model. Even idol. ” Klab wore a sick smile and seemed to throw up in his mouth.
“Really, Klab, I think you might be wise to give up larking about in the sky. A bit dangerous, don’t you think?”
“A bit,” Master Klab allowed as he mopped the cold sweat from his forehead. “Maybe I should go back to my study of frostometrics.”
“Yes, excellent idea. Iceboxes are more your speed.” Snaff turned toward Big Zojja. “Come along, now. Let’s head back to the laboratory for a few more adjustments.” The golem nodded and followed its master. Once they were out of earshot of Klab, Snaff began to mutter, “I’ve got to solve the problem of spacial dislocation experienced by the pilot—that and the business about flailing legs and arms and all the dangers they present. Can’t just be locking pilots into closets . . . unless they were mobile . . .”
“What are you talking about?” Eir asked, regaining her breath.
“Mobile closets,” Snaff muttered, grinning.
Eir blinked. “I don’t know what that is.”
“A cage—no, a cockpit. We’ll put it in the abdomen—you know, with a harness and all so that the driver can kick her legs and punch her arms as much as she likes and ride along in safety!”
Eir nodded. “You think you could make these machines controllable?”
“Of course.”
“Because, in wartime, a machine has to be completely in control.”
“Yes, of course,” Snaff replied, adding innocently, “What’s this about?”
“You have these . . . hypercephalic—”
“Cephalolithopathic.”
“Yes . . . these golems that people can control with their minds. And I need warriors who can fight the Dragonspawn—”
“Your point being?”
The norn sighed. “Here’s what I propose: I’ll carve your head, so you can have a golem just like your assistant, if you’ll agree to march these golems against the Dragonspawn as your . . . um, what do you call it?”
“Beta test?”
“Right.”
The asura inventor sighed contentedly. “It’s just the sort of arrangement I had hoped for.”
STRANGER DANGER
W ho said that?” Logan asked, silencing Rytlock with an upraised hand. “Listen.”
Only the crackling fires spoke in the dark canyon. Neither warrior could hear anything else, let alone see beyond the pyres.
“Wasn’t me,” Rytlock growled. “Sounded womanish.”
“It was womanish,” said the voice.
Rytlock and Logan drew their weapons.
Logan stepped away from the pyres, war hammer ready in his hand. “Who is it? Show yourself!”
“I am showing myself,” the woman replied flatly. “I’m standing right here. The problem is you’re fire-blinded. If you want to see me, step away from the light.”
“Yeah, right,” Rytlock snarled.
“Why don’t you step into the light?” Logan asked.
“You want all three of us to be fire-blinded?”
“Yes.”
There was a sigh. Then she emerged from the veiling darkness—a petite woman with silvery hair and porcelain skin. She wore glossy travel leathers crossed with vine motifs, which clung tight to her young body. Her spike-heeled boots also looked like dark seedpods, lifting her three inches taller than she would have stood.
“A sylvari,” groaned Rytlock. “Always trouble.”
Logan stepped toward her. “What are you doing here?”
Her eyes shone like jade. “Talking to you.”
Logan blinked. “No, I mean, why are you here?”
She sighed. “You asked me to step into the light.”
“See what I mean?” growled Rytlock.
“Which is a bad idea since the smell of blood is drawing predators from miles around,” she continued, “and those pyres are like beacons to bring the ogres.”
Rytlock huffed. “ Bring the ogres? We just killed the ogres.”
“Yes,” the silver-haired woman said. “You killed some of them.”
“Do you live here?”
“No.”
“Then how did you get here?”
“I followed you.”
“Why?”
“Because you were moving. It’s impossible to follow someone who is standing
“Really, Klab, I think you might be wise to give up larking about in the sky. A bit dangerous, don’t you think?”
“A bit,” Master Klab allowed as he mopped the cold sweat from his forehead. “Maybe I should go back to my study of frostometrics.”
“Yes, excellent idea. Iceboxes are more your speed.” Snaff turned toward Big Zojja. “Come along, now. Let’s head back to the laboratory for a few more adjustments.” The golem nodded and followed its master. Once they were out of earshot of Klab, Snaff began to mutter, “I’ve got to solve the problem of spacial dislocation experienced by the pilot—that and the business about flailing legs and arms and all the dangers they present. Can’t just be locking pilots into closets . . . unless they were mobile . . .”
“What are you talking about?” Eir asked, regaining her breath.
“Mobile closets,” Snaff muttered, grinning.
Eir blinked. “I don’t know what that is.”
“A cage—no, a cockpit. We’ll put it in the abdomen—you know, with a harness and all so that the driver can kick her legs and punch her arms as much as she likes and ride along in safety!”
Eir nodded. “You think you could make these machines controllable?”
“Of course.”
“Because, in wartime, a machine has to be completely in control.”
“Yes, of course,” Snaff replied, adding innocently, “What’s this about?”
“You have these . . . hypercephalic—”
“Cephalolithopathic.”
“Yes . . . these golems that people can control with their minds. And I need warriors who can fight the Dragonspawn—”
“Your point being?”
The norn sighed. “Here’s what I propose: I’ll carve your head, so you can have a golem just like your assistant, if you’ll agree to march these golems against the Dragonspawn as your . . . um, what do you call it?”
“Beta test?”
“Right.”
The asura inventor sighed contentedly. “It’s just the sort of arrangement I had hoped for.”
STRANGER DANGER
W ho said that?” Logan asked, silencing Rytlock with an upraised hand. “Listen.”
Only the crackling fires spoke in the dark canyon. Neither warrior could hear anything else, let alone see beyond the pyres.
“Wasn’t me,” Rytlock growled. “Sounded womanish.”
“It was womanish,” said the voice.
Rytlock and Logan drew their weapons.
Logan stepped away from the pyres, war hammer ready in his hand. “Who is it? Show yourself!”
“I am showing myself,” the woman replied flatly. “I’m standing right here. The problem is you’re fire-blinded. If you want to see me, step away from the light.”
“Yeah, right,” Rytlock snarled.
“Why don’t you step into the light?” Logan asked.
“You want all three of us to be fire-blinded?”
“Yes.”
There was a sigh. Then she emerged from the veiling darkness—a petite woman with silvery hair and porcelain skin. She wore glossy travel leathers crossed with vine motifs, which clung tight to her young body. Her spike-heeled boots also looked like dark seedpods, lifting her three inches taller than she would have stood.
“A sylvari,” groaned Rytlock. “Always trouble.”
Logan stepped toward her. “What are you doing here?”
Her eyes shone like jade. “Talking to you.”
Logan blinked. “No, I mean, why are you here?”
She sighed. “You asked me to step into the light.”
“See what I mean?” growled Rytlock.
“Which is a bad idea since the smell of blood is drawing predators from miles around,” she continued, “and those pyres are like beacons to bring the ogres.”
Rytlock huffed. “ Bring the ogres? We just killed the ogres.”
“Yes,” the silver-haired woman said. “You killed some of them.”
“Do you live here?”
“No.”
“Then how did you get here?”
“I followed you.”
“Why?”
“Because you were moving. It’s impossible to follow someone who is standing
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