The throne room was vast. That such an excavation could exist here, hewn from rock beneath the waves, was mind-boggling enough, but made even more so by the fact that as they stared around it in wonder the sea hung above them like a sky.
This — a bit to Kali's disappointment but to Slowhand's huge relief — turned out to be an illusion, the huge, stone buttresses of the throne room walls reflecting and magnifying the glowing seawater in the tubes, so that it seemed to ripple and shift in kind. But Kali's disappointment was mollified by the fact that the glow served a useful purpose, providing an effective, if haunting, illumination, bathing in a blue-green light this marvel of dwarven engineering that had been lost from sight and mind since before her own civilisation was born. What their eyes beheld as they further adjusted to the light was no illusion, however — but they could have been forgiven for thinking that it was.
The throne room stretched out ahead of them, bigger even than the inside of Scholten Cathedral, an immense rectangular chamber that could once have welcomed titans and giants as courtiers, and which, for all they knew, perhaps once had. A central aisle that was as wide as a road, inlaid with dwarven mosaics, led forwards, and at its end — distant but nonetheless still dominating the room — a huge and shadowed, seated figure loomed high in the dark. As compelling as it was, though, it was not the only figure in the room, and as Kali dropped from the pipe and began to wander slowly up the aisle, her head turned from left to right, staring up at three raised galleries, accessed by broad interconnecting stairways, that ran the entire length of the throne room on either side. As the corridor outside had been lined with dwarven statues, so were these, but in this case with many, many more, each and every one of them draped in cobwebs but otherwise identical and separated from the next only by their own width again. Kali swallowed as she studied one statue after another, the unease she had started to feel on the surface growing with each frozen visage she passed.
But uneasy as she was, Kali could barely control her other feelings. On the one hand, the sheer scale of this place and its contents made her feel like a starving mouse beneath a feast-laden table, and she longed to explore, to investigate, to catalogue the things she'd found — to touch them, the first person to do so for literally ages. On the other hand, however, she knew that was not why she was here, and the feeling of elation she felt at her greatest find to date was marred by the fact not only that — strictly speaking — she hadn't found it, but that, incidentally, she had to destroy it, too. Or, at the very least, stop it doing what it did.
Whatever it was that was.
Doubts resurfaced once more — that what the old man had told her was partly wrong, that perhaps Makennon's destiny did lie where she said — but the doubts were fleeting. She knew what she had seen and read in the Three Towers, knew what ideas of her own were forming, and most of all, she knew how this place felt — and it felt wrong. No, more than wrong. Troubled. Tainted. Bad. Something truly awful had happened within these walls, a long, long time ago, and its aura remained and resonated still.
She jumped as a hand touched her shoulder. "Nice place they've got here," Slowhand said. "Cosy."
Kali nodded, only half-listening, and walked further up the aisle until she came close enough to study the giant, seated figure at its end. No, not seated, bethroned. The idea that the Clockwork King might have been some kind of giant walking automaton had always verged on the edge of preposterous in her mind, but even so she'd been ready for anything. But looking at it now it was clear that the King was not designed as a giant that would arise from its throne, have a quick stretch, and pound across the peninsula sweeping all in its path aside. No, in actual fact, it seemed to be just a statue — a towering and staggering and very pitsing imposing statue, it had to be said, but a statue nonetheless.
Kali craned her neck, staring up to study it, and found herself being stared back at by a pair of giant stone eyes set in a gnarled, bearded and cruel dwarven face. Though the eyes were only stone, their stare was distinctly unsettling, made all the more so by the fact the face was draped in the same lengthy cobwebs as the statues against the walls, and Kali pulled her own gaze away, examining the rest of the statue instead. The giant figure wore — or had been sculpted wearing — the kind of studded leather armour she recognised as being from dwarven middle history, and in one hand held a like-period battle hammer, in the other a spiked dwarven shield. Again, cobwebs dangled from the shield's spikes, so long that Kali found she could walk through them like a curtain. It was only as she did that she noticed one of the less obvious features of the statue — one around the side.
Around the side and, then, to the rear, actually. For there the same kind of seawater tubes that ran into the cowl ran around and into the back of the Clockwork King. No, she realised, tracing the tubes back, they weren't the same kind of tubes — they were the same tubes, splitting and terminating here and in other places throughout the throne room as they ran around its walls like arteries.
Now that, Kali thought, was odd. And there was something else that was odd — now that she had seen that the statue was just a statue, why was it called the Clockwork King?
She sighed, moving to the part of the massive construction that she had purposefully saved for last. Directly in front of the throne was a large stone plinth inlaid with what looked like templates for the four keys, a complex-looking mechanism that seemed, in parts, to rotate and, presumably, lock into place.
There was a sound like a prolonged roll of thunder, and distracted as she was Kali had difficulty placing its source until Slowhand tapped her gently on the shoulder and, when he had her attention, pointed back the way they had come. It seemed that Makennon and her mages had managed to release the runelock, and the vast doors were opening. They were about to have company.
Makennon's soldiers came first, and then the Anointed Lord herself, sweeping into the throne room with a regal stride that suggested she had already claimed the place as her own. Nevertheless, for a few seconds she displayed the same reactions to the scale and content of the place as Kali and Killiam had, nodding to herself in approval. But then she spotted their distant figures standing before the king, and her brow furrowed in disbelief and annoyance. She gestured to the front members of her entourage, despatching them to various tasks around the chamber, and then strode up through the wide aisle towards the throne.
Kali's heart thudded, though not because the Anointed Lord approached. The reason for her sudden burst of adrenalin was the doors through which Makennon had passed — or rather what was now revealed upon them. Opened towards her and showing their outside face, Kali could see the remains of the fire runic that Makennon's mages had dismissed to gain entry, an embery half-circle that as she watched slowly extinguished and faded away into nothing. Suddenly everything became clear, and all the confused pieces fell into place. Gods — how could she have been so blind!
She turned to Slowhand, saw that he too stared and wondered if he had realised the same thing. But he hadn't. In actual fact, Slowhand was fighting a potentially embarrassing twitch of excitement. Hells, Katherine looked good in her tight and shiny battle armour, he thought. That walk, the way those hips swivelled when she moved…
He swept back his hair, waiting.
And Makennon walked right past him without even a glance.
"Kali Hooper," she declared with a long sigh. "The Spiral of Kos, Scholten, the World's Ridge Mountains, Andon, Scholten again, and now, finally, here in Orl. Tell me — for the record — just how many of you are there?"
Kali remembered her first encounter with Makennon, and her questioning. "Oh, just the one — but enough to mess with your head."
"She does that a lot," Slowhand said, leaning in with a grin.
"And I'm about to do it again," Kali said, silencing him with a glance. "Makennon, listen to me, this place isn't what you think. It hasn't got anything to do with the Final Faith, and never has had, I know that now. Coming here was a big mistake."
"For you, perhaps, Miss Hooper," another voice said as its owner approached, boots thudding on stone. Kali scowled. "The girl does not know what she is talking about," Munch continued. "Like anyone young she adopts an overfamiliarity with things older than herself that is, at best, arrogant and, at worst, offensive in the extreme."
"Speaking of offensive…" Slowhand said.
"Makennon, listen to me," Kali went on, ignoring both. "This place isn't called Orl, it's called Martak. And Martak isn't a dwarven word, it's a dwarven phrase — M'Ar'Tak. You know what it means, Katherine? An eye for an eye."
"The girl spouts nonsense," Munch interrupted. "You have seen the evidence with your own eyes. Anointed Lord, we have worked hard for this moment — please, order the activation of the keys."
"Katherine, no — "
Makennon held her gaze for a few seconds. "The signs are clear," she said after some consideration. She turned and signalled for the remainder of her entourage to enter the throne room, prompting a smile from Munch. "Bring them forwards."
Kali spun in frustration. "Dammit, Makennon, you want to know about signs? Then let me tell you about the one on those doors, the one that was so difficult to break because it was so obviously there to keep you — to keep everyone — out. That runic wasn't the symbol of the Final Faith because it's actually two runics, one overlaid on the other. A circle and a cross, Katherine, different symbols but ones used by the elves and the dwarves to mean the same thing. That's why there were two of each on the map showing the sites of the four keys, because the elves and the dwarves built two sites each. They're warning symbols, woman! They mean stay away, danger. They mean death."
"Oh, now you tell me." Slowhand muttered.
"And the one on those doors?" Kali went on, pointing back along the throne room. "That was the elves and the dwarves combining their symbols to shout the meaning to the world. Because when together they'd finally managed to stop whatever evil came out of this place, they sealed it with the biggest warning sign of all."
For the first time Makennon seemed to waver, and Kali was about to press her advantage when the wagon containing the keys trundled into the throne room. What gave Kali pause, however, was what followed it — the wagon containing the ogur. The ogur spotted her, too, and began to pound against the bars of its cage, its roars clearly audible even across the distance that separated them.
Munch saw what was happening and frowned. The old man's… changes had not lessened and there was surely no way the girl could recognise him, so this reaction made him curious. But, he thought, what did it matter if it had thrown her off guard?
"Is there a problem, Miss Hooper?" he asked.
"No. No, I — "
"Then I suggest we do what we came here to do."
Munch turned to Makennon. The Anointed Lord took her gaze off Kali and looked at him and, after a second, nodded.
"Destiny awaits," Munch said, smiling.
He signalled to some of the soldiers and they unloaded four crates from the first wagon, then carried them forwards to the plinth, breaking the seals and revealing the keys packed safely in straw inside. Munch ran a hand over each with a reverence that made Kali frown. "With your permission, Madam?" he said to Makennon.
The Anointed Lord inhaled, drawing herself up to her full, imposing height. "Go ahead," she said.
Munch lifted the first key from its crate and placed it in its matching template, pressing it home with a sound like a shifting stone slab, then rotated the plinth until it locked into place with a grating thud. It struck Kali that he looked far too much like he knew what he was doing, and she frowned as he expertly did the same with the second, and then the third key, until only the last remained. As he lifted it from its crate she moved to stop him, but with a click of her fingers Makennon had her restrained by the soldiers, along with Slowhand.
"Please — you don't know what you're doing!" Kali hissed.
"On the contrary, Miss Hooper," Munch said, in a tone which made her feel suddenly very cold, "I do."
He inserted the fourth key, repeating the same procedure as before, and then stood back as the plinth took on a life of its own. Each of the keys now turned of its own accord, first clockwise or anti-clockwise, and then back again, and then in a seemingly random pattern that Kali realised had, in fact, to be some kind of combination. Her theory was proven correct when, after a further four or five turns — it varied with the keys — each again locked, but into a different position from which it had started, and then sank further into the plinth with more resounding thuds. A panel opened in its centre and from it rose a patch of what looked to be spikes arranged in the shape of a hand.
"Yes," Munch said. "At last, yes."
He placed his hand gently on the spikes.
Everyone in the chamber looked down as the floor trembled beneath their feet, then up and around as the seawater in the glowing tubes began to bubble and stir, the strange arterial system coming to life. The fans that punctuated their length began to slowly rotate and the detritus that had so long ago been sucked in with the seawater began to flop and toss in the glass tubes, and then began to circulate around the system with greater and greater speed. Bubbles began to bounce in the water now, a sign that more was being sucked in from the sea above, and the mounting speed of the fans increased its circulation and pressure, churning the murky water until it turned opaque and then a milky white. There was no sign of the seaweed or detritus any more, only a seething rush of pressurised liquid that raced through the tubes all around the throne room, heading towards what appeared to be each of the statues against the walls and, ultimately, the Clockwork King.
The roar of it was deafening. The whole of Martak shook.
But it was nothing compared to the shaking to come.
Kali swallowed as the water thundered into the pipes that fed the enormous statue, and as it did, the Clockwork King proved itself to be far more than a statue after all. As Kali and the others watched in amazement, great plates of stone detached themselves from various parts of its body, separating along hairline cracks for the first time in a thousand years. Dust poured from the edges of the rising plates and from the edges of the holes in the statue that remained, and as the dust fell away, the interior of the Clockwork King was revealed. There, powered by the inrushing seawater, great metal cogs and wheels turned and rotated, and pistons thumped, their movements extending the thick metal rams on which all could now see the plates were rising away from the component parts of the statue they had once been. As they did, the cogs and the wheels inside the king began to twist and turn, and then so did the rams, and as each plate followed suit, they slowly moved in different directions towards the walls and ceiling of the throne room. Kali looked up and around and saw that indentations in the stone matched each of the giant plates exactly.
It was at that moment that Kali realised there had been no confusion about the number of keys described in the scrolls in the Three Towers. The mention of a fifth key hadn't made any sense to her back then, but it sure as hells did now. And there was a fifth key, no doubt about it.
The fifth key was the Clockwork King.
And she suspected she knew what it opened.
She looked up again as a series of deep booms signalled that each of the stone plates had locked into their corresponding positions, and then she looked left and right towards the galleries, swallowing. Despite wanting to know all about the wonders of this place earlier, all she could think now was: Let me be wrong. Please, let me be wrong.
But she wasn't. That became clear as soon as the pipes that seemed to feed the statues in the galleries began to churn even more than before, and then a series of deep and prolonged rumblings drew everyone's glances towards the sides of the throne room. One after another, all along the walls, the dwarven statues were sliding upwards, the dust of ages pouring from them, their cobwebs tearing away. Moving slowly, each rose its own height and eventually came to rest with a thud, and revealed behind where each had stood was a space as dark as a tomb. And out of each space came a whiff of something foul.
Makennon's people had begun to scatter as soon as the statues had started to move, but now the Anointed Lord shouted for them to stand their ground. Kali glanced urgently at her and saw, despite the order, that she was looking increasingly uneasy, as if the soldier's part of her mind was weighing up the tactical advantages and disadvantages of what this place might offer, finding them at odds with that part of her that had been driven here by religious zeal. She might have brought a little too much of the warrior to her role of Anointed Lord, but it was highly unlikely she wished to further the Final Faith's cause by endangering all life on the peninsula, including her own.
"Makennon, stop this," Kali said. "I can see in your eyes you suspect what I said is true — or at least worth considering. Look at this place and think. How can anything in this graveyard fulfil the destiny of your church? I don't know what you expected to find but I'd guess this isn't it. This can't be anything good."
She grabbed Makennon by the shoulders, shook her and forced her to look at the tomb-like entrances. More cobwebs shifted slightly where they dangled in front of the darkness, disturbed, perhaps, by a breath of something from within.
"That monstrosity on the throne isn't the Clockwork King of Orl, Katherine," Kali persisted, shaking her once more, "it's the Clockwork King of All. Ask yourself, woman — all what?"
Makennon hesitated for what seemed to be an age, regarding Kali with unwavering eyes. Then finally she nodded, flicking her finger at Munch to stand him down. But he didn't move. Makennon instead flicked her finger at the soldiers to stand him down. They didn't move, either.
Munch laughed. "The problem with giving me autonomy to choose people for these missions, Anointed Lord, is that I chose carefully. And the people I chose on your behalf for this mission I did so because I knew you might have second thoughts." He sighed. "Second thoughts I cannot allow."
Makennon looked furious but knew better than to move. The soldiers already had their crossbows trained on her.
"What is this, Konstantin?"
"Destiny. But not, as I led you to believe, the destiny of the Final Faith. No, I simply needed its resources to find my way home."
"Home?"
"Home." Munch looked almost sad as he added, "It was my destiny to come here, Katherine — not yours. I am sorry."
"Pff, I'll bet," Kali said. "You know what, Stan — I had you pegged right from the start. Well, almost."
"Munch, what are you saying?" Makennon asked again.
"He's saying that he's a dwarf," Kali explained. "Or at least as much of a dwarf that the one million millionth drop of dwarvishness he'll have left in his blood after all this time qualifies him to be. And unless I miss my guess, that blood's from the clan responsible for what happened here."
"Quite correct, Miss Hooper. I am the last of Clan Trang — what became Clan M'Ar'Tak."
"Listen, pal," Slowhand interjected. "If I know my history, the dwarves were a noble, advanced race of miners, engineers and warriors, not homicidal bearded shortarses with faces like a mool's arse."
Munch glared at him, but his voice remained calm. "You wish proof of my claim, Mister Slowhand? Then I shall give you proof." He glanced up at the gallery tombs, which as yet remained as they had been. "The last part of the process to activate the Clockwork King of All."
Slowhand winced as, without flinching, Munch suddenly rammed his palm onto the patch of spikes in the centre of the plinth, smiling as his blood formed a pool beneath them.
"That had to hurt."
"Know this," Munch said. "The Clockwork King responds only to those whose veins still flow with the blood of Belatron the Butcher."
Slowhand shot a glance at Kali. "Who in the hells is Belatron the Butcher?"
"Bad guy," Kali answered. "I think."
"With a name like that I'd guess it's a pretty safe bet. Gods, you couldn't make this up," Slowhand added to himself in a whisper.
Neither could he have made up what happened next. Munch's blood seeped away into the plinth, and as it did the Clockwork King began to move again. Only this time, instead of sending out rams, its lower half reconstructed itself into the form of another throne on a circular platform. Except this throne was man-sized — more accurately, dwarf-sized. There was something else, too — it was surrounded by strange cylinder-shaped crystals.
"Oh, look," Slowhand said light-heartedly, though with tension in his voice. "He's built himself a chair."
Munch settled himself into it and the Clockwork King remade itself once more, smaller components from within assembling themselves into some kind of metal ring that moved forwards to encircle Munch's head. More spikes shot out of it and embedded themselves straight into his skull, and as they did the cylindrical crystals began to glow. Munch jolted and spasmed in the throne for a few seconds and then smiled. "Yes, Mister Slowhand, that hurt, too. But not, I am pleased to say, as much as my warriors are going to hurt you."
"Warriors?" Slowhand queried, dubiously.
"Not nice," Kali said. "I've seen them before…"
Munch closed his eyes and concentrated. A deep and rhythmic pounding suddenly reverberated throughout the throne room, and then from each of the spaces behind the statues figures marched before halting, more than one from each, and each of which thrice the size of a man. Standing there with their arms and heads slumped like those of ogur, they filled the galleries now and, like the interior of the Clockwork King itself, they were things of metal, of cogs and pulleys and gears, though they had been assembled in such a way that, like the king, they also superficially resembled dwarves, although grotesquely so. Each wielded a dwarven war hammer in one hand and a double-bladed axe in the other, but while the axe was of relatively normal size the hammer was as grotesquely enlarged as each warrior itself — a vicious-looking slab of iron-ribbed stone that was actually part of the ogur-like arm and would likely shatter walls, let alone bones, with a single blow. The only thing the warriors did not carry was a shield, but the giant hammer made such armour unnecessary, its bulk, used defensively, protection enough.
These were the things of which the manuscripts and all the tales had warned. Let slip once on Twilight, it had taken the combined technologies and sorceries of the elves and the dwarves to stop them. Let slip again, onto a Twilight where such abilities were as yet in their infancy, they would be formidable and unstoppable.
"By all the gods…" Katherine Makennon breathed.
"Don't you mean — ?"
"Slip of the tongue. What are these things?"
"They are M'Ar'Tak," Kali said. "Clan Trang's vengeance for the bloody carnage the elves reaped upon them. Isn't that right, Stan?"
Munch smiled on his throne. And then his face darkened. "History paints the dwarven races as the merciless ones, the warmongers, the roaring, blood-lusted, cold-blooded killers, but in our war with Family Ur'Raney it was they who proved to be merciless. Our war had raged for months, our forces driven back across the western territories we contested, the Ur'Raney seemingly able to summon endless reinforcements and our people falling before them — many to their blasted scythe-stones before they learned better. Before we knew it, our army was devastated, pushed back here, to the edge of the world. We thought they would stop, allow us to lick our wounds and leave, but they did not, instead driving us over the Dragonwing Cliffs, slaughtering us even as we fell, and forcing those who survived that slaughter into the sea. For the first time in the history of our race, dwarves were forced to hide, because there was nothing else they could do. They hid in the caves that permeate these cliffs like floprats because otherwise they — and Clan Trang — would have been exterminated."
"One of those who hid was Belatron, wasn't it?" Kali said. "He's what started all this?"
Munch nodded. "Belatron, our greatest wielder of magics. And within him a simmering hatred of the elves, a thirst for revenge that grew over the months — and then the years — into what you now see before you."
Slowhand spoke up. "You're saying that a small bunch of bloodied survivors burrowed into the sea and built an army of clockwork men to do their fighting for them. Apart from being a little unrealistic, that's not a very dwarven battle ethic, is it?"
"No, not to do their fighting for them," Munch said.
The archer gestured up at the warriors. "Then what do you call — "
"To do their own fighting," Kali said, cutting Slowhand off. "Because they're not clockwork men — at least, not wholly." She peered at the massed ranks and made out what the others had apparently yet not, that within the skeletal structure of each warrior were brains riveted into metal skulls, hearts suspended within metal ribs and, most grotesquely of all, eyeballs set deep within metal sockets. These things were not simply mechanical, they were vessels for the remains of warriors who had been slaughtered by the Ur'Raney.
And the most disturbing aspect about them was that, whatever mix of technology and dark magics had been used to create them, the organs remained fresh. Kali could tell that because each had a smaller version of the ring that encircled Munch's skull embedded in a still-pulsing brain.
"They called them the Thousand," Munch explained. "Dwarven warriors partly resurrected from where they had fallen to the elves and restored to fight again."
"Belatron harvested their bodies," Kali realised with disgust. "Returned to the battlefields and ripped their remains apart when they should have reached their final rest. That's why they called him Belatron the Butcher."
"They were warriors!" Munch exclaimed. "Each and every one of them would have given their right arm for the chance to fight for their clan once more!"
"Seems they did," Slowhand said. "Amongst other things."
Munch slammed his fist onto the side of his throne. "Clan Trang had to rise again! M'Ar'Tak had to march!"
"Wo-hoah. Steady, shorty."
"It all went wrong, though, didn't it, Stan?" Kali said. "This throne you're sitting in — this skullring you're wearing — is what Belatron used to control them. Only he couldn't, could he? Because by the time he'd done with them, by the time their brains had realised what they now were, and by the time he had forced them up those steps and indoctrinated them with his messages of death and killing and war, they had, all of them, become completely insane."
"They turned on their own," Makennon said. "And then they turned on everything else. A marching horde, but nothing to do with the Lord of All. How could I have been so blind, so stupid, so wrong?"
"You weren't wrong, Makennon," Slowhand said, looking at Kali. "Like Hooper, here, you just didn't have access to all the information. Something, in your case, I'm sure a certain short bastard had a lot to do with."
Makennon swung on Munch. "Why do you do this, Konstantin? Do you want to use your army to bring down the Final Faith?"
Munch laughed. "The Faith? The Faith is fleeting. My army is to be used to bring about a resurgence of the dwarven race, by giving them the freedom to emerge from their underground enclosures by annihilating anything that stands in their way."
"I've got some news for you," Slowhand said. "Your lot died out a long time ago. There are no more dwarven enclosures."
"Actually, there might be," Kali said, hesitantly.
"What?"
"Tale for another time."
"Oh."
Kali turned back to Munch. "Munch, listen to me. Belatron couldn't control these things, and neither will you. They won't wipe out anything that stands in your way, they'll wipe out everything, including yoursel — "
"Enough!" Munch barked. He inhaled deeply and his blood-stained brow furrowed with concentration. "It is time."
All along the galleries, the heads of the clockwork warriors rose from their slumped positions and stared ahead, ruptured vessels in their unnatural eyes making them appear to flare red. Then, in military step, they began to march forwards and pound down the steps from the three levels — an army on the move. Munch blinked and four separated from the horde, coming to stand around him as bodyguards, but the rest, assembling in ordered ranks of five abreast, stood ready to march towards the exit.
"No!" Kali shouted, pulling free of her captors. Determined to halt their progress, to prise Munch from his seat of power, she ran forwards, eliciting a warning cry from Slowhand. Munch looked at his clockwork bodyguards but then sniffed, as if using them was hardly worth the effort, and instead signalled to his people to turn their crossbows on Kali instead of Makennon — and fire. Their bolts slammed into her from every direction, the impacts forcing a series of grunts as she attempted to stagger on, and, though her reserves must have been considerable and she almost made it, she found herself faltering and staring at Munch with a look of pained surprise in her eyes. Munch sighed and drew his gutting knife from his belt, aiming it provocatively and directly at her.
"No further, Miss Hooper."
"Damn you, you bas — " Kali began. But she never finished her curse. The knife flew with as much force as Munch could muster and embedded itself solidly in her chest. It stopped Kali quite literally dead in her tracks and, her breath whistling strangely, she looked dully down at the protruding blade — what little of it she could see — then, stunned and confused, dropped to her knees and, slowly, onto her face. A small groan escaped her, and, as a pool of blood began to spread ever more largely beneath her, one thought overrode all others.
This wasn't how she was meant to die.
"Hooper?" Slowhand said.
"Should you be thinking of trying the same, minstrel," Munch advised, staring at the still and bloodied body, "there are plenty more bolts in my people's possession."
Slowhand stared. The throne room was utterly silent apart from the roaring of the ogur as it battered at the bars of its cage with as much fury as the archer had in his eyes. No words were necessary, though, as Slowhand's expression said it all. He was going to kill Munch — and very soon.
The standoff was broken by Makennon.
"Munch, this is insane! What if Hooper was right? If Belatron the Butcher — their creator — couldn't control these things, what chance do you have?"
Munch smiled, looked at his bodyguards and blinked. The four clockwork men stamped their feet as one, quaking the floor of the throne room.
"He's doing it," Makennon said quietly to Slowhand. "He's actually controlling them."
"Probably something to do with the fact that he's as insane as they are. The question is, how long will it last?"
Makennon tried to reason with Munch one last time.
"Konstantin, he's right. These things might obey you now but what about when you've razed Andon, Freiport, Scholten? Because that is what you want to do, isn't it? But how strong will you be, then? What's to stop your army going on to kill the very dwarves whose resurgence you desire? This is fantasy!"
Munch glared. "You call me a fantasist? You, a religious zealot who clutches at any straw and follows any carrot that is dangled before her eyes? You pathetic woman — your whole reason for existence is a fantasy!"
Makennon drew herself up to her full height. "I was a general, Konstantin Munch. It is my job to know when an army stands unfit to march."
"On the contrary," Munch said. "It is my job to tell them when to."
He closed his eyes and concentrated, and the massed ranks of clockwork warriors began to pound slowly towards the door. Their orders received, Munch opened his eyes, stared around at everyone in the throne room and then looked to his bodyguards. "Kill them all," he ordered.
All hells broke loose. Slowhand and Makennon staggered back as the four mechanical warriors began to systematically attack everyone who had been in the Anointed Lord's party, their axes and hammers slicing and crushing, chopping and pounding, beating and tearing their bodies apart. Those that were armed tried to defend themselves with their crossbows and blades, and those that were not — the mages — with their fireballs and storms, desperately weaving cones of protection as they fought to keep their attackers back. Screams of agony echoed around the stone chamber, and its walls were splattered and sprayed with blood, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop themselves dying. Nothing at all.
In his caged wagon, the ogur raged.
"You little bastard!" Slowhand shouted, and, without thinking, began to run towards Munch, but Makennon pulled him back.
"You'll never get near him," she said. "We have to get out of here."
Slowhand glared at her, knowing she was right. But still he shrugged her off, staring at Kali's body.
"I'm not leaving her down here."
"You won't get near her, either, you fool — those things will tear you apart."
"I'll find a way."
Again, Makennon grabbed him, but this time by both arms and more forcefully, spinning him to face her. Her gaze — her intense gaze — was for a second no longer that of the Anointed Lord, aloof and ruthless, but that of a professional warrior, the general she used to be. In it was the sadness of one who had lost one of their own together with the harsh pragmatism that acknowledged that in what they did someone had to fall in battle. It was inevitable.
"She's dead, Lieutenant. The battle is lost. Anything else is suicide. Retreat with me. Now."
Slowhand was suddenly furious. "And where the hells do you suggest we retreat to, General? Have you any idea what your religious scheming has unleashed here? How many people on the peninsula are going to die?"
"I don't know! But there must be something that can be done to stop this. But first we need to retreat, regroup. You know that."
Slowhand swallowed. "There is something we can do," he said, suddenly. He unslung his bow, quickly strung an arrow and aimed it at Munch's head, squinting to get a bead through the clockwork warriors. "I might not be able to get near him but I can finish that bastard from right here."
But he didn't loose the arrow. Because what he had just noticed was that in all the confusion the ogur had escaped its cage.
And it, and Kali's body, were gone.