<u>30</u>


    Some time remained before nightfall, because up at this height, twilight tended to linger. First painting the clouds from above, it gradually shifted, suffusing the mist with a brilliant red glow as the sun dropped from sight.


    The elf and orc had time to descend that stone pillar, into a magical, forested land. The animals here were utterly fearless of Miche and Marget. There were not many hunters, it seemed. Just a sort of cat-fox with a knack for color-change, and a flock of gold spark-lizards, but these were small and seemed to feast mainly on carrion. Most of the trees were dwarfed, too, being less than a third the height of their ground-level cousins.


    Once on the forest floor, Marget fed Spots with conjured goats’ milk. There were other deer in the area, not shy at all. Miche made a tidy pile of unwanted apples for them, no doubt introducing a new sort of tree. Watching his doings, the orc scowled, considering her adopted brother’s idea.


    “We are but two against many,” she pointed out, after speaking the charm against fleas over Spots. “That is good for the tales at fire and feast, but seems like poor strategy, Vrol.”


    He didn’t deny it, saying,


    “We may not have to fight. The assemblers are taking Amurites… apparently often… but they may not be harming them. Clearly the ones lifted up longed to be chosen. My plan gets us into the hive for a quick look around. As for the rest, that depends very much on what we find when we get there.” Which was elf-speak for ‘I’m making this up as I go.’


    Dipping into the life of Lord Erron, he added,


    “The assemblers were converted to fearsome weapons by the enemy, this ‘Fallen One’, who discovered a thing he called assembler-code. But our forces struck back, learning to break up an assembled construct and shatter the swarm’s coherence. I know how to do that. Together, they fight and think as a mighty unit. Split apart, they soon wander off to start a new hive.”


    Marget grunted, turning the notion over and over in thought. Meanwhile, that sprinkling of stars overhead had grown to a full, brilliant tapestry. The sun was now only a whisper of light in the west, and the moon had not yet arisen. He hesitated, though, still waiting for Firelord. The god had been absent for candle-marks, no doubt exploring the whole floating island chain… hopefully.


    “You watch for something,” accused Marget, studying Miche’s face (and too direct to be subtle). “You do not wish to go, before something of value returns to you.”


    Which was true. The orc finished feeding and grooming Spots, who then wandered over to sniff at those bite-sized browsing deer. Said Miche,


    “Yes. There is someone else who’s gone off alone… but I am not free to speak of this other until… suppose it’s alright to say ‘he’ … chooses to show himself.”


    Marget’s habitual snarl deepened briefly. Then her expression cleared.


    “You are honored by an ancestor?” she asked. When the elf hesitated, she clarified, “It sometimes happens among the Free People, that one of our forerunners tires of the Hunting Grounds and returns to honor a descendant, bringing great power and strength. They seek to experience life again, but only through one they find worthy. My mother’s mother was honored so. You sheath an ancestor, Vrol?”


    Close enough… but he wasn’t free to speak about Firelord unless the god chose to let him. Marget sensed this and changed the subject.


    “Turn, and I will plait your hair for the fight,” she ordered.


    “If there is one,” he said, turning his back as the orc seized his blond hair and then began skillfully weaving it. “Not sure… why a single braid… is better than many… loose strands, though,” he mused. (In spurts. She was skilled, but not at all gentle.)


    “You would cut off your hair?” demanded the orc, adding a dull-metal clamp to the end of his plait.


    “And look like a coward?” scoffed Miche, outraged. “<u>No</u>. Let whoever wills take hold and not live to regret it. With both hands encumbered, he’ll be easy to turn on and stab.”


    Marget chuckled, bumping his shoulder with hers.


    “Or she,” snorted the orc. “Though a female would most likely snap your neck before you could turn. But this will not happen, as I have your back.”


    And now it was dark. The elf marshalled his spells, presetting three in case of surprise. No escape spell, though. Come whatever, he would not leave Marget behind.


    As the orc went over to speak a last charm on Spots (who was romping and browsing with smaller young fawns) Miche crossed to the island’s edge. Faced cool wind and the scent of cloud and damp earth rushing up from the darkness below.


    Five miles away, the assembler hive shone in starlight, its surface a broken and churning shell. Crawling with de-cohered units, no doubt. That thought came straight from the story of Erron; the life that he’d lived, the fleeing people he’d fought to defend. Maybe they’d made it to safety? Hana, Kara, Randon and the baby… those thousands of refugees… It helped to think that they’d found a new place, out in the void between stars. Made his own bloody, prolonged awful death seem worth it.


    But he could see and speak again. Had all of his parts, was not caged and suspended for laughter and enemy sport. The orc… Marget… came up from behind, breaking the hold of grim memory. He’d have loved her for that, if nothing else.


    “The wind shifts with sunset,” he told her. “If you are ready, we’ll go.”


    Marget’s big hand clasped his shoulder, brushing the curled lump of Nameless, asleep in his cloak-hood. The marten uttered a wavering bark but didn’t emerge. Too well fed and tired, probably.


    As manna flowed from the clouds, the wind and the island’s gleaming support spell, Miche said,


    “You must stay within fifty feet for my magic to lift you… or for transport, if things go terribly wrong.”


    “Unh,” she grunted, as the ground dropped away, and his invisibility spell wrapped them in shadow. “There is small point in a glorious death, if no one is there to see and weave tales.”


    “Next time, we’ll bring a witness,” he promised, smiling.


    The south wind was brisk and took hold at once. No sprite, this, but a lesser divinity. It materialized once, grey and dripping; made of storm cloud, lightning and rain. The elf pressed clenched fist to brow in salute, earning a strong, steady gust that very soon swept them over that five-mile gap.


    As he’d guessed, the entire, moon-shaped island was covered in buzzing and clicking assemblers. There was not a blade of green anywhere, and only a lone, central lake. Its waters rippled and shone silver-pale in the starlight, breaking around a pile of corroded dark metal. Something had crashed there a very long time ago, he guessed, running over the ships of the fleet in his mind. Not Javelin, which had scraped onto a mountaintop, when the death-code struck… unlike so many lost others.


    Anyhow, he made for that pile of corrosion and rust, bringing them gently down on what had been a wide upper deck. Dropped the levitation spell, then used ‘deep sense’ to mentally grope his way down through chilly water and crumbling wreckage.


    No sign of captives or willing visitors, either. But maybe they’d gone below. If so, deep sense would ferret them out. The noise of assemblers was very loud here; disorganized, scattered and wavering. Out of tune, in a manner of speaking, and not very threatening. It was only when that tinny jangle began to synchronize that trouble was coming.


    Marget had turned to face in the other direction, back to his own, like a wall. She held an axe in one hand and a sword in the other. Watching. Ah. His spreading mind encountered a tunnel system, only partly flooded.


    “There is a network of caverns and passages below, accessible through a large duct,” he signed and subvocalized. Clear as a bell to a friend, completely inaudible to the assembler horde. Probably. “It seems like the best way inside.”


    She was female and therefore an officer. He did not command, but only suggested.


    “Must we <u>swim</u>?” growled the orc, signing back.


    “No. I can pull air from the water, forming an envelope, and control our mass for a gentle descent,” he replied.


    Marget turned a bit to regard him directly, once again sensing more than just Miche in his voice, curt signing and words. She snuffed, rumbled, then said,


    “Let it be as you say, Old One. Though you are only a male, here your knowledge is greater.” And she was large enough in spirit to admit it. (Large, period.) He inclined his head.


    “That is the plan, then. We’ll stay together until we are into the tunnels and out of the water. If it comes to a fight, I defer to your wisdom.”


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    And that’s how it happened. The floating island was shaped like a crescent moon, with its lake near the long convex shore. The island’s two “horns” reached around from north and south, enclosing a misty aerial harbor. All around them, assemblers rasped, chirped and tinkled, without any rhythm or pattern at all. Of the mechanoid dragon, there was no sign.


    He stood for a moment, overwhelmed by another’s emotions. Breathing free air, feeling manna come at his call, hearing something other than mocking laughter nearly shattered him. Nearly.


    The orc’s hand clasped his left shoulder. He placed his own slim hand over hers, pressing once. Then, at his sigil and word, they stepped off of the wreckage, sinking down into black water. An odd feeling, that; chilly and squeezed, but not wet. With air that was continually freshened and smelt like the lake.


    Down and down they sank, slowly, as he manipulated the currents enough to bring them to the mouth of a pour-stone culvert. Some sleight-of-hand with their masses took place, then, while he made them heavy enough to push through the water and walk on the tunnel floor. Not a long way, fortunately, for the orc’s convulsive grip on him said she did not like being submerged.


    His sense of the tunnel system led him to quickly select the most direct path to dry, open air. They emerged from the lake’s inner stretch by its terraced steps, gasping like they’d been holding their breath. Got clear of the water and looked around, back-to-back once again and weapons in hand.


    There had been almost no life in the lake. Here, the air was musty and still. Its silence disturbed by dripping water and random, sharp clicks. There were four assemblers present, but these wandered about in loose spirals.


    “Hunting for scent-trails or water,” guessed Marget. “Sentries who will not alert, unless they find the track of invaders.”


    The elf nodded. He’d preset ‘Cone of Silence’ and invoked it now, in case the creatures were triggered by voices. That done, he sensed around a bit more, then said,


    “The tunnel branches ahead. The left way leads to an exterior cave. The right way tends upward, curves east, then ends in a dome-shaped chamber. Your thoughts?


    The orc snorted, disliking the mildew and dust.


    “We will remember the left path, for when it is time to leave this abode of noisy bugs,” she said. “If there are any to rescue, we must think how to carry them, Vrol-who-is-other.”


    The elf nodded.


    “I’m working on it,” he replied, adding, “If you don’t mind, keep talking. It pulls me away from darkness.”


    They started along a smooth-bored tunnel, then, invisible to others and shielded by cone of silence. He took the time to cleanse them of all exterior taint and any lingering water or rust. Keeping away from patrolling assemblers. Again, just in case.


    The orc began talking of past hunts and battles, of who she’d fought and how worthy they were to be named in a tale. He listened with part of his attention, minding the assembler’s noises and patterns of movement with most of the rest.


    “And did this ‘Skevlan’ put up a good fight?” he asked her, when they paused for water and apples.


    “Best of any so far,” she responded, finishing her meal in two bites (seeds, core and stem). “Handsome, too. I would have favored him, had he been able to best me.” Then, in a sudden rush, “What if there are no other Free Folk here, Vrol? Wat if there are no worthy mates?”


    Erron’s memory had no answer for that, but Miche did.


    “Then we’ll push back the light wall to a time when there are still orcs, and find you a mate by… I don’t know… kidnapping one.”


    Marget chuckled at that.


    “Captives taken in war often make the best husbands,” she told him. “Very respectful.”


    He shook his head, wondering how this had come to seem perfectly reasonable. Barbaric or not, though, she was his sister; the best friend he had besides Nameless. He’d help to capture an orc for her, face him in battle and hope the poor varg-son survived his own wedding night… assuming he and Marget got out of this latest mess in one piece.


    They left the tunnel behind after rounding a final curve, stepping into a dome-shaped chamber. It was a hundred and ten feet across, with a round opening at the top that let in the moonlight and air. Not the first thing they noticed, though.


    The patrolling assemblers had tripled in number, their coverage patterns growing complex. It was much harder to avoid stepping onto one of their paths, so the elf invoked levitation again, raising himself and Marget while using as little manna as possible. Just a foot or so over the ground, until they reached that wide main cavern, where…


    A jumbled spray of crystals rose from the chamber floor, coming to a nine-foot peak. The structure was mostly quiescent grey, with occasional flares of glittering blue. Around it, laid out like the direction-marks on a compass, were people. Their sunken, flabby remains, rather. They looked like skin bags full of pudding, oozing a bit from their mouths, ears and nostrils, crawling with luminous, half-shelled pale larvae.


    Marget snarled. There was no sign of restraint or violence, though, and those of the pilgrims who still retained enough of a skull to anchor their face-muscles looked very peaceful. The orc shook with rage and disgust, though.


    “Their bones have been taken,” she hissed, muscles bunching like boulders. “Maybe assemblers don’t eat, but their grubs do.”


    Worse, that chaotic mess of chirps, clicks and tinkling had woven together, strand by strand joining to create a droning, cicada-like hum. Then, with a noise of wind and clicking machinery, something large and fast flashed past overhead, blocking the light for a long, pent breath. Still treading air, invisible, silent, the orc and elf watched in shock as four more pilgrims floated down through the opening. Two males, a woman and very young girl, this time, all of them holding hands, all of them chanting.


    The mechanoid dragon outside joined its rumbling thrum to the noise of waking assemblers. That spire of crystals began to glow blue, pulsing in time to the creatures’ loud, droning hum.


    The four Amurites were wafted around and around through the air, sweeping ever closer to that pulsing blue jumble of crystals. Miche summoned starlight, not to the cavern, but into his hand; forming a mass of swirling white energy. The pilgrims were singing as they whirled through the chamber. Same as they’d sung down below. The Dawn Hymn.


    “No,” snapped the elf, all at once coldly furious. Dropped all of his spells except levitation, as the assemblers inside began snapping together like powerful magnets. “These people believed you would help them!”


    Next, two things happened at once. A mighty pull from the crystal took hold of each soul in the cavern, Miche and Marget’s included. Like a hook lodged somewhere under his heart, the crystal’s pull tried to strip him away from his physical body. The souls of the Amurite pilgrims were willingly, happily drawn, but the elf and orc fought that beckoning force with all that they had, refusing to answer the call.


    Then Miche’s preset shielding spell triggered, as the mechanoid dragon outside began pouring in through the hole in the ceiling, forming a shining black river of metal bugs. The noise was deafening; head-splitting.


    Whirling to face the dragon’s flowing main body, Miche flashed the ball of light in his hand the way that Lord Erron had done, more years ago than anyone present had lived.


    2- 2-1-2-3-2-4-4-2-4


    The Amurites’ souls were swept up like cobwebs, into that jumble of crystals. Then, riding a powerful lance of bright light, all four shot away into the sky, past the clattering, rushing form of the dragon. Meanwhile, a massive, insectoid hulk took shape in the vibrating chamber. Composed of myriad small, chirping units, it sprouted long, jointed legs that raised it creaking, clear of the ground. It grew and clashed sharp, ant-like jaws that shone with electrical force. Spread those mandibles wide, still gaining mass as more and more units streamed to the shining steel creature. Multiple glowing blue eyes formed on its head and flat body, all of them swiveling; searching.


    Then, unbelievably fast, the monster struck, leaping at the hive’s small invaders. Miche backed and pivoted, shouting a warning that couldn’t be heard above all of that rumbling, clattering, jangling, ground-shaking noise. Stone split. Corpses bounced in a grisly mock-up of life.


    1-1-0-1-2-1-3-3-1-3


    Roaring soundlessly, Marget hurled her axe at the mechanoid beast’s largest eye. The axe-blade bit deep, sinking in through a shower of sparks and torn metal. Did not even slow the beast down. Its spider legs carved pits in the chamber floor as the assembled monster skittered and leapt; racing up the wall and then onto the ceiling above them. Several bits of it pulled free, sprouting wings as they shot away from the main body, trailing some kind of electrical web.


    ‘Not let it touch you!’ he signed at Marget, urgent hurry and awkward one-handedness making him drop a few words. ‘Trap!’ Kept flashing the light that he held in the meantime, turning to keep it facing the huge, crouching bug on the ceiling.


    0-0-0-0-1-1-2-2-0-1


    It lashed out with searing bolts of lightning and streams of hornet-like drones. Miche drew his sword and fired a storm of ice bolts that coated the smaller assemblers’ wings, sending them crashing onto the ground. The lightning could only be dodged, for its power far exceeded his shielding ability. The elf dove one way, Marget, the other. Both struck the floor and came up rolling, fetching up against boneless corpses and writhing larvae. Even the little ones fought, spurting acid that pitted the floor and burned flesh. Nameless dug into his back, emerging enough to bite a larva in half.


    The pilgrims’ empty bodies twirled downward like snow, spinning a ghastly last dance. Miche rose to one knee, still flashing out segments of Lord Erron’s code, praying that after so long, it still worked.


    ...and then, last of all, simply 0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0.


    The monster turned away from the flashing command light. Jaws spread wide, it


    dropped from the ceiling and struck like a snake. Marget was back on her feet but unshielded, well over fifty feet from the elf. He misty-stepped, twice. Materialized directly in front of her, putting all he had left into the shield spell.


    Great, sparking jaws snapped shut like vast shears… only to burst apart into millions of single, chaotically chirping units. The pair were battered from every side by a swirling blizzard of loose assemblers; slashed at by razor-sharp wings and needle-tipped legs, zapped by miniscule lightning bolts. The thrumming-loud, rushing swarm shoved them this way and that… but the shield held, and at last the storm of assemblers ended.


    When the last click, buzz and chirp died away… when the cavern walls ceased moving, and the air was no longer black and streaming with units, they released each other. Marget shook herself, then patted him over, looking for wounds. Miche performed a light cure on both of them and the shuddering marten, too, healing electrical burns, bruises and scrapes.


    The assemblers were gone; driven off to form a new hive, somewhere else. They’d taken their larvae, too. Left the Amurite bodies sprawled on the ground like abandoned toys. A hollow sort of victory, for there was no one to rescue. Their souls had been drawn and sent… where?


    The elf re-sheathed his weapon, shaking his head (which still ached from the noise).


    “I am not sure that we did the right thing,” he told Marget. The assembler larvae built their shells using minerals extracted from Amurite pilgrims… but only after their souls had moved on. Somewhere.


    Marget grunted a string of foul curses he only half-heard. A few vivid signs helped convey meaning, though.


    “Let us speak for the dead and be quit of this awful place, Hunter,” she said, in the midst of an epic and blistering oath.


    Miche nodded, then went over to stare through the hole in the cavern roof, sighting up along the dulled crystal spires.


    “Where were they sent?” he wondered aloud. “And how have things become so bad that this…” he gestured at six deflated corpses and four smiling, fresh ones. “…seems like a bargain?”


    “This whole world needs rescue,” growled the orc. “And there seems no one to do it but us.”


    Nameless had popped halfway out of his cloak hood, whiskers twitching and red eyes alert. The marten barked, looking restively this way and that.


    To them both, Miche said,


    “Yes, but first there are bodies to speak for and burn.” Though their souls were gone, he would not leave what remained of these people to rot and scavengers. Didn’t take very long, and soon they were ready to go, only…


    …Where in the infinite planes was Firelord, why had the small god not returned?