“Memnarch,” she said.
Slobad jumped. “Where?”
“Right there,” replied the elf. “Riding that leveler in the middle.”
The goblin squinted. “How do you know, huh?”
Glissa shrugged. “We saw him on the interior. Don’t you remember?”
“Yes, but …”
“But what?”
“Goblins never seen Memnarch before,” replied Slobad. “You tell Slobad this tree him, Slobad believe crazy elf, huh?”
Glissa turned to the golem. “You’ve seen Memnarch, right Bosh?”
The golem nodded. “Yes, I remember the Guardian.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Is that him?” Glissa stuck her arm out, pointing to the metal man riding atop the leveler.
“It looks like him.”
Glissa punched the goblin in the arm. “See, I told you.”
“But it is not,” finished Bosh.
The elf let her jaw drop open. “What? You just said it looked like him.”
“It does. It looks as he did when he was first created,” said the golem.
“But?”
“But he does not look like that any more. At least, he did not when I saw him last.”
Glissa was frustrated. “Well, if it’s not Memnarch, then who is he?”
The goblin and the golem both shrugged.
“Not matter, huh?” said Slobad. “Metal man introduce himself soon. Slobad not want to meet him. Not here, huh?”
“Good point.” Glissa examined the open field before them. The fighting was taking place only a few yards from the opening to their cave. “Everything is focused on the Tree of Tales,” she said back over her shoulder. “If we sneak out and head back into the Tangle, we might be able to avoid them.”
“That wrong way, huh?” said the goblin. “Mephidross that way.” He pointed out over the battlefield.
Bosh’s booming voice filled the cave. “That way gets us killed.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth.” Glissa took a step forward.
The goblin’s tone turned sulky. “Lots of danger in the Tangle, huh?”
“There’s lots of danger everywhere.” Glissa pointed to the Tree of Tales. The trolls appeared to be in retreat, backing away from the levelers up into the Tree of Tales. Memnarch’s army followed. “This isn’t the time for argument. The battle will be over soon, and we will lose our chance.” She waved her companions forward. “Follow me.”
The elf snuck out into the light of day. Crouching, she slipped up next to the huge tree and peered around. She watched as the trolls disappeared from the battlefield. Most of the levelers followed them in, and finally, the silver man who looked like Memnarch entered the Tree.
“Now’s our chance,” she said, turning around.
“Duck!” screamed the goblin.
Glissa needed no more encouragement. Crouching, she somersaulted away. The crisp ringing sound of a metal blade hitting a metal tree vibrated through the air, and the elf came up on her feet. Before her stood a trio of levelers, one of which had just tried to take her head off of her shoulders.
Glissa brought the Sword of Kaldra around her back and over her head. Grabbing hold with both hands, she brought it down on the offending leveler. The creature’s scythe blade came clean off, clattering to the ground.
Behind her, Bosh brought his fist down on another of the creatures, smashing it flat with a musical clang, but the third leveler was nowhere to be found.
“Where’d it go?” asked Glissa. She took a step back, wary of the fact that the artifact creature in front of her was still deadly even without its scythe claw. She scanned the near distance. “There!” She pointed deeper into the Tangle.
Heading away from them, through the trees, was the third leveler-and it had Slobad firmly in its grasp.
Glissa glanced up at the iron golem. Bosh lunged forward, bringing his huge fist down on top of her.
“Bosh-” she shouted, diving away to avoid the wrecking ball aimed at her head.
The golem’s fist bashed the crippled leveler to a pulp beside its already flattened friend.
“You should pay more attention,” said Bosh.
Glissa got up, dusting herself off. “I’ll try to remember that. Now, come on! We’ve got to stop that leveler before it rips Slobad to pieces.”
She took off at a run, jumping over fallen bits of metallic debris. Bosh clomped along behind her, moving slower but covering longer distances with each stride.
“Well,” she said, “at least we’re headed the right way.”
* * * * *
Malil looked down at a beaten and bloody troll. Unlike many others of his kind, this one seemed to have a quicker recognition, a sharper intelligence that showed in his eyes. He had also held a staff, which led Malil to believe that this was indeed their chief.
“I don’t like to see you suffer, troll,” he said. “If you tell me where the elf girl is, I will leave here, and you and the rest of your tribe can go about your lives.”
The troll glared back. “I do not know of whom you speak.”
Malil leaned back then swung his leg forward with all of his might. His metal boot clanged against the creature’s hide, and the troll doubled over, spitting out a large glob of sopping red and black paste.
Over the course of the past few days, Malil had experienced much-new wisdom and strength, pride and pain. Now he was experiencing something else-anger.
“Tell me, troll,” he said picking up the creature’s staff. “Do you have a name?”
“I am called Drooge.”
“Drooge. That is an interesting name. Does it have any cultural significance?”
The troll chieftain nodded painfully. “It means ‘gift giver.’ ”
“Gift giver?” Twisting the staff in both hands, Malil swung it down on Drooge, hitting him squarely in the temple.
The troll staggered under the blow. He struggled to lift himself off the ground, but his hands slipped in a pool of his own blood, and his chin hit the floor of the Tree of Tales with an undignified slap.
“Well, Drooge,” said Malil, bending down to look the troll right in the eye, “I have a gift for you.”
Drooge looked suspiciously at the metal man.
“I will give back to you your life, which you have forfeited by harboring the elf girl.” Malil rose. “All you have to do is tell me where she is.” The metal man gripped the bone staff in both hands. “However, if you are ungracious enough to refuse my gift …” Squeezing with all of his might, he bent the tips together, forcing the withered crutch to snap in half, shattering it, showering the prone troll with the shards.
Drooge cowered, protecting his face with his arm. Sharp bits of the staff embedded themselves in his tough skin, and he bled.
“I do not know who you are,” said the troll chieftain, “but I cannot help you.” He lowered his head.
Malil turned to one of his levelers, pointing with the sharp fragment of the staff still clutched in his hand. “Bring me three of the trolls,” he said then turned back to Drooge. “I’m sorry that you didn’t appreciate my gift. Perhaps this one will be more to your liking.”
Three trolls were herded into the open room, prodded forward by a trio of levelers.
“You creatures really are remarkable,” said Malil. “Your ability to heal is something to be envied. If I were capable of being wounded, I would covet what you have.”
The metal man walked over to the prisoners. A series of fresh wounds crisscrossed their bodies. But already, the dried blood and puckered skin was beginning to heal. They would still have scars from this battle, but they quickly shrugged off wounds that would kill a human or an elf.
“Even though you can heal so very quickly,” he said, lifting the remaining bits of Drooge’s crutch into the air over the first of the three prisoners, “you can still be killed.” He drove the shattered bit of bone into the back of the troll’s neck.
The creature’s eyes opened wide, and it let out a gurgle. Blood poured around the sides of its neck and down its chest. It grasped at its head, trying to pull out the broken staff, but Malil held firm, forcing it in deeper with another shove.