifying hiss. The next in the series of machines made by the sick genius Furgas now approached, its many wheels turning the orc remains to dust.
Tungdil saw a mixture of vehicle and heavily armored beast: below the hip it disappeared into a box-like construction on wheels. The elf rune he was looking for was on the front plating: faces.
It had lifted the visor and yellow eyes watched Dergard from above: “Get out of here!”
“If it weren’t so viciously dangerous, you’d have to give Furgas a medal for inventiveness,” whispered Ireheart.
His words were picked up. The machine lifted its head suddenly and looked toward the cave entrance. “You have come to disturb the Creating Spirit.” An armored hand shot up to slam the visor down. “I cannot permit that.”
The vehicle picked up speed and came toward the dwarves through the sea of bones.
“Spread out!” Tungdil had seen the machine’s long tionium assault spikes, and the sharp wheels that would slice any victim lying on the ground. The trick with the rope was not going to work with this one.
Spotting that the dwarves were splitting into two groups, the machine operated a mechanism that let down two long blades right and left.
Ireheart grinned. “Not all the constructions are perfect. Those blades are set too high. We can easily…” With a loud clicking noise the blades were lowered down to mid-dwarf height.
“I should have kept my mouth shut.” Ireheart was furious.
Then the monster machine started after them. Before long it had struck one brave warrior on the hip. The combination of the vehicle’s speed and the blades’ sharpness was enough to cut through chain mail and bone. Screaming and spurting blood, he collapsed onto the orc remains while the chase went on.
Three more dwarves were cut to pieces. The rest of the group swerved out of reach, pushing into a narrow cleft where the beast could not pass.
Tungdil made use of the distraction. With some of the other dwarves and Ireheart, Sirka and Goda, he ran through the cave, stopping at the altar on which the unslayable one lay. Their target was the diamond lying unguarded there.
“Ireheart, you get the diamond,” Tungdil commanded. “I’m going to decapitate the alfar woman.”
“Why not the other way round? I’d like to cut her head off.”
“Because only Keenfire can put an end to the life of an unslayable.”
Goda looked over her shoulder. “It’s seen us and is coming this way.” She slowed her pace and was about to confront the machine.
“No, keep going!” Ireheart grabbed her by the shoulder. “Behind the altar-it’ll be safer there. Or it’ll roll right over you.” Running headlong he launched himself and leaped onto the alfar. If he wasn’t going to get to take her head off at least he wanted to injure her.
A beam of green light hit him on the groin; the magic hurled him backwards and his crow’s beak flew through the air, striking Sirka on the forehead. She sank to the ground, unconscious.
Goda whirled around to face the new attacker, but only found a very familiar face.
Dergard was crouching by the altar with one hand raised. “You must not disturb her, didn’t you hear?” he hissed. “Don’t you dare try again!”
Ireheart clambered to his feet, cursing. Apart from pins and needles all over and a few grazes on his hands he was all right. “You wait so long for a magus and when one finally arrives he’s nothing but trouble.” He looked to see how Sirka was. “She’s alive, Scholar. You deal with the human.”
But the machine rolled onwards like a demented fiery bull, lowering the spear in its hand. The blade edges shimmered in the diamond’s bluish light.
XV
Girdlegard,
Kingdom of Idolslane,
The Caves of Toboribor,
Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
Tungdil confronted Dergard, thrusting Goda back. “Go and help your master,” he told her. Then he made a feigned attack on the young magus, reckoning Keenfire would afford the protection he needed.
Dergard moved fast. From his fingertips he shot a light-ray toward Tungdil, but Keenfire attracted and then absorbed the magic beam’s energy: its inlaid patterns lit up and the diamonds were transformed into brilliant miniature stars.
Tundil was unscathed; he felt the sigurdacia wood of the ax handle grow warm, that was all. Without further ado he struck the magus on the temple with the flat of the ax blade and Dergard passed out and sank to the ground.
“Look out, Scholar!” shouted Ireheart from behind. “Get down!”
Tungdil launched himself into a backwards dive.
The hybrid creature’s long blade whirred past his face, missing him by the breadth of a beard-hair. The sharp metal edge clanged against the base of the altar and shattered. A roar of frustration was heard.
But the machine’s powerful array of wheels continued onwards, rolling over the unconscious Dergard and slicing him to pieces. Limbs were severed, and all that remained of the head was a shredded mass. Only the gods themselves could have revived him.
“I am going to kill you!” The monster hurled a spear at Ireheart, who had clambered onto the altar. The dwarf sprang back and with Goda dived under cover at the far end of the stone bier.
“I’ll distract it,” Tungdil called over his shoulder. “You two know what to do.” He felt Dergard’s death had been his fault. He had knocked the magus out and, unconscious, he had been easy prey.