The dwarves gathered in an enlarged room. Large amounts of the strange dwarven metal lined the wall, containing elaborate pipes and nozzles meant to regulate something or other. They stood around the large circular hole in the center of this place. Once, it had been the house of worship of the tribes of Vysenn. Now, however, much of the more sacrificial elements had been dug away to make way for the pump. And in one corner, a complex machine waited idle and cool.
The dwarves dealt cards, but each and all anxiously glanced at the machine in the corner of the room. Each of them sweated like they were betting their lives on the line in this card game… and perhaps, broadly speaking, their lives were on the line. If this project of theirs failed, they might die—either because of an enraged king, or because they succumbed to magma in their attempts to turn it into lava without disturbing the volcano below.
Footsteps from the hall beyond made them all stop dealing their cards and turn their head. There, a dwarf walked in, panting from running.
“This land… too much of it,” the man heaved, putting his hand on the wall to catch his breath.
“You can rest when you tell us what you heard,” one of the dwarves walked away from the card game.
He took his hand off the wall, then nodded furiously with a grin. “The area is clear. We can begin whenever we’re ready.”
The dwarves burst into cheers, clapping each other’s hands and giving celebratory back pats. But someone broke past all of the cheer—the oldest dwarf in the room.
“You boys can cheer later when that machine is running and working,” the wizened dwarf reminded them. “And the moment that we see magma coursing through those pumps… you will be the first journeymen made into masters via the new volunteer program. I need to bear witness as your supervising master.”
The dwarves were all sobered at this, and their anxiety redoubled at the same time. After they exchanged glances in the silence, they walked to their stations almost as though commanded. They were jittery from the pressure and stress, each and all. The master dwarf walked to the pit, whereupon he looked into its endless depths. The pump extended for miles and miles, partially suppressing the heat of the deep. Now it was time to bring that deep heat up to the surface.
The journeymen dwarves flipped switches, attached bolts, tightened and loosened parts, checked glass gauges… but one by one, they grew still, their tasks completed. They were all like rats frozen before the light of an opened door as they waited for command. Then the master walked to the pumping station, giving it one last examination. He firmly grasped the iron handle in its center, turned it, and then pushed deep. The machine let out a low hiss that rose in volume until it sounded like the tide of the ocean against the coast.
The pumping station’s parts scattered throughout the room came to life. The journeymen monitored their gauges, frantically made sure that all of the moving gears and restraints were working properly. The master craftsman, however, ignored most all of that. He walked back to the hole, gazing down at the pump. He could hear the forces of nature moving within it, toiling at their direction to harness the very fires of the earth itself.
There was a frantic silence in the room as the dwarves awaited the outcome of this project. Their constant review to ensure everything was in place was more to cool their own nerves than genuine doubt this machine would work. The master craftsman waited, watched, and listened. He heard the air within the pump shift, and knew that it had taken hold of something far below. He waited seconds longer, and then…
Heat. Heat rose up from below. A familiar, suppressed heat that any who had toiled long hours in the pumping station would know of. It was the heat that came when magma was being pumped through the pipes. Enough to singe away the hairs on your head, yet after the dreadful cold of the surface, it was a familiar and welcome sensation.
“It’s coming! It’s…!” the master shouted, excited despite himself. Yet then, his heart seized.
The dwarves saw nothing at all. But all of them, deep in their heart, knew there was a black malignance rising from the pit the pump was placed in. It coiled around their hearts, their minds, as it emerged just alongside the magma. Then it released their grip, and each of them looked around in shock.
“What…” one of them rubbed at his chest, lost for words. A subtle creaking drew his attention, and he turned his head. A bolt on one of the pumps slowly unwound, loosening, threatening to unleash the volcanic might of a volcano in this chamber. The dwarf was in shock, but he shouted instinctually, “It’s still here!”
All realized, then, that this presence had not left—it had merely changed targets. The dwarves scrambled furiously, instinct leading them to act before they thought. As one of the pressurized chambers exploded and released hot steam into the air, the dwarves furiously worked to keep together this machine of their construction as the force that came from the deep attempted to unwind it.
The master craftsman, knowing this was no fault of their own, leapt to action. The magma was currently coursing through the pumps even now—he didn’t need to maintain the machines, but rather what kept that molten rock restrained. He furiously tightened the bolts keeping the pipes together, adrenaline giving him strength he’d enjoyed only in his youth.
One by one, he attended to each of the pipes as the others maintained their work on their machine. The magma started to pour through each of the pipes, making the work of repairing them dreadfully dangerous. He could feel the heat radiating out from the dwarven metal which, though supernaturally insulated, would still melt skin to the touch.
Yet when he came to one of the last pipes, raising his tool to tighten the bolt… he saw the last bolt pop away, and the pipe bend downward as it fell. He freed both of his hands and raised them up just as the first pass of magma became lava from the leak. Both of his hands grabbed the red-hot pipe, preventing it from falling further, and he screamed, “Help me! Screw the damn thing back!”
The master felt his hands melt away as the journeymen scrambled all around him. The pain was unimaginable, and the pipe was dreadfully heavy with loads of hot magma pumping through it all. Even with the supernatural insulation offered by dwarven metals, this was far too much for anything living to bear. He felt the metal melt into his bones, and when he dared looked up at his hands he saw only that they were aflame.
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“Done! Let go, master!” the dwarves shouted.
The master craftsman fell away, collapsing to the ground. He went unconscious almost immediately while the journeymen wrapped his hands in heat-insulating material. The pipe held, all the bolts resecured. They looked around at the machine… but despite everything, it held. All of it held steady, and whatever force permeated this area had gone.
“What in the name of the core just happened?!” one of them demanded. “Stop crowding him! Go outside, go, go, go, and get a healer!”
One of them ran away as fast as their legs would carry them.
“You all felt that, right?” another of the dwarves said a moment after. “Something… something foul came up along with the magma. And it… it didn’t take kindly to what we did.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Another shook his head, stepping up to the pump as it worked. “That king… he was right. Gerechtigkeit’s toying with the world, down below. And he intends to go down there and stop that.”
“May the earth preserve us…” one of the dwarves prayed, and he was silently joined by several others.
The volcano of Vysenn was tamed, if only barely. In a day, perhaps two, all of the magma would be pumped up to the surface, providing that there were no more surprises. Once pumped, it would be distributed atop the surface of Vysenn, where it would harden into volcanic rock in the locations that the king’s sister had specified. And then, once it had diminished enough… the king would descend.
As for what he’d find… did anyone know the answer?
#####
Sataistador crossed his arms as he looked down at Argrave. His arms bore the evidence of battle, but from Argrave’s view, the wounds seemed to be mostly from hitting rather than getting hit. And the foremost evidence of the battle was the captive lying at his feet.
“This is a god of storms?” Argrave looked upon the man. His body had been pierced by ten knives with red tassels. He was so badly broken that Argrave could discern little about his features save his midnight black hair and pearly skin. Argrave looked back at Sataistador. “What about the other two of these triplets?”
“All defeated. The god of tides was slippery and had the terrain advantage, but once I got my hands on him, I ate him alive, bite by bite, starting at his neck. Then, I—”
“They’re dead, then,” Argrave interrupted, not caring to hear the gory details. “How do you expect the remainder of the Qircassian Coalition will come?”
Sataistador stroked his beard. “They never suspected you to be aware of their attack. It was a detail privy to their highest orders, and to the imperial court, where information seldom leaks. But because of me, you were aware, and they never gained a foothold on this continent. That’s overturned their plans.” Sataistador looked up. “Now that their surprise is lost, they have only one route if they choose to continue their vengeance, which I suspect they will—utterly overwhelming force. And since none of the three lesser gods they sent as help returned… they’ll suspect divine intervention. That’ll lure out the old titans, who seek to feast on spirits. You may see Qircassia again, in all his inhuman glory.” He pointed at Argrave. “Best hope the divine allies you’ve chosen are up to the task.”
“Yes indeed,” Argrave nodded. “And you?”
“I’ll be heading to the Great Chu during this chaos. Gods of Qircassia’s magnitude seldom enter a fight without leaving the opportunity for retreat. If they do indeed rout, I’ll be waiting to catch their retreat. And if your counter-invasion comes, as planned…” He looked down at the broken god of storms. “Their fate will be similar to his kin.”
“You can rest assured it will. The Veidimen will cross the sea. Perhaps at Ji Meng’s side, too, but I can’t say that for certain.” Argrave shook his head.
“Veid’s kin? How amusing,” Sataistador shook his head. “I should leave. Your more steadfast allies than I will arrive, and you’ll be a pariah if I am seen.”
Argrave nodded at him. “I appreciate your help.”
“Help?” Sataistador laughed loudly, hiding his open mouth with his huge hand. Without another word he walked away, fading into the night. At some point Argrave lost track of him.
Once he was gone, Argrave looked down at the god of storms uneasily. He bent down and picked the man up. He was lighter than he expected, and totally broken in ways that churned Argrave’s stomach, but he was alive. And he would be presented before the deities of the Blackgard Union to spur their defensive coalition into action.
By defending Vasquer they hoped to spread worship into Vasquer’s populace, earning themselves a permanent place for the next cycle. That was undoubtedly their bid. But Argrave hoped to end the cycle altogether, and he was more than happy to make use of them to that end.
Elenore’s voice cut into Argrave’s mind. “Are you awake? If not, wake up. Vysenn has begun draining. The hills are flowing with lava. There was an incident, though. An incident that the Alchemist reported as ‘extremely heartening.’ Something relating to Gerechtigkeit is definitely down there.”
Her voice surprised Argrave, and the words she spoke after even more so. “I’ll wrap things up here as quick as I can,” he said after a few moments of pause. “Remember—Dario, Traugott, and Mozzahr still lurk. I can’t imagine what they’ll pull, so predict they’ll try everything.”
As Argrave walked, rather than his conversation with the gods upcoming on his mind, one word rung. Sandelabara. They had finally found it. What that meant, Argrave did not know. Provided they succeeded, he was sure to find out.
