37. A Loving God, a Loving Father

S vavar’s mind was clearer and his thoughts crisper than ever. He watched the Godslayer rappel down the wall, unseen by Shagot. Grim saw nothing but Arlensul. Grim did not understand that Arlensul had been with them from their arrival on that ancient battleground. He was not, in fact, Grimur Grimmsson now. He was the worldly avatar of the Gray Walker, come to finish dealing with a traitorous daughter.

The Godslayer had no place in his thoughts.

The Old Ones mirrored their creature Shagot: crude, thoughtless, violent, ignorant of pity or remorse. And none too smart. What use smart if you were omnipotent and immortal?

The black flapping things came together in the gap between Instrumentalities, chased one another in a whirling mandala of darkness that spun in multiple dimensions. The Instrumentalities screamed at one another, proclaiming senseless rage and hatred. While the mandala grew.

Svavar stared at the thing his brother had become, unable to accept it although he believed it. Arlensul’s defiance had conjured the One Who Harkens . . . now armed with the hammer club for which his favorite son was famous. The mandala, shedding a ripping roar, revealed glimpses of horrors beyond. Glimpses of old corpses abiding an opportunity to rise up and serve deities who held them in trivial regard.

Arlensul lashed out with her spear, pleased with her father’s response so far. The Walker slid aside. His hammer made a gong of Arlensul’s shield.

Words formed deep in Svavar’s mind. Do not forget your dearest wish. Do not forget who has been your most devoted protector.

Which mainly baffled Svavar.

What could he do besides watch the titans clash?

Father and daughter traded blow for blow. The countryside resounded to their fury. Despite their terror, mortals stopped running, watched enrapt.

Soon, my chosen one.

Svavar began to shake, colder than naked in Andoray’s iciest winter, dreading the foulness to come.

Which evil most torments the world?

Within the mandala Arlensul’s sisters were wakening the Heroes.

Not good, that. There was Erief. . . . What was left of murdered Erief after centuries in that terrible Hall.

The great god of the north flung his hammer aside. It never fell to the ground. A staff appeared in his hands, in myth carved of ash cut from the great World Tree, a living, sentient tree whose roots reached into every well of knowledge there was. The Walker slammed that staff’s iron shod foot into Arlensul’s shield. The shield split. Only the smaller fragment remained in the Chooser’s control. The staff thrust again. The immortal spear spun out of Arlensul’s hand. It did not vanish. It fell at Svavar’s feet.

Now you must decide.