The ground shuddered and Hadrian nearly fell.

“Are you sure you want to come for this last bit?” Gravis asked as he led the way down the steps of the North Tower. “My, ah, friend, as he calls himself, is a dangerous person to put it mildly. He knows I’ve already locked the master gear and that the fires below Drumindor will rupture the encasement all on their own unless I unlock it. When he sees me, he might suspect the truth. If he does, then that will be that. But you two—I’m pretty sure he’ll kill both of you straightaway. And don’t be thinking those swords will help.” Gravis paused briefly and glanced back over his shoulder. “I can see you’re a warrior—Hadrian, is it?—and a good one perhaps, but my friend is far less a man and more—well, something you’ve never seen before.”

“We’ve both already met him,” Hadrian said.

“Oh, you have?”

“I’ve met him twice,” Royce replied. “Cut his head off once.”

This caused Gravis to stop and make a full turn to look at them, and in particular, Royce. Given that the staircase they descended looked to go on forever, this was not an idle thing. The steps were shallow, perfect for little legs, but Hadrian couldn’t help thinking that if a person fell, once they got rolling they’d keep going. Gravis showed no sign of concern, at least about the stairs.

“So, I suppose you know he’s not completely human?” Gravis asked. “Or alive, for that matter.”

“His name is Falkirk DeRoche,” Royce replied. “He’s a few thousand years old, was one of the early members of the Monks of Maribor, appears to be a zombie of some sort but charmingly keeps a personal diary.”

“He also slaughtered the entire Drumindor garrison of Yellow Jackets in the first few minutes after we walked in,” Gravis said. “And then he ate them.” The dwarf paused a moment to let that sink in. “After his meal, he gathered up their bones and carefully placed the whole lot in a neat little pile like cord wood he’d be needing for a cold winter.”

Since releasing them from the Mural room, Gravis had led them to the top of the tower where they worked to clear the spouts and portals that the dwarf had previously sealed. The spouts were giant tunnels bored out of the rock through which molten lava would blast on its way to the sea. There were dozens, each one aiming in a different direction, their access to the mountain’s core sealed off by gear-controlled portals. Once finished they need to climb to the top of the South Tower and do the same. On their way across the bridge from the South Tower back to the North Tower, Hadrian watched the sun vanish below the horizon. They were nearly out of time, but all that remained, according to Gravis, was to unlock the Master Gear that overrode the fail-safe relief trigger.

“Falkirk will be at the bottom, I suspect,” Gravis said. “At least that’s where he’s spent most of his time. If you want to know what a deadman does who doesn’t sleep in a coffin in a hole, I can certainly tell you. They kneel, and chant, and sing, to the primordial fires in the bowels of a dwarven fortress. Never too close though, Falkirk doesn’t like fire.

“I’ve watched him, and if it was anyone else—like say a living person—I’d conclude he’s either drunk or lost his mind. He crouches on the floor opposite the great fire and…well, it seems to me he’s talking to something, calling and inviting them up for a sit-an-chat, so to speak. What I’ve heard him say is mostly gibberish, and I would guess he was mad, but it makes me wonder. How does a man keep walking around and talking when by all rights he ought to have been a maggot mansion centuries ago? Maybe this is how. Anyway, if he’s at the bottom of the tower, at the base of the big gear, we’ll have an easy time of it because we don’t need to go down that far. The lock for the Master Gear is on top—three floors up from where Falkirk has been holding his parties. All we need do is raise the stone wedge that is locking the gear’s teeth by lifting the Armtarin—that’s Dromeian for grand fecking lever.” Gravis gave a chuckle, which under the circumstances sounded a bit unbalanced.

They passed the room with all the murals. This time there was another way to go, a separate staircase that hadn’t been there before. Hadrian guessed they had to be getting fairly near the bottom.

“So what’s your plan?” Gravis asked.

“Seems pretty straight forward,” Royce replied. “Hadrian and I distract Falkirk while you do you’re magic and purge the system of pressure, hopefully in time to save this portion of the world.”

“You might find distracting him a bit of a challenge. He’s stronger and faster than he looks.”

“So am I.”

“But you can die.”

“Point taken.”

“According to the Wall,” Hadrian said. “One of us is supposed to throw Falkirk’s diary into a fire. If someone who lived thousands of years ago went to all the trouble of painting that onto a wall, it seems sort of important.”

“Not just any fire,” Gravis said. “At the base of this tower is the hottest forge in the world. We call it the Haldor Gigin—the Dragon’s Mouth. That’s what was depicted in the prophesy painting. It’s essentially the gapping maw of Druma, the throat of the volcano, and the altar at which Falkirk has been chanting.”

“That brings up a question I have,” Hadrian said. “How is it you’ve worked here so long and didn’t connect us to the painting on the fifth wall? You’ve obviously seen it.”

“Oh yes, many, many times, too many I suspect. When someone says ‘how are you’ everyday for years, it stops being a question, and becomes just an obligatory, meaningless greeting. I’ve seen those murals so often I became blind to them. Never imagined anything depicted on it would come to pass in my life time. I certainly never thought I was on the Wall. Even a Berling isn’t that arrogant.”

Another violent tremor shook the tower and Hadrian put a hand out to steady himself. “Why is the place shaking?”

“Pressure,” Gravis said casually. “She gets to jumping a bit before we let her loose. These towers are like a cork in a bottle of fresh wine. If you seal it while there’s still sugar inside, the fermentation process keeps going and it builds up bubbles—the sort you’ll find in ale—that creates a terrible pressure and sooner or later the bottle bursts. Elan has an unlimited amount of sugar, so to speak, and we’ve corked her good.” Gravis looked up at the dark stone ceiling as if he could somehow see through it. “The sun has set,” the dwarf said. “And the moon will be rising soon. This time of year, I’d already have my hands on the release valve. No sense taking chances. We wait until the last moment to blow the core because the greater the pressure the cleaner the blow, and it saves us having to shimmy up the spouts and chisel out the residual crust—which is about as enjoyable as it sounds. Still, while the old girl is stout, Elan is stouter. If we wait too long—pop goes the wine bottle.”

“Alright then,” Royce said. “Gravis, you do whatever it takes to get to the Master Gear and crank that lever. In the meantime, Hadrian and I will do our best to entertain Falkirk. And while I have no idea what good it will do, if either of us gets the chance, we’ll incinerate his cursed memoirs. Then we’ll all gather for our victory huddle at the bottom of the tower just like in the picture. Apparently, Beatrice is never wrong in her prophesies, so this is a guaranteed win for us.”

Hadrian thought about that. In the image there had been four people in the final panel.

Who is the fourth? He wondered.

Then remembering there were three creatures depicted below Drumindor, Hadrian realized that maybe he should be asking: who are the four?

Hadrian called it the Big Room, not so much because it was indeed a huge chamber, but because everything in it was so massive it made him feel—a bit ironically—like a dwarf in a giant’s workshop. And yet despite the Big Room’s size it still couldn’t house more than a quarter of the Master Gear, which rose up out of the floor like the back of a sea serpent. The thing was massive reaching near to the ceiling. The teeth of the gear reminded Hadrian of crenelated parapets on a castle—if said castle belonged to previously mentioned giant.

Hadrian was able to identify the lever only because he knew it had to be there. The great metal beam that rose out of the floor at a slight angle and ran near to the roof along side of the Master Gear was just too big to be a tool. Instead, it appeared part of the room’s support structure. Two things told Hadrian it wasn’t. First was its location, second was the depiction of it in the painting. Hadrian had worked with siege engines and was familiar with the power of a lever to lift and move heavy things. This gigantic bar, and unseen fulcrum, he felt could allow a mouse to move a mountain. Large green glow stones in the floor and yellow hearth-fire windows above provided ample light and revealed plenty of other lesser gears, but it appeared as if this massive chamber was built entirely to house the Master Gear and the grand fecking lever. As it turned out there was one more thing of great significance in the room.

“Salutations valiant heroes!” Falkirk DeRoche said in his sandpaper voice magnified by the hard stone. He sat atop the highest tooth on the Master Gear. Wrapped deep in his cloak, Falkirk appeared to be little more than a dark mound with eyes. “Gravis Berling, Royce Melborn, and Hadrian…” he hesitated. “Blackwater,” he pulled out. “Friends be you all, come to revel in glory on our day of jubilation. How wonderful.” He stood up slowly, like an old man after sitting too long, and as he did his hood and cloak fell away. In the bright light, gold from above, green below, Hadrian saw him clearly. Pale as the underbelly of a dead fish, he was tall, lanky, and thin—disturbingly so like a starved man reduced to nothing but bone and muscle. His arms were longer than normal, so was his red hair. Thin strands hung to his ankles from a head that appeared soft as a rotting melon. On his fingers were sharp-pointed nails of ebony, and his teeth were a sickly yellow set among black gums. What clothes he had hung in rotted tatters except for what looked to be a new black leather belt that was cinched tight around his tiny waist. Tucked, such that it appeared tied to him, was the diary.

“Fitting indeed we four stand present, as each preformed equal in shares the toil necessary for this moment.”

Gravis gave Royce a curious glance.

“Did they not tell thee, Gravis?” Falkirk asked. “Royce and Hadrian freed us from our prison.”

Hadrian saw worry and a flash of fear run across the dwarf’s face. He hesitated for only a moment, then began walking forward a bit like a condemned criminal with Royce and Hadrian flanking him in the role of guards.

“You say we’ve all contributed equally,” Gravis said to Falkirk. “And it appears to me that you’re expecting a reward of some sort. I was wondering if we’ll all be sharing in that particular bounty? I only asked because I’ve spent too many years killing myself and receiving nothing at all.”

“Everyone will receive treasures beyond imagination.”

“I see, but let me ask you this: Once the grand old lady blows, how are any of us going to collect? The whole of the Horn of of Delgos will be incinerated. This whole part of the world will be remade. If enough lava spews, then Mt. Druma will make a bit of a comeback. The ash cloud will obliterate the coast, kill all the plants and animals, and poison the nearby seas—at least for a time. As for us, why, there won’t be so much as a fingernail to remember the three of us by, so how might we be receiving this gift?”

“Such a little mind, but what a greedy heart,” Falkirk said. “’Tis to be expected. We too remember doubt, fear, and confusion. Be not troubled little one. Thou don’t need to believe in the Old Ones and their master, for they believe in thee.”

“Well now, that is a wonderful thing to hear, very grand indeed.” Gravis said as he reached the base of the gear. “Sadly, I haven’t a clue what any of it means. Would you mind explaining it for us while I check my work? Don’t want anything going wrong at the last minute, do we? Also it would help to understand the situation better. After all, This is a mighty big sacrifice I’m making here.”

“Sacrifice?” Falkirk said the word with disgust. “Should thee but know what we suffered.” Falkirk shook his soft melon head making the greasy red cords sway. “Mileva convinced us to join her. She taught us how to extended our life. That is not a pleasant process.”

Royce and Hadrian waited at the base as Gravis began climbing. They watched him go. Hadrian looked to Royce who made no move to follow. They really couldn’t and also maintain the ruse that Gravis was merely going to check to his work, to make certain nothing went wrong. Once Gravis yanked the lever, however, Hadrian was certain Falkirk would guess the truth. By then, the dwarf would be beyond reach of his aid.

“We required a reliquary, a container for the souls we took.” Falkirk tapped the diary that was tucked in a black leather belt pulled tight around his tiny waist. “A book made of skins, written in blood, and protected by a curse of great power—’tis not as mighty as a pile of bones, but has the benefit of portability. And this was utmost in her mind for Mileva cared not for sharing. The dark lady was not willing to grant us space to set up shop in her house. Oh, no! not the great Mileva Hitartheon! We were cast out, kicked as a baby bird from the nest and tasked with murdering our beloved friend. How would thou like to do that, Gravis Berling?”

Gravis didn’t answer. He was too busy, to intent on climbing the teeth of the gear, which given his size compared to them, was a challenge.

“And ’twas not the end of the suffering. Far from it! Dibben sealed us in our own temple, the one we built along the ley line for Bran. We thought he and Bran fled, but they did not. Away they ran, but to the temple. We spent centuries trapped in that tomb, that prison, listening in mute anguish to the voices above, and starving such that we longed for the peace of death, but death refused us. Our immortal life thus became our eternal torment. Until our saviors, Royce and Hadrian arrived and we were dragged out with the corpse of Villar. At long last we were free, but at the cost of years measuring in the thousands! So, do not moan and wail to us about sacrifice, Gravis Berling!”

With each tooth the dwarf conquered he came closer to Falkirk, who went on, his voice growing in volume, sounding more and more like a preacher giving a sermon to a tiny flock.

“Yet immortality was only a means to an end, for life itself is not the problem. Chaos, you must understand, is the natural order. Non-existence—being the native land of all things—gives birth to homeward longing and the gnawing aspiration to return to that barren womb of oblivion. This is why everything decays, falls apart, crumbles, and cracks. All life, all existence rose from nothing, and ’tis back to nothing that creation yearns to return. Here then is reasoned proof why nothing lasts. See it not, do you? There is no eternity while reality remains. The universe is a mistake, a false delirium that all within suffer from. The very act of being allows for pain, for fear, as all things trapped within existence pines for something. Men crave knowledge, love, power, dominion over animals and each other, even the freedom from these very wants. Animals desire food in the form of meat or vegetation. Plants fight over sunlight and water. Water must fall as rain, return to the sea, and be reborn only to fall again in an endless, tortuous cycle. Even a rock will covet other rocks thus seeking to fall, and must suffer being ground to sand. Existence is conflict, and opposition renders pain. But in Chaos there is nothing: no desire left unfulfilled. No hunger unsated, no fear, or dread. There is nothing…not even time. And without time there is permanence and eternity and peace—the way it was meant to be, the way it had always been…before the rebellion.”

Gravis came to Falkirk at the apex of the gear. The width of the teeth were such that he had ample room to walk past, which he proceeded to do keeping as much distance as possible.

“But change is always hard,” Falkirk continued. “The unknown forever disturbing invites fear, and doubt lurks in the shadows. We understand this, which is why we shall help thee, Gravis.”

Hadrian read Falkirk’s weight. His impoverished body made reading his muscles as easy as comprehending the nature of a scream. Falkirk had no intentions of letting Gravis walk by. The Gingerdead Man had known all along, and had waited for them.

“Gravis! Look out!” Hadrian shouted.

He was too late. The ruse they hoped to exploit, had failed and Gravis paid the price.

Falkirk swiped at the dwarf with his claws cutting him across the waist. The dwarf’s light shirt sliced open. With a burst of blood and an anguished cry, Gravis went over the edge. The fall, while not guaranteed to be mortal, was bone breaking, and Gravis struck the floor like a bag of porcelain plates.

Stillness filled the chamber as all eyes fixed on the dwarf prone on the floor. He wasn’t dead. Hadrian saw his body draw breath.

Once again, anticipating Falkirk’s intent, Hadrian ran to Gravis. He arrived just as Falkirk leapt off the gear and landed beside the dwarf. The long fall did not appear to hurt, or even slow Falkirk, and Hadrian charged him. Drawing both side swords and running at Falkirk’s exposed back, Hadrian planned to remove the Gingerdead Man’s head.

To Hadrian’s shock, his blades caught nothing but air.

Falkirk ducked and dodged at blinding speed. Then countered with a swipe that left five gaping cuts across the leather of Hadrian’s jerkin. Two more rapid attacks followed, and Hadrian, used both swords to block a swipe to his face and another to his midsection.

What happened to the old man that had trouble getting to his feet?

The good news was that as Falkirk pressed his attack and Hadrian retreated, the Gingerdead Man was no where near Gravis anymore. The bad news: he was closing on Hadrian who rapidly concluded the Falkirk was far more dangerous than he’d ever dreamed. This was no man, this was something else, and it moved with superhuman speed and strength.

Beatrice was wrong. We’re not going to win.