Pain exploded in Lunrik's ribs as the automaton's clamp arm tightened, stealing his breath, lifting him like a child's doll. The relentless whirring of the drill bit filled his ears, metal screaming in anticipation just inches from his face. He struggled, kicking futilely against the unyielding metal body, slashing his knife against the clamp arm – sparks flew, but the blade left only faint scratches. Utterly helpless. The impassive red glow of its optical sensors seemed to bore into his soul, devoid of malice, merely executing a programmed protocol: eliminate intruder.
From across the cave, Kaelith pushed herself painfully away from the wall where the automaton had flung her. She saw Lunrik caught, saw the drill descending. There was no time for finesse, no time for strategy beyond raw survival. Her eyes darted around the cave, then fixed on the automaton itself, not its impenetrable head or crushing limbs, but its active joints. Steam vented rhythmically from fittings near its shoulder and elbow, hinting at the immense pressure powering its movements. An idea, desperate and born of deep woods knowledge – the effect of sudden, extreme cold on hot, pressurized systems – sparked in her mind.
Ignoring the searing pain in her own bruised ribs, Kaelith launched herself forward again, not directly at the automaton's center mass, but low, towards its legs, using the distraction of Lunrik's desperate struggle. The Watcher adjusted its stance slightly to track her, its drill momentarily pausing its descent towards Lunrik as its processors calculated the new threat vector.
Kaelith didn't try to trip it again; she knew that wouldn't work twice. Instead, she scooped up a handful of loose, powdery snow and ice from the cave floor. As she darted past the automaton's leg, she flung the tightly packed ice-snow mixture with all her force directly at the hissing steam vent on its primary drill arm's elbow joint.
The effect was instantaneous and violent. The supercooled ice hitting the superheated, high-pressure steam vent caused a contained explosive reaction. With a deafening CRACK-HISS, the vent ruptured. A massive cloud of pressurized steam erupted outwards, blindingly white and scalding hot, enveloping the automaton's upper body and head. Simultaneously, the rapid depressurization and thermal shock caused the complex elbow joint to seize with a hideous grinding screech of protesting metal.
The automaton staggered, letting out a discordant burst of metallic shrieks and whistles, its red optical sensors flickering wildly behind the wall of steam, blinded and likely overloaded with conflicting sensor input. Its drill arm locked at an unnatural angle, momentarily useless. Crucially, the immense pressure holding Lunrik captive faltered as the hydraulics or steam power in the clamp arm spasmed.
The clamp loosened just enough. Lunrik ripped himself free with a surge of adrenaline-fueled strength, dropping heavily to the ice-covered floor, gasping for air, pain flaring through his bruised torso. He landed badly, twisting his ankle, but ignored it.
"Kaelith! Now!" he choked out, scrambling towards the still-unconscious Eryndor.
Kaelith was already moving, scooping up her knife which she'd dropped during her desperate throw. The steam cloud around the automaton was beginning to dissipate, revealing the Watcher thrashing slightly, its movements jerky and uncontrolled as its internal systems fought to compensate for the damage. Its red eyes settled back on Lunrik, burning with renewed, focused mechanical fury despite its impaired state. It was damaged, but far from disabled.
Lunrik reached Eryndor, grabbing his tunic again. "Wake up, damn you!" he hissed, shaking the Frostmane heir roughly. Eryndor groaned, his eyes fluttering weakly, but he remained limp, unresponsive. No time. Lunrik hefted him back over his shoulder, the weight agonizing on his bruised ribs and protesting ankle.
"The rifle!" Kaelith shouted, already heading towards the entrance, glancing back to ensure Lunrik followed.
Lunrik hesitated for only a fraction of a second. The alien weapon lay nearby. Leaving it felt like abandoning a potential key, however unusable it currently seemed. He scooped it up with his free hand, its weight throwing him off balance again.
Behind them, the damaged automaton lunged, its clamp arm snapping wildly, its drill arm still locked but its sheer bulk and remaining functioning leg driving it forward with surprising speed. It slammed into the cave wall near where they'd been standing, showering them with ice shards.
"Move!" Kaelith screamed, already halfway out of the entrance fissure.
Lunrik stumbled after her, burdened by Eryndor and the heavy rifle, his injured ankle screaming. He burst out of the cave mouth back onto the vast, windswept expanse of the glacier, the sudden transition from dim cave to bright, cold moonlight jarring.
They didn't stop. Kaelith grabbed his arm, pulling him forward, half-dragging him and his burden away from the cave entrance. They needed distance, needed to get clear before the automaton could emerge or before other threats materialized.
They ran, a desperate, stumbling flight across the ice. Lunrik risked a glance back towards the cave. He saw the red glow of the Watcher's eyes appear in the fissure opening, followed by the grinding screech of damaged metal as it tried to force its way out. Its impaired mobility seemed to be hindering it, buying them precious seconds.
They ran towards the center of the glacier, paradoxically seeking the open ground where they might see threats coming, rather than risking hidden crevasses or unknown terrain near the edges in their panicked state. The wind howled around them, snatching their ragged breaths away. The silence of the glacier felt immense, terrifying, broken only by their frantic footsteps and the distant, fading echo of the dragon's mournful cry from the higher peaks.
Where now? The question screamed in Lunrik's mind. Retreat north? Impossible climb. Follow the fleeing hunters? Led nowhere useful. Try to find the Ashfang's intended path towards the "Whispering Ice Pass"? Suicidal without knowing the route or what lay ahead.
Kaelith slowed slightly, scanning their surroundings, her breath pluming. "Tracks," she panted, pointing.
Not far from where the dragon had vaporized Vorlag and his men, preserved on a patch of wind-sheltered ice, were faint but discernible tracks they hadn't noticed before in the chaos. Not Ashfang. Not the precise tread of the silent hunters. These were different. Smaller, booted prints, leaving minimal disturbance, moving with purpose away from the site of the dragon attack, heading not directly south, but slightly southwest, towards a different section of the glacier's edge bordered by steep, imposing cliffs.
"Who…?" Lunrik gasped, shifting Eryndor's weight.
"Don't know," Kaelith replied grimly. "But they were here during the fight. And they fled that way." She looked from the tracks towards the distant, imposing cliffs. "It's not the direction Magdra's forces were heading. It's not where the hunters fled. It's a third path."
Another unknown faction? Or perhaps… survivors from the initial confrontation? Dwarves? It was impossible to say. But it was the only sign of passage that wasn't immediately hostile or leading towards certain doom.
"We follow them," Lunrik decided, the choice feeling less like strategy and more like grasping at straws in a hurricane. "Staying here is death. That way…" He looked towards the southwestern cliffs. "…is unknown. Better than waiting for the automaton or the hunters to find us again."
Kaelith nodded, her face set in grim determination. Changing direction again, burdened, injured, pursued by mechanical horrors and potentially shadowed by unknown forces, they plunged onwards across the desolate glacier, following the faint, mysterious tracks towards yet another uncertain fate, etched onto the surface of the ancient, unforgiving ice.