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“I find I can see as well,” Innocence said. “It’s the troll-sight.”

“Go ahead, son,” Bone said. “You two lead the way.”

In troll-sight, the darkness swiftly became a dreamlike haze, and within it appeared various intriguing forms. Icicles big as swords hung beside walls of fractured stone that almost looked hewn and bricked but seemed too haphazard to be even the work of troll-hands. Treasure chests with locks in the shape of skulls grinned from the back of the cave, and as they stepped carefully across the irregular surface, Innocence saw five statues.

No, not statues.

Katta was first to understand. “We are not the only ones breathing in this place,” the monk said. “And the evil that clings to the shapes ahead is distinguishable even in this accursed place. There are four men here.”

“Four?” Innocence said, squinting. “But I perceive a fifth.”

Laughter boomed through the cave. It was so hearty, Innocence could almost imagine the sense of danger that constricted his heart was a mistake. Soon these men would welcome them to a feast, and they would joke together about death and war.

“The fifth is no man!” said one of the figures on the cave’s far side. “We are here to . . . protect her. But she is no man, nor even human. Welcome, warriors. I’m pleased you fought your way through the guardians outside, because taunting our charge is dull work. Do I perceive my sniveling slave, hiding there at the back?”

“Skalagrim,” Bone said.

“Four of Seven Wolves greet you. Gentlemen, the scarred thief back there and his fiery-haired bride are key reasons why we no longer number nine. And look, there is Yngvarr, now among our foes. You will appreciate this, Yngvarr! By some wyrd we are confronted with nine opponents. I say, if we kill the men, brothers, we can each claim a woman. The redhead is mine. She has thwarted me too often, and she reminds me of the one who has haunted my dreams.”

“In dreams your schemes will remain,” Gaunt said.

“Your reckoning is off,” said Northwing, “in so many ways. Give us Skrymir’s heart and your spirits needn’t leave your bodies. Pass over the chests.”

The massive man named Skalagrim laughed anew. “The heart is no more in these chests than it’s within Skrymir’s. Isn’t that right, companion?”

And now the fifth figure stepped forward.

She had the dimensions of a powerful woman of perhaps six feet, and she was made of ice. She resembled a one-headed troll, though cut and fractured and scarred all over her body. So damaged was she that at first Innocence did not recognize who she resembled.

“Skrymir?” he said aloud.

“No,” said the being with a peculiar, gentle, tinkling voice. “I look like him, but I am very different. I am anima to his animus. I am his heart.”

“What?” said Yngvarr.

“I am Skrymir’s heart. Long ago, before he placed me here for safekeeping, he shaped me into a homunculus of himself. As he associated femininity with weakness, he made me seem female. Then he commenced tormenting me. In doing so he became strong.”

“I don’t understand,” Katta said.

“The trolls are the solidified thoughts of the great dragons who sleep in these isles,” said the heart. “They gain a sort of half-existence but will eventually, through violence or direct sunlight, be returned to the minds they sprang from. Only by summoning vast will, and obsessive ego, can they persist and become mighty. None has gone farther down this path than Skrymir, who has nearly freed himself from his parent, the dragon Moonspear, whose slumbering form birthed Spydbanen. Skrymir learned that cruelty is one path to bolstering will. When he reached the limits of what he could manage with the trolls, uldra, and humans within reach, he hit upon a great insight. He could externalize a part of his psyche, even as he himself was part of the psyche of Moonspear.”

“And so he made you,” Gaunt guessed.

“Yes. A part of him embodying all that was kind, merciful, selfless. A part he could torture at leisure. It made him mightier yet. But the time came when he realized I was a potential liability. Someone might shatter me and leave him without an easy source of ego. So he placed me on this island to retrieve should he feel diminished, always with some guardians to defend me, and to . . . remind me of my purpose in life. These gentlemen are but the latest in a long line of . . . protectors.”

“If you die,” Bone said, “what happens?”

“What happens to any of us when we die? Is there not considerable angst and disagreement on the matter? Ah, but you mean what happens to Skrymir. I suspect he becomes temporarily more powerful, utterly untouched by anything resembling gentleness. But brittle also. Something else might come to occupy his heart. Who knows? The right thing—or being—might change him. I will not know. Perhaps I will be absorbed in some manner back into him but too shattered to affect him. Perhaps I will enter the void or be blessed by a Chooser of the Slain. . . .”

“Enough,” Yngvarr said. “Maybe killing you won’t kill him. But it’s clear he doesn’t want you dead, and that’s good enough for me. Stand aside, Four Wolves.”

“Hardly,” said Skalagrim. “Heart, give us a little light, if you please.”

The heart, sad-faced, shed cold light upon the cave. The Four Wolves advanced.

“Heart!” called out Northwing. “I offer you another path. Somewhere in these isles exists a thing my friends name the Scroll of Years. It can sever magical connections between things. I’ve experienced this myself. You can be free of Skrymir. Surrender to us, help us defeat these Wolves, and we’ll make it happen.”

“You speak truly?” the heart said.

“Yes. Can you sense it?”

“You speak truly,” the heart said, and the light vanished.

The Wolves cursed, and Innocence understood. They had not accepted troll-splinters and were at a disadvantage without the light. He and Katta could fight in this place.

But it was still four against two, plus whatever help the rest of the blinded voyagers could offer.

Katta flung a disc-shaped cake, and Skalagrim howled in pain as it connected with his face. Innocence saw the other Wolves advancing, and he brought his chi to full life.

This time he stuck with the pugilistic moves Walking Stick had taught him. He smashed the nose of one Wolf with the Snorting Buffalo Kick and disarmed a second with the Pain Blossom Strike. The two men were massive opponents however, and they grabbed at him. Innocence was able to unbalance the armed one, sending him with a grunt to the feet of Steelfox, who struck at him ferociously.

But the other man got Innocence in a hold. Innocence struggled but could not break free. He needed a stronger power. Briefly he envisioned the Heavenwalls in his mind, but he was too desperate to embody a balance of yin-yang forces; he needed the violence of the Great Chain.

Fire flowed around him.

The Wolf shrieked and released him. Innocence spun and struck out with a blazing hand. The Wolf fell. Innocence advanced upon the next man, who was blindly struggling with the adroit Katta. He kicked, and the volcanic force surrounding his foot vaporized the Kantening’s midsection.

Innocence laughed.

Katta’s look was one of horror. He stepped back.

A blazing nimbus surrounded Innocence, and he smiled at the freedom the power gave him. Seeing two standing figures who were not of his party, he raised his hand and directed gouts of fire outward. A human shrieked. Another voice seemed to sigh as its life was consumed.

Blazing triumphantly, Innocence looked upon his work.

“Innocence!” Gaunt called. “No!”

The Wolves were all dead, but Skrymir’s heart was a shattered, melted ruin.

Far to the east, so thin he might have imagined it, there came on the wind a bellow of pain that became a shout of glee.

The island began to rumble.

It was all his fault. He had lost control, and everything was going to fall apart. He scrambled out of the cave, wanting only to escape the others and their accusing, horrified faces, especially his parents.

Pell-mell he ran down the slope, and it shook as he went.

The island was tearing itself apart. Stones burst apart, and steam or lava spewed from the new-formed pits. His flight was proceeded by tumbling stones. Far below, the seven men minding
Bison
shoved their craft out to sea. Of course. What else could they do? There was no escape for Innocence or his family and friends. At least these men could free themselves.

He sat down, covering his face with his hands, surrounded by a fire that would never burn itself out, and waited for the end.

The end did not come. Instead Deadfall did. The flying carpet, covered in black feathers and ash, scooped him up and lifted him above the nameless island.

“What have you done?” it demanded.

“I ruined everything, old companion,” Innocence said. “Can you save anybody?”

“What do you think?”

Innocence looked down and saw only a cloud of ash, fires roaring at its heart.

CHAPTER 38

A JOURNEY TO KANTENJORD, CONTINUED

(being a section written by Katta, called the Mad)

Here, at what might be the end of the world, it falls to me to write. Readers from Geam, land of my apprenticeship, may assume that I am commencing an “inner” version of my account, filled with dream-visions and allegorical notions. I assure you this is still an “outer” account and contains only literal events.

I write this in a most unexpected place, bleak yet oddly reminiscent of home. There is snow, of course. There are reindeer. There are people doggedly confronting the end of all things, and I admire them, even as I try to regain my equanimity in the face of destruction. I write in the dark upon the noctograph, for night does not inhibit me. Even with the occasional shaking beneath me, I can form the letters with some assurance they will be readable.

But by whom?

As we raced away from the exploding core of the island, it seemed that Gaunt, Northwing, and I would perish. We’d been separated from the others and could only do our best to escape a lava flow. There was one slim chance: an icy surface leading to the nearest island.

Our survival depended on Northwing. Redoubtable as she was, Gaunt had just been torn from her husband and son, after she’d suffered so much bringing them together. Distraught, she could be led but could not guide. I, despite my many blessings, am hardly the best choice to lead others through a treacherous natural landscape.

So Northwing led us both, taking us arm-in-arm. The shaman’s acerbic voice became stern yet soothing. I have never heard anything quite like it.

“Here we go. Onto the ice now. Move carefully but don’t stop. . . .”

I was only a little less surprised when Haytham arrived.

I saw him first, or rather the demonic entity that flitted across my sight, the only thing I could perceive, an ember of hatred against the cool blackness.

“A Charstalker,” I said. “Is there a Karvak balloon out there?”

This stirred Gaunt from her reverie. “It’s not a Karvak balloon . . . that’s Haytham in there.”

“Haytham?” he said. “Why is he using a Charstalker and not Haboob?”

Northwing’s usual voice was back. “That’s not the question! Why is the mad fool landing on the ice?”

The shaman was right. I could see the Charstalker descend, and hear the balloon skidding and sliding. Haytham’s usual emergency landing strategy, of hitting the ground very hard, was not going to work here. The craft was sliding at high speed.

“Fool! Fool! Fool!” Northwing was saying, not exactly the model of a grateful rescuee.

“He’s throwing a grapple,” Gaunt said. She sounded more like her usual self. “And another one.”

“It’s not enough!” Northwing said, trying to pick up our pace. “He’s heading toward the edge of the ice floe! Jump, Haytham! Give up the balloon! Jump!”

I heard a thump and a scream of pain. I also heard something large hitting the water, and a great crackling noise.

The Charstalker descended. Its flames made a rude gesture as it dropped into the deep.

“The ice,” Gaunt said. “The grapples didn’t stop the balloon, but they cracked the ice. Haytham’s still out there, in danger. I’m going after him.”

“You mustn’t!” Northwing said.

“I have some familiarity with ice,” Gaunt said. “Let me try.”

Northwing gave up. I ached to assist Gaunt but I could see nothing. Haytham was a man of basically good character, and I had no hope of seeing him. Even Gaunt, person of loose morals that she was, was invisible to me.

“What’s happening?” I asked.

“She is creeping out to him. She is helping him up.”

My stomach churned as I heard terrible screeches and groans from the cracking ice floe.

“They are shuffling this way,” Northwing said. “Hurry, you two. . . .”

A savage rending sound announced the ice’s collapse.

“They are here!” Northwing said. “I am so relieved to see you both. Come closer, Haytham, so I can beat you senseless.”

“Northwing,” Haytham gasped. “Delighted. Together again.”

“It does seem to be our fate. Bah.”

“Katta. How goes your war?”

“It produces attachment and suffering at a swifter rate than I would prefer,” I said. “Thank you for coming to rescue us.”