Surrender to the Will of the Night - By Glen Cook Page 0,110

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