Atop Southtown’s thick stone walls Colonel Ilmr stood, glaring out across the vastness of the mountains. Her eyes stung as she scanned the hostile terrain of the surface world. Had she stepped from her Skidbladnir the vile rays would have blistered her skin in seconds, as she knew too well, while at night the already-cool air grew painfully cold.
Although she had grown more accustomed to the dreadful emptiness above the mountains it still weighed on her mind, not least for the times the land would flood with torrents of water from overhead, or be parched by the shining sunlight. Compared to the calm, nurturing stability of the immutable Underworld, this land was one of violence and caprice.
The surface was no place for the Pharyes. Even through the magical display within her Skidbladnir the light was painful. Ilmr wondered how her people could ever make such an inhospitable place home. The climate rejected even their crops.
Colonel Ilmr’s temporary Skidbladnir was, by necessity, a mass-production model, pneumatics loud and clumsy, the gemstone core capable of only a fraction of the output she was accustomed to. Compared to her Dreyra the smaller machine was cramped and basic in capabilities and features. Even so, she was grateful to have it at all after Dreyra’s loss.
The fate of her ancestral vessel was still uncertain, but she was hopeful. At least in theory repairs were possible. In that she was lucky.
Fjoturr and Eyrir were both gone, returned to the Underworld fortress of Northastr; the former just while his Vidrband was repaired, but the latter… permanently by the sound of him. His injuries might not threaten his life, but they required better treatment than he could receive at the surface. Even if he could recover, his Skidbladnir could not – the rune-carved core was cracked; the irreplaceable heart of the machine.
It was a mercy that the monster responsible had also fallen in the battle. Ilmr doubted that the Varangians could have fought the harpies at the same time as that creature, the supposed ‘human’. Just dealing with the Valkyries was bad enough.
A voice warbled in her ear, distorted by the lower quality of her present vehicle’s systems. “Colonel, you should get some rest. You deserve it.”
Ilmr grimaced, but gave no response. The speaker seemed to take that as an invitation.
“They’re giving out the gem ration in the mess you know. I told them you were on your way and to save you a double portion – if you don’t tell I won’t! I figure nothing beats a good meal and a good nap, even if it can’t be in our own warrens for now, right? Besides, I’ve got everything here under control; those harpies won’t get past me!”
The youthful voice was of Captain Ulf – the cheery, too-talkative younger woman had replaced Eyrir in the unit, but though Ulf was powerful and skilled in the use of her ancestral war machine, she was hopelessly naïve. She’d yet to face the Valkyries in battle.
Ulf did have a point however – it would be wheelturn soon in the Deephold, and Ilmr hadn’t slept in… too long.
Colonel Hrim had left her in charge of Southtown while he hunted the Valkyries down in the tunnels below, but there was little for her to do on the surface – the mines were running smoothly and no further attacks had come after the bulk of the harpy forces retreated from their attack.
Ilmr had feared they might mount a second attack, in an attempt to reunite with the Valkyrie commander and her personal unit, but it hadn’t come. Perhaps they lacked the numbers, or else weren’t aware the Marshall was still alive, still fighting beneath the surface.
Either way, by the sound of Hrim’s reports there was little chance of Marshall Arawn, being able to break through to the surface either; Hrim’s last report made it sound as though the warrior princess was all but cornered.
Despite her unease, things were going smoothly at last. Ilmr might as well take the opportunity to give herself a rest.
“Very well, Ulf… thank you. But next time tell them to save me one ration,” she replied to the younger woman through her cockpit.
It would be good to get out of the miserable noon sun. She had no idea how Ulf could be so cheerful in that weather.
Although… that weather wasn’t half as bright as it had been moments earlier. It was actually surprisingly dark for the time.
Far from scattering as they’d promised, the clouds were rolling in thick from the North, a powerful wind whipping across the vale that stretched between Southtown’s fortified hilltops and the mountains that ringed the town in three directions.
These interloping formations were thick and dark, heavy with the promise of storm as they blotted the light and cast a deep umbra over the valley below. Gusts dredged streams of petals from the long grasses as they rippled and waved, streaming dancing dots of color that joined birds taking flight southwards.
Ilmr welcomed the soothing gloom even if the accompanying rain was a nuisance, yet the power of the wind lashing the parapet forebode no ordinary rainstorm.
Approaching along the wall, Ulf let out a whistle, transmitted to Ilmr’s ear. “Looks like this weather’s going to be rough. I’ll warn the mining teams about flood risk. At least we get some darkness for a bit, huh Colonel?!”
Thunder rumbled over the distant mountain peaks, echoing powerfully despite the many leagues separating them from the town. A black mask rose ever higher over the Cyclopean Bones, closing rapidly around Southtown on winds that howled through the battlements and even pushed against Ilmr’s Skidbladnir.
In the town behind them detritus was whipped up as the winds took anything not nailed down – and more than a few things that were. At this rate many of the buildings would be damaged, as stone slates were torn up and wooden shutters ripped open.
Rain came too with the clouds, fat drops advancing like a wall over the vale. A flock of birds late to escape fled before it, but as the colonel watched the wave overtook them one by one, the hapless creatures battered and cast down. The front kept coming, sweeping over the town to hammer the stone and make visibility a joke.
So violent was the downpour that the sounds of water reached Ilmr’s ears through the thick armor of her machine, even without the vehicle’s aulogemscis. Sounds water should never have made.
Ilmr felt a chill despite the warm cockpit around her. This wasn’t ordinary weather.
She was about to say as much to Ulf when a flash dazzled them both. Agonizingly bright against the murk, sheets of lightning tore through the clouds all about with a boom that was felt more than heard, alerts screaming from her Skidbladnir’s meters and displays from the sudden pressure change.
A second flash came moments later, then another and another, until lightning and thunder rolled and peaked over and again, refusing to abate, the sky alive with dazzling energy… and mana.
Ulf had realized something was wrong, but as the captain tried to run the flood-slick stones and gale sent her sprawling, almost falling from the wall to the town street below. Ilmr helped her up, but the captain’s larger Skidbladnir pulled away fearfully – she couldn’t hear Ilmr over the thunder.
Other Varangians on surface watch were clinging to the walls against the wind or trying to shelter from the deafening, dazzling lightning.
Amplifying the volume she could barely make out reports, casualties – multiple warriors out of their Skidbladnirs inside surface structures had collapsed, rendered senseless by the sheer power of the thunder.
She screamed back her orders, commanding all available troops into their Skidbladnir and to the surface.
Quite unlike when they’d faced the Valkyrie Marshall, Southtown was well prepared for battle. With the advantage of several more wheels they had greatly increased the forces present. It was necessary; the town was the main surface supply hub and forward base for the invasion. The mines were also one of the richest sources of gemstones, a vital strategic resource for the Pharyes, so in addition to four legions of Varangians there over six thousand active golems present, both defenders and those mustering for the next deployment.
Once they emerged from the clouds the Valkyries would be the target of thousands of projectiles, lightning strikes and jets of flame. Like their Marshall, they would be cornered as soon as they showed themselves. This attack wouldn’t go their way.
Already there were hundreds of Triskelions flooding the streets and mounting the town walls, supported by over a thousand footsoldiers.
The latter might be little use against aerial foes, but the Pharyes had far more footsoldiers than they could fuel; they were semi-disposable forces that could hamper any attempts at melee combat should it come to that. The Triskelions and the other Varangian elites should be enough to ensure it didn’t.
Overhead the storm was still building past any anticipated crescendo, screaming winds and booming thunder intensifying, power beyond comprehension focusing to a point, the sounds blurring together into a deafening roar like a living thing.
The whole of the firmament moved together with the wind, a vast spin that coalesced to the north. Intangible storm-winds shaped a visible pillar, reaching down from the crown of the sky to rive the mountaintops.
In the town behind them, miles from the heart of the storm, rooftops were torn apart and walls toppled. The surface structures would be reduced to rubble if the vortex approached. The underground was at risk too with the sheer volume of water smashing into every surface, small waterfalls already pouring over the sides of the town walls.
Despite the weight of her machine, Ilmr’s Skidbladnir started to move with the force of the wind, compelling her to expend mana to solidify her grip. Others were clinging to the battlements.
Triskelions anchored themselves in place with their legs, driving stakes into the stone and earth, but the footsoldiers had no such capability; hundreds were tossed through the air, slamming into buildings and each other, or were snatched up into the sky to vanish entirely into the growing cloud of debris!
The Pharyes had no word for ‘hurricane’.
Dwelling in the depths of the mountains they had never needed one. Even in the ancient memories of the Braga there were no storms such as this.
That wasn’t strange. Such a storm could never exist naturally; a hurricane so concentrated, so focused, was impossible.
Inexorably advancing, the cyclonic rift in the world showed no sign of yielding to the wisdom of meteorology.
Trees were shredded, ancient trunks splintered to kindling or uprooted like weeds and tossed about as easily. Night and day battled for supremacy as black clouds enveloped the world in all direction and lightning outshone the failing sun.
Ilmr’s bones ached with dread as she struggled to take in the maelstrom. Belatedly she realized; their enemy was not going to show herself to them. This was no mere Valkyrie force they faced – this foe would destroy them without ever laying eyes upon her enemies.
Screaming the order to retreat she staggered from the battlements just as a tree burst through the stonework of the wall below. Slabs the size of grown Pharyes broke and tumbled. Hurled like a leaf she tumbled with them, the deafening sounds and blinding flashes overwhelming her senses.
She no longer knew where she was, or even how she was. Ilmr had no idea even what direction was up amid the storm. Her body was numb and her head was pounding.
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Blinding, searing light assaulted her from all directions as a shock ripped through her, blood filling her mouth.
After that all was dark.
When vision at last returned to her Ilmr could only laugh.
Her Skidbladnir was half-buried in dunes of rubble that had once been a town, undulating ripples of shattered stone spreading as far as she could see to one side.
To the other was the vale below, a fresh canyon gouged out where the eye of the storm passed, ending in a molten crater like a bloody wound in the hillside, layers of rock still glowing, marking out the sides of a gulf that disappeared down into the bowels of the town.
Dazed and in shock, Ilmr’s reeling mind came to wonder what would have happened if the Stormqueen had chosen to bore through the town instead of the slope outside.
Scores of Varangians would have been vaporized, or melted into slag along with their Skidbladnirs.
So much for having the Valkyries cornered.
~~~
Far beneath the mountains, beneath even the Ogre mines, battle raged in the Underworld, the Grand Chasm rescue party fighting for their lives against forgotten Dweomer weapons.
Gastores couldn’t even remember getting to his feet, let alone attacking the golem, but his tackle had done enough; as he fell he watched the off-balance automaton careen past the young naiad it was aiming for, slamming instead into the wall behind her.
Reaching a climax, mana welled up through the naiad’s song, then all at once the arcs of water dancing about her diverted, rivers gushing through the air towards the golem, encircling the monstrous creation as it freed itself from the broken stonework, binding it in liquid thick with essence, flowing over it in waves.
The waters closed around the machine, a sphere of fluid engulfing and pressing on it from all sides, the pressure piercing into the gaps in the metal bars, the force pinning it in place.
The naiad was sweating as the golem fought her prison, droplets rolling off her skin as she maintained her song.
Something was grating in Gastores’ right side and shoulders as he got unsteadily to his feet, but the more pressing concern was the golem.
“We have to do something; I don’t think she can hold it for long!” He called to the others of his team.
“What can we do?! We’re dead soon as it gets out!” Ripides answered.
“Just keep it right there, girl!” Berenike’s gravelly voice cut across the battlefield.
The bow in the captain’s hands glowed with essence, the head of the nocked arrow shimmering with heat. Behind the Valkyrie two smoking shapes were slowly sinking into pools of half-melted rock.
Loosed with a crack the shot left a spiraling wake of sparks.
Hitting the water and the golem within there was a flash, steam boiling from the opening as it drilled through both, boring a molten hole in its target. The water prison was already re-sealing around it as Berenike prepared another arrow.
The golem seemed to convulse, pieces jerking back and forth with inorganic violence, destroyed components fouling their movement, but the damaged area was small – the machine was already expelling the destroyed struts from its structure.
It took five shots to pacify the golem, both naiad and harpy panting heavily from their exertions by the time the steaming slag collapsed to the floor.
Gastores had been able to do nothing but watch.
With the golem down Berenike moved on to another enemy, but already the other fights were finishing too.
They had won, but not without casualty. At a glance at least a third of the expedition members were wounded, some badly enough that they couldn’t stand.
The captain rallied the scattered, exhausted force. “Everyone on the wing, now! We can’t rest here! I don’t care if you’re bleeding out, these golems aren’t done and more could be coming. Help the wounded move!”
Gastores wanted to object – forcing the injured to march was cruel, even dangerous – but a glance at one of the ‘beaten’ golems told him Berenike was right. The broken and melted shapes… were still alive.
Alive might be the wrong word, but it was the best Gastores knew – what was clear was that they definitely weren’t dead. Damaged as they were, not a single one of the golems was totally destroyed. All those scattered but unbroken pieces were already coalescing, the irreparable components discarded as the machines reformed.
Their desperate struggle had reduced ten full-sized golems to perhaps six or seven.
At least that bought them time to retreat.
Berenike and the other Valkyries needed their hands free in case of another attack, so carrying those unable to walk fell to the other harpies and the ogres.
When he tried to support another ogre on his shoulders along with Ripides Gastores’ arms gave out unexpectedly, the injured man groaning as he fell against the other guard. Gastores could only apologize – he must have strained his muscles in the fight.
Swapping sides with Ripides he was able to help the injured man limp along, all of them pushing their tired, aching bodies to keep up with the rest of the group.
As they hurried back through the tunnels those aches seemed to grow and spread. The pain in his injured right shoulders extended through much of his right chest and side, which started to throb, grinding agonizingly with each step.
The blond ogre gritted his teeth and pressed on. This was nothing compared to the fight for Grand Chasm. He wouldn’t let Encheiro down again.
The man he was holding up was counting on him too – with only one good leg he’d never make it alone.
They were lucky enough to avoid further combat as they made good their escape. Monsters seemed to dislike the Dweomer tunnels, and those few that did venture in had already been dealt with on the way in, while no further golems seemed to be pursuing the party.
When the group stopped once more it was in the huge cave they’d passed earlier; Berenike believed that they were safer out of the square road, away from the path of any more golems. Gastores suspected she was right.
For the aching guardsman the vibrant Underworld meadow was a welcome sight and a much needed rest.
After making sure the wounded man was getting treated he and Ripides walked down to the grass to take a seat on something nice and soft. Gastores felt terribly stiff, as if all his muscles had seized up, and he surely had a terrible bruise where he’d hit the golem.
Setting foot on the squirming grassy plants was a shock however – far from swaying in an unseen breeze they were grabbing, probing creatures that clawed at his shoes with the serrated blades of their stalks, trying to pull in anything that moved to consume in the tiny three-sided beaks that were at the base of each cluster of leaves.
Jerking away from the attacking foliage in dismay, stabbing pain bent him almost double. The ogre’s side was throbbing.
Beside him Ripides faced a similar assault, distracting him from Gastores’ distress. “Get off me, stupid plants, I’m not food! And I just polished those!” He protested as the ‘grass’ scratched at his leather boots. “Some safety this, event the grass is out to get us! What’s the Captain thinking?!”
“You should be glad the grass is the biggest predator down here,” Gastores snapped. “You’d rather go back through the golems? Or maybe more of those monsters we met on the way?”
“Alright, I guess it could be worse, but no need to get mad, kid…. Kid?”
Ripides stared at him dully. He always needed things explained, when he could have just thought about them for himself.
“Oi kid, you alright?!”
There was a strange tang on Gastores’ tongue and his head was throbbing…. If only the older ogre would just… let him be for a bit. His side was hurting too much to deal with stupid questions.
“Hey… you there? Hey… Gastores!”
The image of the irritatingly reliable Ripides shimmered then rose up and disappeared in a wave of green light.
Something was clawing at his face and eyelid. It was scratchy, but not sharp enough to break skin. He was dimly aware of Ripides shouting something, but he was too tired to listen.
~~~
In the lowest layers of the Deephold a pneumatic hiss announced Ivaldi’s arrival.
Interlocking gears turned to rotate the seals and open a passage into the throne room. Passing through the tunnel his Skidbladnir’s feet clanked on polished stone, the transmitted sounds terribly loud to his ear as they were recreated in the cockpit where he sat. His heart was racing as the ten-foot mechanical figure emerged into the natural rift that formed the towering throne room.
Normally the space was dim and devoid of life, but not so today. The usually ghostly green glow shone brightly, the gemstones set into the edges of the floor dying the chamber with their pallid illumination. Several had been recently replaced, likely for this very meeting.
Ivaldi had been summoned by the King.
That would have been cause enough for anxiety in normal times, but now… it wasn’t just his life that hung in the balance, but Ingeborg’s and Reginn’s too.
Since receiving the call earlier that wheel his mind had run rampant through the many ways things could all go wrong – if they hadn’t already. One slip of his all too un-dexterous tongue could give everything away. There was more at stake than just their lives too, that much was clear from his investigation….
His Skidbladnir stumbled as he neared the throne as Ivaldi fumbled the controls, hands slick with sweat. To either side the Varangian guards turned in their Skidbladnirs to watch him.
Recovering, he knelt with a soft hiss, the cockpit opening to allow him to dismount. He knelt in turn, eyes on the masonry under him until he was bidden look up. Internally he begged his hands not to shake so violently.
In the past a summons might have meant appearing before the royal court, the noble family heads, the petitioners and advisors, the entertainers and servants. Not so now, not so for some time. The Justicar, Hreidmar, stood by the throne, but save his solitary, hard figure, the King sat alone.
That was how the Justicar wanted it. By ‘royal decree’ there was no-one present who could speak against him. Isolated, ancient and weary, the King was little more than his puppet now.
Chin on his fist, King Jotunn Aldagautr lent against the Nacreous Hlidskjalf, shoulders pushing against the magnificent crystal spire, as if the throne itself weighed upon him along with the many years that had robbed his body of color.
Although proportioned in line with what humans would call a child, the King was showing his great age. His once youthful complexion was pallid, his skin creased, his lengthy nose starting to curve back on itself and his earlobes hanging long and low. Where once they had gleamed in many colors, his opal nails and teeth had dulled with age.
The harrowed supreme ruler of the Pharyes peered down at Ivaldi through milky eyes, yet as the aulogemscire met his gaze he saw a flash of fierce intent.
They knew!
In that moment Ivaldi could imagine no other explanation.
If the Justicar had realized they were investigating him it would have been simple for him to fabricate a story to harden the King against anything that might be said in their defense. King Jotunn probably believed Ivaldi and his friends in the council were traitors, conspiring against the crown!
Rumor had it the monarchs of House Aldagautr could see things others could not, know things that were unknowable. To believe the mythos they cultivated, they could foretell coming danger and read the workings of fate.
Whatever insights the King’s line might enjoy hadn’t been enough to stave off the Justicar… but then as a descendant of the same royal lineage who knew what resistance Hreidmar might have to such a power?
Ivaldi certainly had none however, and innocent of treason though he might be, it was undeniable that he had indeed conspired against the Justicar….
The foresight of Kings had always sounded fanciful to Ivaldi. He had suspected it to be exaggeration; luck and educated prediction spun into myth. But what if he was wrong? Certainly if he could reveal the treachery of the Justicar the King would be grateful, but as things stood he had no proof, and the Justicar had the King singing his own tune. If he were exposed now it would all be over….
Sweat dripped down Ivaldi’s forehead and trickled along his nose. In the silence the droplet was surely audible even to the ancient King.
Justicar Hreidmar stepped forward, “I believe you know why you were summoned here, Ivaldi.”
His mind went back to the Opum, what felt like a lifetime ago now, to the box where Reginn and Ingeborg had told him of their plans, of their concerns. He knew now how right they’d been. He could still see the face of the young miner he’d tracked down….
“You know, I have heard some disturbing reports lately, Ivaldi - reports concerning your ‘friend’, General Reginn, and your dear sister.”
The Justicar stroked his moustache, a grim smile on his face. “Ingeborg I can understand, she always took after your mother. A shame that. But General Reginn… he really should know better. You were mentioned too, you know, Ivaldi.”
Muscles tensed as his heart pounded, half drowning out the Justicar’s words. His body was screaming at him to stand, to run.
“Do you enjoy the Opus, Ivaldi?” he asked casually. “The tales of the Braga are more than just amusements for we nobles. They are our history, and they carry lessons for us on how to live, how to order our society. Lessons as true now as they were when they were new, many eons ago. I find that quite a moving thought. Tell me, do you recall the fate of the Traitor, Thiazi?”
His throat was painfully dry, despite the sweat that soaked his body. Ivaldi gave a mute shake of his head.
“No, I suppose you wouldn’t… that was your first time the other wheel, was it not? When you just so happened to encounter the General and your sister at the Opum Ese…. No matter, let me explain the tale.”
He stepped closer, looming over the still-kneeling form of the aulogemscire. “Thiazi disguised himself as a leal servant to the king, yet he betrayed his people in their time of greatest danger. He kidnapped Ydun for himself and left his kind to perish. For his crime he was executed, along with his family, along with his friends, along with every person who ever dared vouch for him. Painfully executed, oh yes…. The Braga don’t sing of that part, but the legend is that his screams echoed through the depths for years before he died.”
Ivaldi’s body was trembling and his mind was blank. It was over. They knew everything. He was dead. Ingeborg was dead. Reginn was dead. He should never have gone against the Justicar!
“Or so they say.” The Justicar smiled. The expression was foreign and ill-fitting on his face, showing entirely too much of his emerald teeth. “But those rumors are just that, are they not, Ivaldi?”
He managed a limp nod. It seemed enough to satisfy the Justicar.
“Be at ease, chief aulogemscire.” King Jotunn spoke through a haze that belied the intensity of the moment before. It was as if he’d heard nothing the Justicar said. “Hreidmar simply wishes to ask you a few questions. As the matter is a little serious, he felt my presence would be necessary.” The King sounded bored and weary, as if he would have preferred not to attend at all.
Justicar Hreidmar nodded. “Thank you, my liege.”
He turned back to Ivaldi, looking pleased with himself, speaking as if the menace earlier had been only a dream. “Chief Aulogemscire, let us get to the purpose of this audience. You have asked permission to leave the Deephold, to travel to Northastr, our closest fortress to the enemy. Now, while the Valkyries threaten Southtown and the war rages throughout the mountains! Such recklessness… well I cannot say it’s unlike you, but I didn’t think even you this foolish. What have you to say for yourself?”
Ivaldi blinked, still shaken, disorientated and confused by the subject change and a question he hadn’t expected. The Justicar’s stern visage darkened. “Don’t just kneel there stupidly, your King is waiting – speak!”
“I-I… yes, Justicar,” Ivaldi nodded quickly. “I… uh… want to go to Northastr to… assist in the repairs, of the three Skidbladnir I mean, you see, um, they’re badly damaged, but with my… limited extra expertise it might be possible to get them working again. Faster I mean. And maybe even save the one thought to be irreparable, if the core isn’t cracked too badly. They’re vital to the war after all, so I thought it would be worth-”
“Enough,” the Justicar barked. “Even in the presence of King Jotunn you babble…. No matter. It’s true that three heirloom Skidbladnir are a great loss, but not so great as the Chief Aulogemscire would be, even if he’s a buffoon. If that’s all you have to say, then the answer is no.”
The King raised his head from his hand. “Is it true that is all you plan to do, aulogemscire?” He’d barely seemed to be paying attention earlier, yet now from gaunt sockets his eyes look straight into the kneeling Pharyes. Something he saw seemed to weigh on him.
Ivaldi sensed that a lie would be dangerous, fatal even, but the truth would be far worse. The safest course of action was to withdraw, to accept the refusal and count himself lucky that the Justicar had rightly assumed him too spineless to be a threat.
The young miner flashed before Ivaldi’s eyes once more. Her face was haunted, just as was King Jotunn’s.
He could still hear her words as clearly as if she were in the room.
“I wasn’t meant to be there,” she’d said over and over. “But I snuck back in after my shift. We were smuggling surplus out a side tunnel. Yields were so good no-one noticed. We were supposed to get rich… but… I was down there when it happened….”
The woman had clutched her head in both hands, body rocking back and forth in the tiny slum room that was all she had.
“The… the air was wrong. Had been for wheels. When you were at the rockface you’d see it. Stuff moving in the corner of your eye, like ripples, or creases or something. They said we were seeing things; the depth was getting to us.”
She’d tried to stop, to make Ivaldi leave, but even tortured as she was, the woman couldn’t afford to turn down the gems he offered. He made her recount the events of Vitrgraf to him.
She’d told him how the air itself seemed to distort and reach out, groping blindly for life. Thick black oil had burst from rupturing space to invade the bodies of the miners, corrupting and decaying their flesh.
She’d told him how they screamed, screamed until their lungs burst and black blood poured from their mouths. Their bodies had twisted and torn apart… and kept moving….
She’d told him how she ran and ran, as all around Pharyes turned on each other and the evil spread. She’d crawled into her hidden tunnel mere moments ahead of the flood of magma that had entombed the mine.
“Ivaldi! The King asked you a question!” The Justicar’s moustache shook as he shouted. There was no more time to hesitate.
“M-my apology, your majesty! It’s true that… that I don’t just want to go to, repair the, um, the Skidbladnirs…. The truth is I also wanted to investigate… the reports of the so-called human, the one the harpies named Safkhet, and interview the commanders who fought with her. You see, I don’t believe they’re been telling us the truth, and, after the disaster at Grand Chasm, we really can’t afford to take their word for it, you know? There’s just no way a being as powerful, as… as monstrous as that, could be human – and it’s impossible that a simple fall could have killed her.”
The furrows in the King’s brow deepened.
Yet the Justicar clapped his hands together with a grin. “He’s right! The Harpies would never reveal everything about their secret weapon to us! They likely mean to retake their lost territory with this ‘Safkhet’ once their little coup is over.”
“Are you certain of this, Justicar?” the King asked. His tone suggested he was less convinced.
“I felt something was wrong with the harpy story myself, my liege. Who better than the Chief Aulogemscire to investigate? If he can repair the Skidbladnirs too, all the better.”
The King nodded. “Very well. I will permit the chief to take a team and investigate – and assist in the restoration of our lost Skidbladnir. See to it that he is adequately protected.”
“I shall, my liege,” the Justicar spoke, bowing. “Prepare yourself, Ivaldi. You shall leave this wheel.”
The Justicar’s ominous smile had returned. “Do try not to lose focus while you’re travelling – the Underworld above is a dangerous place. Remember, no-one is irreplaceable, Chief Aulogemscire.”