The hold was dark, with mist hanging as a grey curtain above all but the tallest structures. It was approaching midnight and few feet walked the streets. Just duellists, stationed at every intersection. We’d killed some varn, stopped one binding, and perhaps slowed them down, but nothing had changed. Gloom Scribe had not been found, Pure Ones were still being purged, and the Severed Hand still held its breath. The underground tunnels were being searched, and multiple engagements had been reported, but the glass still strained against pressure from beyond.
When the void is full, the glass breaks. I’d told Tomas Red Fang, but there was little we could do. He’d scratched his head, consulted a few books, and ultimately punched a wall. The void was bursting at the seams with voracious chaos spirits. Sooner or later, with a push from the varn, they’d burst through. The old man had consulted everyone he could, but given us no answers, except to say that somewhere the varn were enacting an immensely powerful ritual. At least we hoped it was the varn.
I stood at the top of Brand’s Tower, looking down into Duellist’s Yard. The hold looked huge, even at night. I could hear waves, but not see them, and everything was black and grey. Thousands of people lived here, though many Pure Ones had left or been killed. The remainder were either hidden underground or caged in the Wolf House; with a grateful few allowed to remain in their homes.
“Are you still there?” I asked.
“As things stand,” he replied. “I think I’ll be here for a while. I’m not sure how this works.”
“Well, you’re dead,” I stated. “So, you must be … I don’t know, something more than a man.”
“I think I’m a spirit,” said the Wisp. “I can feel the void … but not the realm of form. But I don’t know how much of me remains. And I feel … angry. Like I’ve been wronged.”
“Can I see you?” I asked. “Do you have any form?”
“I can see myself,” he replied. “But I’m …”
“What?” I prompted, wrapping my cloak around my shoulders, as a sharp wind flowed over the top of the tower.
“I can see through myself and I’m shimmering,” he said, reluctantly. “And I’m a long way above the Severed Hand. I can see it below me, surrounded by those fucking chaos spirits. The glass is swollen, but it’s holding.”
“What?” I said, with a frown. “You died two days ago, and are talking to me about the hold?”
“What else matters?” he replied. “They killed me. They will not kill you. Not if I have power left. You are all I’ve got, Addie.”
I bowed my head and took a deep breath, looking south across the hold. I’d have to fight soon. I’d have to join other duellists and shout once more for the Severed Hand.
“Did I kill anyone?” asked the Wisp, his voice crisp and clear in my head.
“Not yet,” I replied, tears forming in my eyes. “Tasha’s fine. She’s making a big pot of soup for men on duty at the Wolf House. They think it’s going to be a long night.”
“And Young Green Eyes?” asked Jaxon.
“You slammed his head into a wall. He’s not woken up. I had to threaten half a dozen Sea Wolves to get him proper care, but it’s his head, so wyrd can only do so much. They say he could die or wake up any moment.”
I heard him crying. That, more than anything, convinced me that Jaxon Ice was still there. I’d never heard of Eastron becoming spirits, but if the Wisp was the first, I would not be surprised.
“I met him, after so long, then I killed him.”
“It wasn’t you,” I said. “It was the spirit that possessed you. And he’s not dead yet.”
He was quiet for a moment, perhaps looking at his incorporeal body, and wondering what he was. “The glass will break tonight,” he whispered. “The hold will be flooded with chaos spirits. A few will possess willing Pure Ones, and they’ll try to consume the Severed Hand. I don’t know what will be left. Perhaps another Maelstrom, or just a place of chaos.”
I looked across rooftops, smoking chimneys and smaller towers. I imagined I could stay atop Brand’s Tower and watch the glass break all across the hold. Perhaps they wouldn’t even need me below and I could see my world end at a distance, with Jaxon’s spirit for company. Or perhaps I was dreaming, and couldn’t imagine carrying on without my friend.
*
The balcony was on the lowest level of the Bloody Halls, looking south over the hold. To my left was Rys Coldfire, to my right was Tomas Red Fang. Jonas Grief and Lagertha Blood were further along the railing, and Tasha Strong stood by the door. Beneath us, thousands of duellists stood guard. The greatest concentration encircled the Wolf House, but large patrols fanned out into the hold, like a web of armed warriors. Tomas Red Fang and his spirit-masters had conversed with any spirit they could find, squeezed every piece of insight from their wyrd, and they concurred. The glass would break tonight.
A dozen duellists had been sent after the First Fang, but no ships had returned to the hold. Speculation was rife that something had happened on Nowhere. Something more than just a Brethren raiding party. Something that left us without Ulric, Vikon, or the warriors they took with them. But even young Lagertha accepted that the security of the Severed Hand was more important than sending a force after her father and brother.
“I hate waiting,” said Rys Coldfire. “It’s a kind of helplessness. Something out of my control.”
It was after midnight, and the only light came from hearths and street lanterns. The cloud was low and dense, rolling in black and grey waves across the Severed Hand. In places it crackled and released arcs of lightning, illuminating shrouded streets and shadowy yards. The glass felt angry, and the void was beginning to bleed through. There was a pervasive silence that seemed to infect everyone and everything, just waiting for a loud noise to make us all jump.
“Perhaps I should tell a joke,” said Tomas Red Fang. “A Winterlord, a Brethren and a Sea Wolf walk into a tavern—”
“Shut up,” I replied. “I prefer silence.”
“It’s a funny joke,” offered the spirit-master.
“Don’t make me punch an old man,” I said. “You wouldn’t enjoy it.”
“Enough,” said Lagertha Blood. “Remember who you are. This is not the time for jokes or threats.”
Tomas and I both looked at her. She was serious and used a deliberately commanding tone of voice. “Very well, my lady,” I said with a shallow nod. “We will show more respect as we wait to die.”
She became flustered, clearly unsure how to address me. Jonas Grief, the master-at-arms, was about to speak up, no doubt to tell me to watch my tone when addressing the First Fang’s daughter, but he was interrupted by a loud noise.
A sharp crack, like two panes of glass smashing together, assaulted my ears. It grated and lengthened, making my teeth itch. I covered my ears and turned towards the south. A jagged line of rotten green energy split the sky, from the Tranquil Gate to the Bright Coast, bulging downwards, as if a wineskin had burst. The realm of form parted its clouds, its lightning and its sky, and allowed the void to rush through. I held my breath as one world invaded another. At first it looked like thick mist, then dense rain. Finally, I saw them, tumbling, as balls of teeth and eyes, from an accursed sky. Thousands upon thousands of them, flopping down onto stone buildings and terrified duellists. No spirits fell on the Wolf House, but a bubbling concentration landed near Jacob’s Tower beneath us. The Severed Hand was covered in the chaos spawn of the Dreaming God, like a dusting of fetid snow. There were too many. We couldn’t win and that truth was writ large on every face.
“The glass breaks,” murmured Tomas Red Fang.
“To arms,” whispered the Wolf’s Bastard. “It is time to fight and to kill. Remove other thoughts from your mind, they do not belong in this place. This is now a place of war.”
“Once more for the Severed Hand,” said Lagertha Blood, unable to shout or even raise her voice.
“Oh dear,” said Tasha, moving forwards to peer around my left shoulder.
*
I’d never been to war. I’d killed more men than I could count, fought against overwhelming odds more times than I could count, but I’d never charged into battle with an army of Sea Wolves. It wasn’t right. This wasn’t how we fought. We were raiders and skirmishers, warriors who could attack faster and more ferociously than anyone. But we weren’t attacking now. We were defending, and this was apparent in everything I saw at the base of the Wolf House.
Duellists, formed into circular mobs, engaged floating masses of spirits. The spawn remained in clusters, hovering just above the ground, though lacking wings or any obvious method of flight. They each had a large central mouth, splitting their amoeba-like bodies, and joined by dozens of smaller orifices, forming and un-forming as the need arose. They were shorter than the Sea Wolves they attacked, but wider and comprised of strange void-stuff, rather than flesh and blood. They gnashed and flailed, cutting through warriors like water. Some smaller clusters gnawed through wooden walls and roofs, turning buildings to splinters in moments. It was as if they were trying to consume everything of the Severed Hand.
Bells rang and horns sounded throughout the hold, as commands were given and duellists rushed to their duty. Once more for the Severed Hand. The words echoed through dark and bloody streets, as warriors tried to hold their ground. Gargles of pain accompanied the shouted words, and I saw a dozen warriors torn apart in the first few minutes of the battle.
The Wolf’s Bastard drew his falchion and summoned a torrent of powerful wyrd into his limbs. “We prevail or we die,” he roared, rushing at the nearest cluster of chaos spawn.
Jonas Grief and a dozen senior duellists followed him, erupting into a wave of power, scything forwards like the edge of an axe. Rys was unafraid, using huge amounts of his power with each swing of his blade. A spirit was cut in two, to dissipate in a fog of green mist. Two more pounced on him, but both were sliced out of existence by his wyrd. “They die,” he roared. “They can all die.” He was using far too much power, but his example spurred on the defenders.
“Clear the ground around the Wolf House,” commanded Jonas Grief. “Get everyone to fall back here. Eastron, Pure One, I don’t care, get ‘em behind stone.”
I’d remained behind, but guilt now caused me to draw my cutlass and move to join them, until Tomas Red Fang put a hand on my shoulder. “No,” said the old spirit-master. “You come with me. We have a spirit to meet. The void’s finally clear.”
“What? No, I’m needed.”
“Adeline!” he spat. “You are needed. The Old Bitch of the Sea needs you. Now!”
I tried to pull away from him and join the fight, but his grip was like iron, and I felt him gradually break the glass and pull us both to the void. The barrier was like tissue paper and we fell from one world to another as easily as you’d sink into a bath. We appeared on uneven ground, rolling back and forth, as if an earthquake was happening in the void. The tear was less visible and appeared to be a storm-filled valley, cutting a line through the shimmering blue landscape. There were no spirits of any kind, just the last few clusters of chaos spawn, bubbling through the tear. Any friendly spirits would have been consumed or driven off, and the void was offensively silent when compared to the battle taking place in the realm of form.
I turned sharply and grabbed Tomas around the throat. The loose skin of his neck wrinkled over my hand and his arms went wide, signalling submission. “You don’t do that to me,” I growled. “You ask my fucking permission. Now, tell me why I shouldn’t go straight back and join the fight.”
His eyes shone blue in the void and I was reminded that, though he may appear to be a frail old man, his connection to the spirits was unparalleled. “The Lady of the Quarter wants to meet you. She was forced to retreat from the chaos spirits, and was needed elsewhere, but the Old Bitch of the Sea is far from powerless. She has been regaining her strength.”
I released him and stepped away. “Why me? I’m better at killing. I should be where killing is important.”
“Not anymore,” he replied. “Now you’re wise, and you should be where wisdom is important.”
It was painful to be standing in the void, unable to see the battle, but I didn’t go back. I wanted to, I felt that I should. Perhaps Tomas had cut the last tendril of who I used to be, to reveal a new Adeline Brand. She’d been slowly pushing the duellist aside since I left the Bay of Bliss, strengthened by fear, defeat, but ultimately wisdom. “Okay,” I conceded. “Lead the way.”
The reflection of the Severed Hand was emptier than usual, no doubt eclipsed by the chaos spawn, but the Wolf House remained. The building held such significance to the Sea Wolves that it was twice as tall beyond the glass. I’d not seen the spawn gnaw through stone and hoped that their teeth could only handle flesh, bone and wood. To see so mighty a building brought low would crush each and every Eastron who survived the battle. It was more than a building, it was our heart.
“We’re going up,” said Tomas. “Unless you’ve developed the ability to fly in the void, you should hold on to me.”
I looked up at the shimmering red building, towering over us. It was a long way up, and I closed my eyes as I wrapped my arms around Tomas’s neck. My feet left the ground and the rush of wind stung my face. I’d flown with Jaxon a time or two, but never at such speed. Tomas Red Fang was striding up the crackling air like a mountain goat.
Atop the void reflection of the Wolf House was a mound of earth and wood, forming a huge den. Thick moss lined the floor, and the smell of wet dog and salt water hung in the air. My boots sank into the moss, like walking on a particularly soft mattress, with frothy water bubbling up from each step. Tomas led the way, silhouetted against the turbulent void sky, towards the huge den entrance.
“My Lady of the Quarter,” shouted Tomas. “We beseech you to rise. Our hold is falling.”
A deep growl came from the dark opening, followed by a waft of musty air, as if an enormous creature was breathing out.
“The Alpha Wolf accompanies me,” continued the spirit-master. “The Sea Wolf who has fought the Sunken Men.”
I strode past him to stand at the foot of the entrance, with a wall of pitch blackness in front of me. “Help or don’t,” I commanded. “I will not beg a spirit for aid.”
Another growl, closer this time, and a huge snout poked out of the darkness. I backed away as the spirit’s muzzle emerged from its den. Sparkling blue eyes followed and the head of an enormous wolf regarded us with suspicion. Its ears twitched upwards, with a rippling crest of sea water framing its sleek head. I’d never seen the totem before, and was surprised to find that it impressed me. It pulsed with wyrd, its blue and white fur forming a soft skin of power across its huge head. It could swallow me whole, but it didn’t bare its teeth and I saw no anger in its eyes.
“Will you help us?” I asked, stepping forwards to stand under its left eye. “Can you help us?”
It snarled, its sparkling, pale blue gums parting to reveal huge teeth. I backed away and looked to Tomas Red Fang. The old man raised his arms and approached the spirit. “Easy,” said Tomas, stroking a hand along its muzzle.
The wolf craned out of the darkness and I saw small bite marks across its shoulders and front legs. It stopped growling and started whining, nuzzling against the spirit-master’s hand. The totem had already been to war. It had survived, but wore numerous scars from the chaos spawn. Would it truly fare so much better if it rejoined the fight now? As more of her emerged, I saw bald patches across her flanks, where the totem was almost entirely see-through. It had far from regained its full power.
Tomas continued stroking the huge wolf, until it lay down and stopped whining, though its emotional blue eyes stayed focused on me. “We need time,” the spirit-master whispered. “Time to get everyone behind stone. Or there may be no Sea Wolves left, my old friend.” The wolf flexed its jaw, again revealing huge teeth and a mouth that could swallow Tomas and me at the same time.
“She’ll die,” I said. “There’re too many of them.” The spirit and the old Sea Wolf now both looked at me, and I began to understand that death was exactly what was being discussed.
The Old Bitch of the Sea loped out of her den and approached me. She was beautiful; shimmering blue and white, with a kind face and intelligent eyes. Each of her paws ended in a small wash of sea water, bubbling up over her fur and spraying my face.
You see Sunken Men?
The question formed in my head and I nodded.
You know of Dreaming God?
Again, I gave a shallow nod.
You are Alpha Wolf. Lead fight back. I die to give you hope. No Sea Wolves means no fight. Must be fight … fight back. All others can be saved if Sea Wolves fight back.