Surrender to the will of the night

19. Lucidia: Border War

Rogert du Tancret could be everything ever accused, twice as dark and twice as ugly. But the man was cunning, and Delphic at anticipating personal danger. He would not be lured into any deadly strait, however tasty the bait. When he could not resist he sent someone else to spring any trap.

Azir asked, “Would the same be true if we took the danger to him?”

The Mountain shrugged. It had been a hard several months. He was exhausted. “I’ve lived too long. This kind of war is a young man’s game.”

“You don’t have to be out here. You could be in Shamramdi right now.”

Nassim grunted. Disagreement. This was the point of the spear. This was where Nassim Alizarin had to be. The Mountain would not die in bed.

The Mountain did hope to die having had his revenge on Gordimer and er-Rashal. Sadly, he saw that goal receding. His mission, now, was to open the way to Tel Moussa. “I wouldn’t fit. I wouldn’t be welcome. The emirs already know everything worth knowing.”

“You’re fishing for excuses to avoid any chance of being given more responsibility.”

That was so near the truth that Nassim had no answer. This boy was sharp. He would be a worthy successor to Indala.

Azir laughed outright. Nassim’s face had given him away. “Sometimes you’re obvious, General. I know your heart pulls you another direction. You have my word, if none other, that you’ll get all the support you need.”

Nassim scowled. The promises of princes… But this prince, if such he could be called, was chosen of Indala al-Sul Halaladin, whose word was as good as that of God. Whose word, being executed slowly now, promised the destruction of Rogert du Tancret.

Azir continued, “Sir Mountain, you are a mighty warrior and a great captain. Your dearest enemies confess it. But your personal skills are questionable. I suspect because one purpose of a Sha-lug upbringing is to freeze the Sha-lug warrior at the age of fifteen.”

“Ah. Now you’re repeating something you’ve heard, not something you worked out for yourself.”

Azir used both hands to gesture like he was a balance scale. Meaning, “Some of this, some of that.” Or, “Six of one and half a dozen of the other.”

Nassim scowled again. This pup was just too damned bright.

The scene was a mountain spring back on the edge of the Idiam. The fighters had fled into the haunted country several times while running from the enemy. Brotherhood warriors were tenacious. Tonight a strong breeze stirred the campfire and tossed sparks up like short-lived stars. It was unseasonably cold. The moon was halfway up the sky and nearly full. Nassim thought it looked like a big wheel of ice with some chips knocked off one edge.

The pup said, “My uncle will send more troops. Militias from the hundred towns and cities he’s enlisted in his hope of liberating the Holy Lands.”

Towns and cities that Indala had conquered, by the spear or the tongue, in the Mountain’s eye. They had enlisted in Indala’s vision as an alternative to fire and sword.

Indala al-Sul Halaladin, as he aged, became ever less tolerant of the narrow tribalism of the Believers.

Nassim did not remind the boy that the westerners believed they were liberating the Holy Lands, too. And that the Devedians had been there before Pramans or Chaldareans. And the Devedians were children of the Dainshaukin, who had come into the Holy Lands two thousand years ago, having been guaranteed possession by a violent, psychopathic deity who occasionally insisted that his followers murder their own children for his glorification.

“General?”

“What?”

“We lost you there. For a moment.”

“The curse of growing past one’s Sha-lug training.”

“Meaning?”

“I was reflecting on the endless torment inflicted on the Holy Lands. And wondering if maybe the wells aren’t closing down deliberately so the land can shake off its human lice.”

“An interesting notion. One so heretical that if you expressed it anywhere but out here, it would get you flogged or stoned.”

Nassim shrugged. That was not going to happen. He was too valuable. For the moment. And he had his own accommodation with God. God did not seem to mind Alizarin’s occasional unorthodox speculation. “Why the manpower largesse?”

“He wants to expand the pool of veterans. And to identify the best warriors. He wants an army of the best when he does move to cleanse the Holy Lands of the western Unbeliever.”

There was more. A lot more, Nassim was sure. He was one small stone in the structure of Indala’s strategy.

The Mountain would remain pliable. He would trust Indala. He would do his part. He would abide, preparing himself for the moment when it all came together and he could bask in the warmth brought on by the restoration of the balance undone by Hagid’s murder.

Young Az said, “Whatever else happens, our mission will be to inconvenience Black Rogert. Every day. We have to become more aggressive. My granduncle won’t want du Tancret in any position to influence the other Arnhanders. None of them are as fierce.”

Nassim nodded, though at this stage of life he found himself short on lethal ambition. Again, outgrowing that Sha-lug arrested development.

The boy continued, “First order of business, the siege lines round Tel Moussa.”

With more men and no special need to husband them, the Mountain harassed Rogert du Tancret constantly. He sent blooded warriors back to Indala. And corpses to Black Rogert. Who got little support from his co-religionists. They had been appalled by his foul behavior.

Du Tancret’s strength declined. Each day a man or two slipped off to take service with some more honorable captain. One who was less likely to get his people butchered.

Falcons often featured in Nassim’s quick strikes, at some point when the enemy was in close pursuit. Crusader horses refused to charge the thunder and smoke.

Nassim found a fanatic young Believer in one of the militia contingents. A boy who wanted to be a hero. A boy determined to win fame. Rogert du Tancret had offered a huge reward for a falcon or a supply of firepowder. Nassim offered the youth an opportunity to become immortal. The youth jumped at the challenge. Though he did not believe he would be martyred.

He was so sure God walked at his elbow he insisted that Nassim promise to take him to the finest taverns and brothels in Shamramdi when he returned from his mission.

Nassim promised.

Nassim Alizarim pursued the forms of religion because that was the politic thing to do. His secret but sincere conviction was that most of his contemporaries were also hypocrites. But the night before the martyr’s big day he lay awake late, begging God to guide him.

The Nassim Alizarin of Tel Moussa was not the Nassim Alizarin who had commanded a thousand Sha-lug. That Nassim had perished when his beloved, only son had been murdered to further er-Rashal’s ambition. The new Nassim was only too aware that a martyr was someone’s son.

As in the past, God did not trouble Himself over the agony of a lone supplicant.

The pain ran deep because only two living beings knew this martyr remained true to his God and his people. Not even Azir had been inducted into the scheme.

Nassim would not think of the martyr by name. There was less guilt when he was just the boy or the martyr.

The scheme went well to start. The boy collected camels, loaded them with kegs of firepowder, slipped away unnoticed. He managed with ease because he was the warrior entrusted with the watch on that side of the camp.

It took longer than Nassim expected for someone to notice the boy missing. It took longer, still, for someone to figure out that six camel loads of firepowder had disappeared at the same time.

The Mountain’s ego was bruised. He had believed these men to be better trained and more alert. He had taught them himself.

A soldier appeared. “Lord! Bad news! Ambel appears to have deserted. And six camels are missing. Along with most of the firepowder. It looks like he means to collect Black Rogert’s reward.”

Nassim raged around the way he would if every bit were true. And raged even more in frustration over the desultory response in camp. No one seemed inclined to do anything. They all wanted to talk. Those who knew the boy from back home were adamant. He would never do what he seemed to have done.

Cursed by their commander, most of the company finally howled off after a traitor. As Nassim had hoped.

The pursuit had to be loud and it had to be real. Otherwise, Black Rogert’s sixth sense would save him again.

Nassim joined the chase, though he only followed, at a pace suitable for an older man.

The martyr’s lead was, of course, insurmountable, though a couple of bucks from the boy’s own town almost caught him by killing their horses.

Nassim Alizarin was himself in sight of Gherig-and of Tel Moussa and the weakened siege lines around it-when the act played out.

The martyr talked his way into Gherig, steps ahead of men obviously determined to murder him. One of those shrieked when hit by an arrow from the barbican wall.

The Mountain did not know when the plan went wrong. He just knew that six camel loads of firepowder, nearly half a ton, cooked off before the martyr could possibly have penetrated the fortress proper.

The massive barbican, larger than the tower at Tel Moussa, came down majestically, the collapse mostly hidden inside a dust cloud of mythic proportion.

“Damn,” Nassim swore under his breath. “Too soon. Too damned soon. No way Black Rogert was close enough.”

He spoke without thinking, focused on Gherig, totally.

“Excuse me?” Azir asked. His tone demanded further explanation.

Nassim obliged. The secret needed no keeping, now.

Riders charged the spreading dust cloud, rushed into it. The spontaneous assault carried the ruins and captured the still lowered bridge over the perilous dry moat splitting the rock between the barbican and Gherig proper.

The Mountain never had any intention of storming the unassailable, even had the martyr performed his task ideally. Gherig without Black Rogert would be immune to storm, anyway. But Nassim had not anticipated the scope of the destruction, despite having seen firepowder used against Arn Bedu. His interest was the murder of one man. The rest was beyond his ability to imagine. And he had lost control of his fighters.

The inexperienced militia, especially, surrendered to the excitement and noise.

Gherig had stood immune to storm or siege for all time. That did not change. But later it would be argued that the fortress survived only because the troops besieging Tel Moussa broke away to save it. Their counterattacks forced the Lucidians to leave. But the final tally was: advantage Lucidia. The siege of Tel Moussa had been broken. It would not resume. Gherig had been forced onto the defensive. Several Brotherhood knights died in the explosions. More perished in the fighting afterward.

Rogert du Tancret had been rushing in to celebrate his coup when the firepowder went up. The wicked knight lost his hearing, his sense of balance, and his ability to give sensible commands.

He would recover. But he had enemies among the crusaders as well as the Believers. The Brotherhood ordered him out of Gherig, his disabilities being the excuse. Rogert tried to refuse. He was too damaged to resist the men who took him away.

The Mountain returned to Tel Moussa. The besieged received him with cheers and dramatic gestures of gratitude. Basking in the adulation, he told young Az, “Rogert will really be angry, now. He’ll find some way to do us evil. We need more.”

“Evil is what men do. That one more than most. But you’ve enjoyed successes beyond my granduncle’s dearest hopes.”

“Successes? I don’t see many, boy.”

“The great roc of evil has been flushed from his nest, General. Black Rogert is out of Gherig, where no power of this earth could bring a blade close enough to strike. His own people forced him out of his shell. He can be reached, now. Half the Arnhanders probably hope that he is.” Then young Az asked, “What did you mean, ‘We need more’?”

“More fighters. More weapons. More animals. And, more than anything else, more money. Parsimonious as I am, according to some, I’ve exhausted my war chest.” Nassim Alizarin did have a reputation for being frugal. But he had not been reluctant to invest in falcons and firepowder. Especially firepowder. And now that was gone.

He had learned the lesson of Arn Bedu better than most. He wished someone among the Believers knew the secret of the stuff. Believers who were not er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen. He had only one source for firepowder and that was way out in the Realm of War. Every keg cost dearly.

It was good powder, though.

Azir said, “Having seen what the stuff can do, I’ll back you up.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I said I’d back you up. You’ll have to go to Shamramdi to press your case.”

Nassim did not want to do that. After all his time in the wilderness, some spent inside the terror of the Idiam, he had little drive left. The hatred stirred by Hagid’s murder had not deserted him, but it had become less compelling. Other interests found room in his heart. He had located the concept of relaxation, though not the skills to manage it.

Nassim said, “I’m a cripple. Too long obsessed. I couldn’t function in a normal court.”

“That may be,” Azir admitted. “We’ll find out this winter.” In a confidential whisper, “My granduncle will begin the liberation of the Holy Lands come spring grasses.”

Nassim sighed. He was exhausted. He did not have much left. And still his allies insisted he use what remained against everyone but those who had made of him their deadliest enemy. 20. Realm of the Gods: Time and Tide The Ninth Unknown felt the weight of each of his years, though he had forgotten all but the most interesting. Nor was he sure his recollections of those were trustworthy. Could anyone be so old? And he was in little better shape than he had been on escaping the Realm of the Gods.

This time he had worn himself out trying to find the son of Arlensul.

The ascendant, in human form, joined Cloven Februaren in a place Aelen Kofer magic had made over into a tavern. Into the idea, or dream, or soul, of a tavern. Never did a more taverny tavern enter Februaren’s life. There were people and dwarves and, for a few brief minutes, one of the daring mer. Loud talk, ribaldry. A potent, all-pervasive impression that this must be a place far away from anywhere that an honest man would want to be. A place to leave other worlds behind.

Could it be another pocket world?

No. Like so much the Aelen Kofer wrought the tavern was almost entirely illusion.

“Irrelevant,” the ascendant said. “How have you fared?”

“I’ve made my mark in the middle world. As a failure. I’ve successfully identified ten thousand places where our man is not. That, by the way, is a fact? Arlensul birthed a son?” It would be embarrassing if he had overlooked a daughter through assumption.

“Yes. A son. As the legends say.” The ascendant had learned to waste no time responding to, or even acknowledging, what he perceived as the Ninth Unknown’s provocations.

“Why did you want to meet here? So I can validate the quality of the brew? I can’t do that, brother. These dwarves like it too thick and bitter.”

He lied. The beer was astonishingly good, especially for somewhere so far out in the wilds that it was in another world. But, no doubt, the brew would be perfection to any taste.

The ascendant shrugged, indifferent. “The Aelen Kofer are supple artificers. The beer is perfect. Any failing will be found in the drinker. I want you to meet some people.”

Cloven Februaren downed a pint, quickly. “Tasty.” He considered asking for another. Probably not wise. He was feeling that last already. “All right. Lead on.”

The ascendant, in Svavar-form, did so. Out of the tavern, toward the great barge.

“Some dramatic changes there,” Februaren observed.

The entire Realm of the Gods had grown less gloomy. The waterfront town had returned to life. Color had wakened everywhere, like a spring that renewed every aspect of the world. The ship of the gods had gone from dangerous derelict to opulent barge.

A boat was tied up in front of that, its mast the only evidence of its presence from where Februaren stood. He paid it no mind.

“More changes will come. If the power continues leaking through. This world is still a long way from what it was. But.” He stopped the old man, turned him, pointed.

Februaren looked up the mountain. Clouds obscured the Great Sky Fortress, incompletely. They came into being off to the right, whipped past the home of the gods as though riding a mighty wind, then dematerialized again to the left. They waxed and waned quickly.

“The bridge!” Februaren blurted. “The Aelen Kofer have restored the rainbow bridge!” The rainbow bridge, bright and beautiful, arced right up to the fortress gate.

“Pretty much. You can walk across now. If you want to go try.”

“I want. Very much.” The Great Sky Fortress itself showed signs of rejuvenation. “If this ancient flesh can survive the climb.” His turn sideways trick did not work inside the Realm of the Gods, even with the gateway open. He could jump in from outside. Once inside he had to walk. Even to the gateway to get back out. Though taking the barge left his clothing a little less damp.

“The Aelen Kofer have a goat cart that can take you up, when you decide you have to go.”

“But we’re headed somewhere else, now. Aren’t we?”

“We are. To the barge.”

Their destination proved to be a family, five members, all pallid, bony, and blond where they had any hair. A grandfather. His daughter. Her husband. Their children, boy, girl, eleven and eight. A lone Aelen Kofer watched them. Februaren did not recognize the dwarf. The ascendant dispensed with introductions. “These people escaped across the Ormo Strait. Former followers of the Windwalker. They found a boat, fled, and turned up here.” He exchanged glances with Februaren, so the old man knew he was not without reservations.

“I see. Unusual, that.”

“Yes. But the Windwalker has shown no knack for inspiring fanaticism. His worshippers execute his will because what lies ahead is less terrible than what pushes from behind. Kharoulke is a Punisher kind of god.”

“Not so many of any other kind,” Februaren said. “Can we talk to them?”

“Bluntnose has the dialect. It was spoken in Andoray before the Old Ones arrived, dragging us along.”

“Seatt?”

“One of those tongues.”

“I thought the Seatts were squat and brown.”

“Some were. The name includes all of the ancient tribes of the farthest north. These people… It doesn’t matter. Their ancestors were entirely surrendered to the Will of the Night. Their sorcery served the Windwalker and his kin. They lost their lands and gods when the Andorayans came. This crew amounts to little. They have no sorcery.”

“Let’s see what they can tell us.”

Bluntnose left her seat on the cargo hatch, joined Februaren and the ascendant. Februaren wondered how he knew the Aelen Kofer was female. What cue had he caught? He could not find it consciously. She said, “These people are desperate to cooperate. They understand their situation. We’ve fed them. They know we could stop. Also, they lost many friends and relations because of the Windwalker.”

Februaren asked, “Do you know who I am, Bluntnose?”

“Yes.” With a certain reserved disdain for even the most lethal of middle-worlders.

The Ninth Unknown winked. “Then tell them who I am, sweetheart.” While she did, he told the ascendant, “They don’t look much recovered.”

“They were in bad shape to begin. I didn’t think they’d make it. The Aelen Kofer worked some deep magic but you can tell from the missing bits that frostbite was too far along for even dwarf magic.”

The ascendant related what the Seatts had reported so far. Which was that the Windwalker was angry and hungry. “Pretty much his normal state, though maybe more so now because he knows what we’re doing.”

Bluntnose said, “I told them, wizard. Your name failed to strike terror.”

“That’s a pity.” Using Bluntnose to translate, he interrogated the Seatts.

From the barge Februaren could see the cliffs of ice away toward Andoray. He saw shapes and shadows atop them. The ascendant followed his gaze, captured his thought. “He’s getting close. We have to try a new tack. Soon.”

“Something is being done. To buy some time.”

Bluntnose said, “They want to know how long we intend to hold them. They don’t want to be here when the Windwalker comes.”

“They won’t be. One way or another.”

“What?” Bluntnose turned to see what had the others’ jaws dropping.

A fishing smack had appeared outside the gateway. It headed in.

The ascendant said, “Get Iron Eyes. Tell him to bring everybody he can. It’ll take some serious artificing to handle this.”

Februaren saw nothing worth excitement. Other than that the smack’s approach was deliberate.

Typically, in myth, visitors to the Realm of the Gods did not arrive of their own accord. Not until recently. But lately a rush had developed.

Korban Jarneyn and a dozen weighty henchdwarves turned up implausibly fast. Iron Eyes explained, “We felt them cross over.”

The Ninth Unknown could now distinguish the “them.” “I’ve heard of these things. Though never of more than one in one place at a time.”

The boat was filled with Krepnights, the Elect. Februaren got a different count each time he tried a census. The average was a dozen. So many that the boat had almost no freeboard. Februaren could not imagine how it had made the crossing without swamping.

Aelen Kofer kept turning up, each as heavily armed as an individual dwarf could be. They brought along all the magic they could manage, too.

There were a surprising number of dwarves. Many more than had made the climb with Februaren and Iron Eyes.

They were getting ready for something.

Likewise, the ascendant. He had backed off to have more room as he experimented with several ferocious shapes.

An unpleasant animal musk preceded the smack. It reminded Februaren of the den of something large and filthy. A bear, perhaps.

“No fooling around here,” Iron Eyes said, apparently to himself. He rattled orders in a language Februaren did not understand.

The boat lurched up out of the water. It continued landward at the same steady pace but climbed higher and higher.

Iron Eyes barked a command that had to be, “Now!”

The boat fell. From eighty feet, it plunged to the quay. Pieces and things were still scattering when the Aelen Kofer swarmed the impact site.

Februaren said, “Try to save a couple for questioning.”

“Go teach your grandmother to suck eggs, mortal.”

The butchery did not last long. Nine hairless, tiger striped things ended up dismembered and, before long, consigned to a bonfire built special to accommodate them. Three captives suffered hamstringing. They could neither flee nor fight.

They would not talk. It was unclear whether they could if they wanted.

“This is a puzzle beyond me,” Iron Eyes said. “These things are constructs. Not unlike a number of mythical creatures the gods made to amuse themselves. Only, these are deadly tools. They have no feelings, no fears, no insides, nothing but an obsessed determination to execute the will of the Windwalker. Who breathed just enough of himself into each to give it the strength to do what he wants done.”

Februaren went to the ascendant, who seemed determined to turn into a giant jumping crab. He had not participated in the reduction of the striped creatures. “Any way you could look inside those things?”

The ascendant seemed surprised by the question, then irked. “Why would you ask that?”

“Because you’re what you are. With bits of god packed up inside. Your god stuff might be able to burglarize their god stuff.”

“I don’t get anything but cold. And a fair certainty that they’d tear me apart if they could just get at me.”

Februaren said, “I may have another tool. But I’ll have to take one of them somewhere else.”

“More time,” Iron Eyes grumped.

“More time, Mr. Gjoresson. You’re going to get it. I have something going. It will buy us a lot of time.” But he was uneasy. In fact, he was damned worried and getting more so by the hour.

It should have happened already.

Cloven Februaren was in a state approaching panic, more frayed than he had been in centuries. His schemes were coming unraveled. Heris should have done her part three days ago. He had to get out of the Realm of the Gods. He had to find out what had gone wrong. What had happened to Heris.

He should not have listened when she volunteered.

He had to check in on Piper. Piper ought to be in Alten Weinberg by now.

Maybe that was why Heris was running late. Piper might have gotten into deep trouble and she was digging him out.

The old man was on the quay, staring over the Seatt boat, out the gateway into the middle world. Korban Jarneyn joined him. “Not much to see out there.”

Exactly. Just haze and a bleak dark sea where waves had begun to run high in anticipation of an approaching storm. As true winter closed in it became ever more difficult to see all the way to the land of always winter, with its monster denizens, now drawn so close.

When the old man did not respond, Iron Eyes asked, “Why so dour and distant of late, friend?”

“The Night may have chosen to instruct me in the matter of hubris.”

“Interesting. I don’t know what you mean, but that’s interesting nonetheless. I’m here to report that the Aelen Kofer have come to a wall. There’s nothing more we can do.”

“What?”

“We’ve taken our part to the point where we can’t do anything more till you do your part.”

Cloven Februaren said, “I thought too much of my own skills as a teacher.” Which did not fit.

“Find Arlensul’s whelp, sorcerer. Or the course is run. That thing out there, that horrible toad in the mist, will drive the ice this far before spring. If ever it does return. Unless you…”

Red-gold light flared in the mist, far away. A second flash followed, shorter, brighter, and more yellow. Then a dozen more flashes, in varying shades, followed quickly, creeping from right to left.

“What would that be?” Gjoresson mused.

The Ninth Unknown had a sudden, sobering thought. “Can you close the gateway? Quickly?”

“After all this time prizing it open an inch at a time?”

“We’re going to get deadly wet if you can’t at least make the hole a lot smaller.”

The dwarf heard his urgency. “All right. I trust you to worry about your own skin.”

Februaren explained while Iron Eyes worked at whatever Aelen Kofer did when they tinkered with magic. It was not dramatic. Nor ever was, till it was over and there stood something like the rainbow bridge. Iron Eyes did not understand the Ninth Unknown’s explanation.

The gateway’s diameter had shrunk ten feet before the first dull, protracted, barely audible crump arrived, forerunner of a series of thumps, cracks, and crunches that whispered about very big noises having been birthed a long way away, across cruelly cold water.

The bellow of an outraged god soon followed. It had so much anger behind it, it might be heard for a thousand miles.

The Ninth Unknown’s mood improved dramatically. “She did it! She did pull it off! I was right. He had no one guarding his back.” But fear returned as he recalled the certain consequences of success.

“We’ve got to close the gateway.”

“Who just did what, sorcerer?” Iron Eyes demanded.

“Get the gateway shrunk down as small as you can without leaving us locked up here.”

The ascendant arrived at a trot, moving fast for the first time in months. “Best do as he says, Gjoresson.”

The dwarf wanted to bicker but sensed that wasting time might prove uncomfortable shortly. This was not a moment for reasoned, deliberate, parliamentary discussion.

Februaren was not unreasonable. He tried to explain again while Iron Eyes worked. The dwarf just did not understand.

Another divine racket arose, a staccato salvo of screams that got Februaren to imagine a hundred elephants being slowly roasted alive.

The ascendant asked, “What was all that?”

“The Windwalker taking an involuntary, full emersion dip in the Andorayan Sea. Keep shrinking the gateway, Iron Eyes. The wave is coming. I promise. In fact, the rest of us ought to be headed for higher ground.” He told the crowd of dwarves, “Shoo! All of you! Find someplace high. Run! Argue after I turn out to be an idiot.”

Iron Eyes reduced the gateway to ten feet wide and five high before the wave arrived. That was taller and wider than the opening. Water exploded through the gap. It shattered the Seatt escape boat, pounded the barge, and sank the smack belonging to the striped killers. But it did not have energy enough to drive on inland.

“Let us celebrate our wet feet,” Cloven Februaren declared. “And then let’s get to work.”

The water had subsided. The gateway had started growing again. The harbor was a plain of jade glass. The sea outside was calm, clad in its bleak winter colors.

The screams of the Windwalker continued. Februaren pictured the god clawing his way along the foot of the ice cliffs, looking for somewhere to drag himself out of the torturing water. “Sounds like he’s having serious problems.”

Gjoresson said, “The sea is eating at him like a weak acid. It will devour him completely. If he can’t get out. Though that could take years. There’s a lot of him. And the water is freezing. If it was hot it would eat him up a lot faster. Still, he’s in so much pain he can’t concentrate enough to use his divine power. So, for now, he’s just a big, stupid brute wracked by agony.”

The Ninth Unknown and the ascendant were pleased. The longer Kharoulke remained immersed the weaker he would be once he escaped the water.

Februaren said, “I bought time. Now give me one of Kharoulke’s bully beasts and take me outside the gateway.”

Hours passed. The barge needed repairs. Eventually, the Aelen Kofer took it out into the Andorayan Sea. They went only a hundred yards beyond the opening. They crowded the decks, soaking up the rich magic of the middle world.

Februaren had two of Kharoulke’s artifacts. He would not need to return for a replacement if one died. He worried that he might be doing the wrong thing.

The ascendant and a dozen Aelen Kofer were watching. Everyone would pay devoted attention to whatever he did now.

No help for it.

He pulled his prisoners in close, thought of a particular place, made his sideways turn.

He stepped into a grove in Friesland. Heris was waiting. She had a fire burning. No need to fear discovery. The people had gone away. The Instrumentalities, great and small, had run off toward the waning power in the Andorayan Sea. She said, “Let’s go home. I need to get warmed up. Then I need to check on Piper.”

He made sure of the constraints on his cargo. “What took so long with those explosions?”

“I had to make sure Piper settled in safely. What the hell are those things? If they were any uglier we’d have to kill them to put them out of their misery. Why are they tied up like that?” And, “You need a rest. You look awful.”

Februaren knew of no reason why he should appear unusual. He snapped, “Tell me!”

“Your plan called for me to set off firepowder in a dozen different places. I did fourteen. But you gave me no help coming up with the firepowder. I had to deal with that on top of wet-nursing Piper.”

“You should’ve taken it all from him.”

“He watches his. So. I had to raid eight different armories, five of which I had to find for myself. So don’t get snippy. I do know where I can swipe a couple more that I could set off under your cranky ass.” She glared, daring him to say something.

“All right. All right. The job got done. Big Ugly God got dumped in the drink. And he’s in too much pain to do big ugly god stuff. We’ve bought time.”

“Thank you, Heris.”

“Thank you, Heris.”

“All right. Now. What the hell are these things, all bundled up in ropes and blankets and stuff?”

Februaren explained. Then, “If you take one and I take the other, we can get home in a couple of skips.”

“They really stink, don’t they?”

“They do. They’re dying. Kharoulke is too busy saving his own scary butt to keep them topped up.”

“Then we shouldn’t waste time swapping tall tales.”

Februaren indulged in a small smile as he seized an artifact and turned sideways. The woman had shown dramatic growth over the past two years. Maybe, just possibly, she could be primed to assume the calling that Piper could not.

Muno was no pup anymore.

The Ninth Unknown took one of his captives into the heart of the Construct and tested it to destruction. When he took the healthier one in he knew enough to mine the communal memories of the Krepnights, the Elect, who were all the same beast.

Jarneyn Gjoresson jumped into the air, literally. Februaren said, “Sorry. I’ve never seen a startle response that dramatic.”

The dwarf scowled more fiercely than usual. He growled, “You have something to report?”

“I’ve found a place to look for the Bastard. It was in the group memory of the monster. One of the first accompanied a band of Chosen raiders into the wilds of the Empire. They were supposed to kill a particular man who could be found at a particular rustic fortress. The Windwalker gave no reason. But there was a sense that Kharoulke foresaw a dire threat. The mission failed. The god has been too busy since to send another expedition against a target now aware of the interest of the Night.”

Iron Eyes immediately confounded Februaren. “What is the Empire?”

So the Ninth Unknown spent several hours updating the dwarf on the middle world.

“Things happen fast there,” the dwarf said. “Last time I was over for any length was during the hunt for Grinling.”

“Oh?” Februaren had heard Piper mention that magical ring. “And?”

“It evaded us. Even me, and I did most of the work making it. A lesser Instrumentality from the south threw it overboard in the deepest part of what you call the Mother Sea.”

Februaren grunted. Not good. Legendary magical artifacts could not be banished that way. They always found a way back.

Februaren said, “I need you, and the other Aelen Kofer, to come to my world for a while.”

The dwarf grunted.

“It will take strength and cleverness to capture the Bastard’s stronghold. Thirty picked Chosen and a Krepnight, the Elect, had no luck.”

“That’s encouraging.”

“They were slaves of a god. Not Aelen Kofer.”

“Transparent, mortal. But still in need of response. Tell me where you want us to go and what you want us to do.”

Cloven Februaren said, “I found the place. I walked around it before I came back here.” He described what he had seen and told Iron Eyes what he thought needed doing. After consideration, the Crown Prince of the Aelen Kofer agreed that Februaren’s strategy was appropriate. For the moment. Given the intelligence available.

Preparations began. Hurriedly.

This would be a long mission. There was no way to reach the target other than by walking. In winter. Across a realm no longer in awe of the Aelen Kofer. Across a world where, for the most part, the Aelen Kofer had been forgotten.