I’m one of Qualinesti’s most acclaimed fighters, yet nothing I do is ever good enough for her,” she said ruefully. “I lack fire in my soul, she says. I’m sure she wonders if I am truly her daughter.”
It was the old colonel’s turn to comfort his princess. He spoke up quickly. “I believe the lyremaster set her straight on that score. As I recall, he told your mother in no uncertain terms that you were far too, ah,
The memory surprised a chuckle from Vixa. She squeezed his hand and grinned. “You heard about that? Oh, he was a sour pickle, was Master Picalum.”
“No doubt he was, once you broke your lyre over his head. What had he done to anger you so?”
“He told me I had no rhythm in my fingers!” was the indignant response.
Armantaro laughed softly.
A troop of Dargonesti, their armor restored and refurbished, marched out of the House of Arms. New warriors straggled in, looking shocked and pale. From snatches of conversation that drifted their way, Vixa and Armantaro discerned that a sizable contingent of sea elves had been lured into a trap and slaughtered by the chilkit.
“This can’t go on,” Armantaro stated. “Coryphene will have to risk all in a final throw against them. If he sits tight, they’ll strangle this city and cut his troops apart, like gardeners pruning grapevines.”
Vixa agreed. Gundabyr had better hurry with the gnomefire.
A tense silence fell over the city of Urione. Within its graceful shell, a hundred thousand Dargonesti waited for the outcome of a strange race. Who would win, the dwarf or the chilkit?
No one was more uncertain than Vixa. She and Armantaro had remained in the House of Arms for a full day, not knowing what might be happening. Then a soldier had come, and they were taken to the Square of Artisans, where the dwarf toiled. Ostensibly they were there to help in the work, but the old colonel was of the opinion that their presence was more intended to keep the irascible dwarf calm and on the job.
In the Square of Artisans, where all the city’s workshops were concentrated, Gundabyr had the finest crafters beneath the sea at his disposal. They worked feverishly mixing the minerals the dwarf needed. Fortunately, the Dargonesti had supplies of each ingredient stockpiled in the city. They used the components for different purposes- for example, raw bitumen as the cement in their mosaic floors-so everything was on hand.
Making gnomefire itself was the simplest of Gundabyr’s tasks. How to deliver it, though? This question occupied the dwarf’s every waking moment. How could the Dargonesti spread the fire paste on the chilkit without spilling it on themselves?
“On land, I’d just tell ’em to toss the jars,” Gundabyr grumbled.
“Underwater the jars wouldn’t hit hard enough to shatter,” Armantaro pointed out.
“Yes, I know,” said the dwarf sourly.
Vixa made a suggestion. “How about some type of catapult?”
Gundabyr scratched a few calculations on the white tabletop. A cadre of Dargonesti crafters craned their necks to follow Gundabyr’s odd markings. They shook their long blue faces, exchanged worried looks. The drylander was mad, utterly mad.
“Thunderation!” Gundabyr bellowed, smearing the numbers with the heel of his hand. “A catapult won’t work underwater either! No skein could keep tension when wet, and anyway, we’ve got no wood for the frame! Blast and thunderation!”
Vixa folded her arms. “The main difficulty is that water is much thicker than air, yes?”
“Yes, yes,” Gundabyr replied testily.
“Yet fish move freely in it.” She thought of her own recent experience. “And the dolphins practically fly through it. Why? Because they have fins and flukes, and muscles to power them.”
“Hmm. Perhaps we could strap firepots to the dolphins,” the dwarf mused.
Numerous blue faces registered shock as the Dargonesti protested this idea loudly. Vixa held up her hands for peace. “No,” she agreed. “That’s a terrible idea.”
Gundabyr scowled.
Armantaro had been sipping from a shell of fresh water. “We’re making this too complex,” he said. “Simple answers are usually the best. How would we fight the chilkit on land? We’d charge them with cavalry armed with lances!”
The old colonel grabbed the shard of coal from Gundabyr and began to sketch on the table. “If we were to use long shafts, thicker and stronger than the Dargonesti spears, attaching a pot of gnomefire to the ends-”
“We could ram the chilkit from a safe distance!” Gundabyr finished. He jotted down some figures. “The lance will be heavy, so we’ll put two soldiers on each one. Congratulations, Colonel, you’ve invented the firelance!”
The Dargonesti artisans quickly grasped the idea, and a basic model was made. Normally, the sea elves used a species of seaweed for their spearshafts. Dried and treated with certain minerals, the strands of seaweed became rigid and stayed that way, even in water. However, the strands weren’t thick enough for Armantaro’s firelance. This problem was easily solved by braiding a great many strands together before the hardening process.
“How much time do we have?” asked the colonel.
“It’s been two and a half days since the last chilkit attack,” Vixa said. “They’re still massing outside the city. There’s no time to lose.”
Virtually every artisan in Urione was drafted. Painters and house builders joined the shapers and toolmakers in turning out strong, thick shafts by the score.
Everyone worked that day, through the night, and all the next day as well. Armantaro caught snatches of sleep in the potters’ den. Here pots were fired over a volcanic vent. It was the warmest, driest place in the city. Gundabyr spent most of his time supervising the making of more gnomefire than had ever been concocted at one time. Vixa helped inspect the final products before they were assembled and the gnomefire added to the pots.
The pots themselves were cylindrical, with a socket on one end, a lid on the other. The shaft of the lance went into the socket, and a pair of bronze pins was inserted to hold everything together. The gnomefire paste was poured in, and the lid anchored with a sticky, waterproof jelly made from mashed kelp. The resulting firelance was twenty feet long, weighing almost one hundred pounds.
On the second night of work, Vixa was alone in the warehouse, counting pots and shafts. Coryphene arrived with only a single warrior as escort. The Protector of Urione watched the Qualinesti princess from the doorway until she turned and saw him. Vixa dipped her head in a brief salute.
“Excellence.”
“How many are there?” he asked.
“Four hundred twenty-seven. By daybreak, there will be five hundred.”
“That will have to do. The sea brothers report that the chilkit are plundering and murdering in our outlying domain. We have no more time. I must save my people!”
This last was said with such fierce conviction that Vixa gave him a quick, startled glance. During these last few days as the Dargonesti and the drylanders worked together, it had been all too easy to forget that she and her friends were prisoners, captives of Coryphene and his divine queen. Vixa thought she understood him a bit better now, understood his single-minded quest for power. Above all, Coryphene was a patriot.
“Are you certain the firelances will work?” he demanded. She nodded. With hard eyes, he looked over the array of cylindrical pots and lance shafts.
“I pray so, lady,” Coryphene said at last. “If we defeat the chilkit by this weapon of yours, you and all the drylanders shall be freed. I swear it.”
He walked away without looking back.
Chapter 13
