The rocks fell just a few feet short of the fleeing, sputtering boat. The huge wave that followed the settling of thousands of tons of stone into the water swiftly picked them up and hurled them through one of the gaps in the sea-wall.
Long after, while Odin was bailing water from the boat, and Gunnar was fiddling with the motor that had conked out again, the dwarf looked back at the cliff. It was shadowy now. Dust was still rising as it shook loose an occasional, crumbling ledge.
“Eh, Nors-King, we fight again,” the squat man laughed. “You saved Gunnar’s life once more—and you almost killed him, too.” He paused to wipe sweat from his dripping face.
Odin grinned back at him. Then, without another word, he took up the expensive rifle and let it slip overboard. The ammunition that cost him so much trouble and pain as he lugged it all the way to Opal followed after. He watched the copper shells as they gleamed like a school of minnows and plunged out of sight.
“There, Gunnar. I have nothing left to fight with but my hands.”
“Good-riddance to that thing,” Gunnar smiled. “I will make you a blade that will slice through an anvil.”
The motor coughed, sputtered—and began to purr.
The boat churned a wide arc in the water as Gunnar turned it and headed toward the Tower, which now loomed far ahead like a beacon.