The monster drew another spear stored lengthways on the vehicle’s side. “Your ax is nothing to me,” it said, slowly advancing. You cannot even reach me, groundling.”
Tungdil ducked down to grab a loose blade fragment; he weighed it carefully, then cast it with all his strength at his adversary. The machine swiveled and struck him on the left shoulder with a jagged-edged knife. His own throw had not even damaged the machine’s armor plating.
The creature laughed and sped onwards while Tungdil moved back from the altar to give himself more freedom of movement. “You will not defeat me,” he vowed to the creature.
Now Goda tried her luck. She sprinted along the other side of the altar and jumped up in an attempt to get the diamond.
The fiendish creature turned its head and launched a spear in her direction. “Get away from the Creator Spirit!”
Goda was taken by surprise. The sharp point cut through her chain mail links and armor, piercing the collarbone and shoulder joint and forcing her to the floor. The weapon shaft protruded from her back.
Tungdil could not let himself think about her fate because the machine-monster was nearly upon him. He crouched down, did a shoulder roll to escape the lethal touch of the wheels and vicious blades, then jumped back on his feet.
With a mighty leap, he launched himself onto the broad platform of the vehicle. Above him towered the armored back of the creature.
Raising his arms he whacked Keenfire with tremendous force against the place he assumed the creature’s spine to be. If this blow were not a death-dealer, his own life would shortly be over.
But the ax did not fail him. It tore into the tionium, hacking at the flesh and gouging through to the vertebrae giving off a dazzling glow as it did so, the diamonds pulsating as if they contained a heart.
The monster gave an ear-splitting screech, cringing and collapsing, its long arms convulsively grabbing at the dwarf on its back. “Get off me!”
“No!” Tungdil had already landed a second ax blow, despite difficulty in keeping his balance on the swaying metal deck. The next swipe was less powerful but hit the same spot, maximizing the injury.
With a bestial roar the creature waved its arms wildly and struck Tungdil on the chest. He flew through the air, landing with a thump on the ground, but without losing his grip on the ax handle. Dazed, he struggled to his feet and, as if through a veil, saw the creature lurching toward him again at high speed.
The other dwarves raced over to support their leader.
He glimpsed the spear that had narrowly missed Ireheart. “My life is in your hands, Vraccas!” Snatching up the spear he hurled it at the foe.
The machine drove on to its own destruction. Keenfire’s strikes had rendered it incapable of taking evasive action or defending itself, and the spear-blade struck it full in the chest.
It swerved violently, then repeatedly somersaulted, each flip forcing the weapon deeper into its chest until the spear finally broke.
Tungdil vaulted aside to escape the heavy vehicle. It rumbled past him and burst open on impact with the cave wall, piercing the monster inside with the array of cogwheels, rods and gears that had propelled it. Blood poured down the rock.
Tungdil saw that the creature’s legs had been amputated above the knee and the stumps fitted with hooks and chains to enable it to move along. It was a horrific sight.
Three dwarves helped Tungdil get over to the altar. Ireheart was standing in front, holding the diamond triumphantly in his right hand. “Here, Scholar,” he called. “We’ve got it! Thank Vraccas! Come and hack off this pointy-ear’s head so we can go and tend to our wounded.” He got ready to throw it. “Here! Catch!”
An arrow whirred past and struck Ireheart on the left side. His hand was knocked sideways, the fingers opened and he dropped the stone; it fell onto the alfar’s breast, rolled down onto her belly and came to rest by her folded hands.
Ireheart stared at the second arrow lodging in his forearm. “Treacherous elves!” he groaned. Then three more arrows hit him in the chest and he collapsed on top of the alfar woman.
Three dozen archer elves streamed out of the second entrance, raining arrows on the dwarves.
“Boindil!” yelled Tungdil, distraught, as he stormed to meet them, ax held high. Now was no time to act out the role of scholar.
Before the other dwarves recovered from their surprise, fifteen of them had been felled. Those of Tungdil’s band still alive hurtled to their leader’s side to launch themselves at the hated foe and to stop the diamond being stolen.
These were the longest-lasting thirty-seven strides that Tungdil had ever taken in his entire life.
On all sides dwarf death-screams resounded. The skilled archers aimed at any gaps in the wall of shields and their deadly missiles repeatedly hit home.
Some of the arrows even penetrated the iron shields, nailing shields to forearms; or, going deeper still, they robbed a warrior of his life.
As the noise of war shouts, scurrying boots and rattling chain mail subsided, Tungdil, only three paces from the elves, realized he was the sole survivor. Behind him lay a trail of dwarf dead.
Eyes awash with tears of fury and hatred, he raised the ax and swung it at the nearest elf, only to receive a vicious blow on the head and a cut through his left eye. The pain was excruciating and erupted like a thunderstorm inside his head.
He lost all power in his muscles. Everything weighed a ton and Keenfire suddenly seemed as heavy as a mountain. Tungdil slid to the ground at the feet of an elf.
A boot turned him on his back and Rejalin’s face floated above him. “The time of peace between our peoples, Tungdil Goldhand,” she said icily, “is over. None of the groundlings will survive our test. You are all corrupt.” She reached past him and lifted up Keenfire. “Heavy. But unique, in that it fights for good. It will serve us better than it has served your people.” She stood tall. “We, the eoil atar, will shepherd Girdlegard into an age of immaculate purity. The era of weakness and decay and dissolution is over.”
Tungdil tried to reply but his senses deserted him. Death was knocking at his door ready to escort him to the eternal smithy.
Before he closed his eyes, giving in to an irresistible compulsion, Tungdil thought he saw a figure in black alfar armor step out of the shadows to approach the elf ranks from behind. In each raised hand a naked blade was clasped.
Warm rain… But was he imagining it? Where would warm rain come from in a cave?
Then his thoughts fragmented…
W hy have you done this to me?”
The unslayable one woke up, suddenly confronted by the beautiful face of his son, who was crouched down at his side, a spear in one armored glove, his hand touching the metal plates sewn into his perfect flesh.
“I have not harmed you. I have had you made mightier than all other beings in Girdlegard.” He sat up, rose swiftly from the couch and seized his helmet from the weapon stand. He had only intended to allow himself a moment’s rest before returning to the fray. The battle seemed to be going increasingly against them. The dwarves and undergroundlings were fighting fiercely in the tunnels and for some reason the elves had also arrived in search of the diamond. This rivalry brought no advantage to himself and his sister Nagsar Inaste.
“Mightier than you, creator?”
“Why aren’t you back in the tunnel where I told you to stay?” he censured his son.
“I needed to speak to you, creator father.” His son stood up. “I don’t wish to spill any more elf blood.”
The unslayable froze. “Get back to your post at once,” he said, his voice ice cold. “You are to kill every elf you meet.”
“But they are just like us! We are killing them but they look like us. They must be friends…”
“We are not like them at all! Do friends come to your house and try to kill you? And try to steal your treasure?” He put on his helmet. “Do what you are told, boy. You are responsible for your creator mother.” He turned abruptly toward his son. “Do you want her to die before she has ever clapped eyes on you?”