Engines of the Apocalypse

and she could think of better images with which to depart the world. She stared at the odorous little man and, in doing so, made up her mind. It had to be, didn't it?

Kali turned the key south, locked it in place and, after a few seconds, the bridge appeared.

She sighed heavily; she'd gambled correctly. On a dwarven joke. A crude but effective joke, much like the dwarves themselves, and she could imagine them roaring with laughter when they had thought of it.

Hey, Hammerhead, how about this? There's more than one kind of wind!

Kali was not about to tell Slack that she'd just gambled both of their lives on the strength of a fart gag, so instead she sauntered nonchalantly across the bridge, finally setting foot on the reassuring solidity of the central pillar. And right in front of her was what she had come for.

The Deathclaws.

Legend had it they had been forged by the renegade blacksmith Dumar, who had pledged his allegiance to an elven rather than dwarven court. Commissioned by that court's Lord, the mysterious metal from which they were made was said to have washed up as jetsam near Oweilau millennia before. That the metal could wash up — that it could float — was just one of its unusual qualities and had led many to speculate its origin lay with those said to live deep under the sea. True or not, the metal was unlike any worked before. It was pliable yet all but indestructible. When fashioned into the claws, they were sharp enough to slice through anything, natural or man-made, most importantly the unbreachable brodin armour in which the dwarves of that time garbed their warriors. It was even said that, wielded with skill, they could bypass the armour completely and slice away a dwarf's soul.

Unsurprisingly, the Lord who wielded the Deathclaws became unstoppable on the battlefield, and thousands of dwarven warriors had fallen before him, until, one night, the claws had simply vanished from the Lord's chambers.

The fact that, thereafter, Dumar returned to live among his own people in such circumstances that ten lifetimes' smithing could never have paid for may or may not have had something to do with the disappearance. But, by whatever means the dwarves acquired the claws, they had thereafter sealed them here, on the lowest level of Quinking's Depths, so that they might never be wielded again. They were, in short, a priceless treasure, a one of a kind artefact that Kali had had on her 'to find' list for as long as she could remember.

She sighed and lifted them from the podium on which they rested, then slipped them onto her hands. As light as silk, each of the metal handpieces was attached to five curved rune-etched blades by intricately crafted hinges and studs that allowed for perfect freedom of movement. It was hard to believe that something so delicately and lovingly constructed could have been intended for such deadly use. It wasn't simply the workmanship that belied their purpose, however. The legend also said that the elven Lord had imbued the runes with additional sorcery that ensured the blood of the fallen never tainted their beauty, and it was this that gave them their golden glow. Kali couldn't resist wielding them for a short time — slashing at the air like a cat, grinning as they cut the air with a hiss — and then she moved to return them to the podium.

'What are you doing?' Slack asked, aghast.

'Putting them back,' Kali said.

'Are you insane?'

'Nope. I made a promise to a friend a long time ago that certain things should stay where they are, for the good of Twilight.'

Behind her back, Slack hopped up and down, gesturing at the key, the bridges. 'Then why all this?'

'Because I could.'

'Because you could?'

Kali nodded. 'It's about the thrill of the chase.'

For a moment, Slack stared at her open-mouthed, then moved with hitherto unsuspected speed, putting a knife to Kali's throat. It was as dull as a twig compared with the treasure she had found but could still cause a nasty gouge. More uncomfortable by far was the fact that Slack was pressing himself tightly up against her rear, rubbing her exposed midriff slowly and panting in her ear. Kali sighed, but only with bored resignation.

'I will be taking the claws, Miss Hooper,' Slack said.

'You sure about that?' Kali responded.

'What? Of course I am sure!'

'Only it's just that if I drop them to the ground you'll have to pick them up, and while you're doing that I'll kick your nuts so hard people'll be calling you 'four eyes.''

There was a pause.

'I told you, Slack, plan ahead…'

'Then pass the claws to me slowly, between your legs.'

Kali drew in a sharp breath in mock sympathy. 'Or 'no nuts.''

'Over your shoulder, then!'

''Twilight's silliest hatpins'?'

Slack tightened his grip. 'You are toying with me, woman.'

'Actually, I'd prefer to get this over with. Have you any idea how much you stink?'

'Give me the claws.'

'Won't.'

'Will.'

'Won't.'

Slack sighed in exasperation and Kali smiled. All you ever had to do was wait for the sigh that said your opponent was off guard.

She elbowed Slack in the ribs and flung him around in front of her, kicking his legs out from under him as he came. It should have pinned him to the ground with the Claws at his throat, and that was exactly where they would have been had the entire cavern not begun to quake violently, almost spilling the pair of them into the depths. As it was, Kali stumbled to her knees, the Deathclaws skittering from her grip, and Slack took advantage of the moment to grab them and run. Kali growled and made after him, then suddenly stopped dead in her tracks.

What the hells?

That some kind of quake was occurring was beyond doubt, the cavern shaking and thick falls of rock dust pouring from the roof. The rumbling was almost deafening. The quake, though, was not what had caused Kali to stop in surprise. Something seemed to be interfering with the thread bridges throughout the cavern. As Kali watched, they faded and flickered. The magic seemed to be destabilising for some reason and, if it disappeared completely, she and Slack were going to be trapped down here.

Slack himself had a more immediate problem, however. Oblivious in his flight, the rat was already running across the fifth bridge and, from her vantage point, Kali could see it was the most unstable of them all.

'Slack, come back!' Kali shouted, but the only response she got was a backward flip of a finger. 'Fine, you moron, run, then! Just get off the farking bridge!'

She'd meant the warning to galvanise him but it actually had the opposite effect. Slack paused in his tracks, turning to face her. That he was listening was good, but it was also the worst thing he could have done.

Kali stabbed a finger downwards, trying to make the man aware of his situation, and comprehension slowly dawned as Slack looked down. His mood turned from triumphant glee to undisguised panic as he saw the bridge flickering in and out of existence. The sudden realisation that, at any moment, there might be nothing between himself and an abyss filled with something horrible spurred the thief into running for his life but, unfortunately, time had run out for Slack.

'Aaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeee!'

'Bollocks,' was Kali's honest response. But she couldn't help raising her eyebrows when she saw the Deathclaws remained where Slack had been, still held in his bloody, severed hands, amputated by the flickering bridge the moment he'd fallen through. For the bridge, like the others, had not yet gone for good. She had time — though not, necessarily, any to waste.

Kali ran. As the six bridges continued to blink on and off, she knew that crossing each successfully was going to be a matter of a timing, using the pillars that connected them as staging posts.

The first bridge was, at that moment, in an either/or state of flux, and she ran on the spot until she felt it