a smoldering waste. They wasted most of Skutgularut.
Only a handful lived to flee into the icelands to the north.
The Hu’n-tai At courier system was such that Tsistimed learned of the attack while the destruction of Skutgularut was still under way. He ended his progress through Ghargarlicea and turned north.
The eastern world huddled into itself. The Night trembled.
There was no fury like the fury of Tsistimed the Golden.
9. Realm of the Gods: The Ninth Unknown
Cloven Februaren now spent most of his time with the soultaken. The soultaken did not enjoy the isolation of Fea, though he understood its necessity. He was not accustomed to being confined.
The old man said, “I sympathize completely. I do. I get ferociously restless when I have to wait. Be patient just a while longer. We’ll move as soon as my other obligations are covered. So. Here. More maps. So we can narrow the search.”
“You don’t listen, old man. I’ve told you, I know where it is. I’ve been there. I spent a long time there, trying to shut it down.” But that the ascendant would not discuss except in the vaguest possible way. That must have been a time of great stress. Or there were secrets the ascendant did not wish to reveal.
The Ninth Unknown was inclined to suspect the latter.
“You know where it was a few years ago. The world has changed. What did the non-divines do after your vengeance raid? Did they leave? Did they close the way behind you?”
The Svavar of old peeped out occasionally. Notably when the soultaken thought the Ninth Unknown was deliberately inventing obstacles to getting on with what needed doing.
Februaren’s concern was genuine. He wanted to invest the least possible time accomplishing this mythic jailbreak.
“There’s nothing more I can learn from here,” Februaren told the soultaken. Failing to mention that he had visited the north on his own and had failed to find a trace of the higher realm-though he had found where the entrance had been before. A powerful resonance remained.
The god realm was still there, over on the other side.
“It’s finally time to go?”
“It’s time.”
“Let’s do it, then.”
Asgrimmur Grimmsson began to change.
Februaren barked, “Wait! There isn’t room in here.”
The soultaken had swollen, shredding his human apparel. The buds of numerous legs had begun to show.
He reversed the change. “Good thinking.” He swarmed downstairs, through the door, down the ladder, to the ground. When the old man caught up he was well on toward resuming his former monster shape. And looking notably healthy-though his hand remained unrestored.
Odd that a demigod would not be able to replace a lost appendage.
Februaren sighed repeatedly. Would the ascendant remain rational and amenable after the change? No way to know. Asgrimmur Grimmsson was unique in modern times.
The people of Fea did not stay around to watch the change.
Soon the only humanity remaining was the monster’s head. Which migrated down to its belly. A ghost of a face using a voice barely audible told Februaren, “Climb onto my back.”
Februaren gathered his belongings. The climb was difficult. Terribly frightening. Yet compliance left him with arrows in his quiver.
He had the Construct, always.
The soultaken did not yet know much about his ally’s capabilities. Said ally meant to keep every secret he could. The enemy of my enemy today could well move to the head of the enemies list tomorrow.
The monster’s shoulders were broader than those of a horse, and less soft or warm. Nor were there ready handholds. Just some bristles almost as fierce as porcupine quills.
The monster surged up. It began to move. It gathered speed fast. Countryside streaked by. Februaren gasped for breath, shook in fright-and enjoyed every instant. He was not one of those old men who disdained novelty.
He settled into the rhythm.
The monster stuck to wild country. That meant traveling rougher terrain. The journey took longer than it could have. Yet Februaren was astonished to see the sunset-stained peaks of the Jagos in just a few hours.
Once darkness fell the monster took to the roads to make better speed. Darkness did not hamper it.
Februaren worried about what the darkness might conceal. Worry was wasted. The ascendant created its own bubble of immunity or invisibility.
Dawn found them well into the Empire, racing past amazed peasants. Instrumentalities seldom materialized these days. Though travelers’ tales from the north promised excitement to come.
The feel of the world began to change. Each league onward seemed more charged with reality, with a growing electricity. Had it been like this in the dawn times, when magic was everywhere? The old man worried. Why had he not felt this when he came north by way of the Construct? Was it something you had to come to gradually, giving it time to grow around and through you? Was it the hope of this that drove er-Rashal al- Dhulquarnen’s cabal?
No. They could not know about this without having experienced it. They wanted immortality. They wanted to become Instrumentalities in their own right.
In a world charged like this everyone would be a demigod.
Reality took a fat bite out of fantasy.
The wells of power were dying. This might be an island of magic in a desert of power, nothing more. One that had not existed long. It was not yet overrun by ravenous things of the Night.
The Ninth Unknown felt those moving all around, headed the same direction. A reservoir of power must have burst, emptying in hours instead of ages. It had happened before, a sort of volcanic burst. The last in the west had taken place almost two thousand years ago, in the eastern reaches of the Mother Sea.
Did the monster understand human speech? Februaren shouted, “We have to hurry! This will draw Instrumentalities from everywhere.” Including Kharoulke the Windwalker, who would take most of the power. Unless the source was too far beyond the edge of the ice.
The ascendant sucked it in as he ran. Februaren felt it growing stronger beneath him.
They were crossing the fields of Friesland, where snow was melting in the shade only because of the advent of the power, the epicenter of which lay somewhere to the west. Which meant somewhere out in the Andorayan Sea. In unfrozen water. The Windwalker of antiquity could not cross open water except to step over it, hop from island to island, or walk a bridge. Could that still be true?
No matter, really. Kharoulke could come to the edge of the Andorayan ice and suck up power from there. But without being able to hog the trough.
The monster reached the shore. It stopped, sank down so the old man could dismount. Then it shrank, folded in on itself, flowed, becoming a huge, naked man with an immense complement of red hair. “I can go no farther in that form.” He pointed westward. “That’s already fading. There’ll be nothing left in a week.” He shook like a huge dog. “It feels good!”
Februaren thought any Instrumentality would say the same. “I hope Kharoulke is so far off he can’t take advantage. What next?”
“The way has to be out there. I’ll become something that swims.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.” Knowing that he had done it before.
“A little water never hurt anyone, old man.”
