“Why would our arrival cause a panic?” Devin asks, careful to keep his voice calm and pleasant.

  In answer, Troia gestures to the thousands forming a long caravan upon the road, and then the mountain behind them.

  “Don’t pretend this is normal,” the Lawkeeper says. “Now help us form groups numbering one hundred each. The gates to the city stay closed until we start seeing orderly arrivals. Cause too much commotion, or refuse, and we’ll set up tents for you to stay outside the walls instead.”

  You glance behind you, to the following mountain.

  “I fear outside is not safe,” you say.

  “All the more reason for you to behave,” Troia says. With that, he marches past you, to begin forming the Royal Overseer’s groups.

  “There’s not much we can do,” Devin says, keeping his voice low as you watch the four Lawkeepers shout their orders to the rest of the caravan. “Hopefully it’s only some bureaucratic nonsense.”

  “Avoiding panic,” you say, thinking back on the Lawkeeper’s words. “Not by our presence, but by what the people might say. The Overseer wants our silence. He knows of the oddities we’ve already encountered in the wild.”

  Devin nods, following your logic.

  “That, or such oddities have also occurred within the city itself,” he says.

  You can’t decide if that is a comforting thought or a disturbing one. Either way, you have no time to waste, not with a mountain giving chase.

  “Come,” you say. “Let’s do our part. I won’t feel better until we’re safely inside those walls.”

  *

  For a long, painful hour, the vast majority of the refugees are piled together in groups before the gates of the city, awaiting entrance. Hundreds of Lawkeepers stand watch upon the walls, or wait just within the iron gates. It looks like the entire city’s forces have been summoned for your arrival.

  But, in time, Troia decides matters are to his liking and orders the gates opened. One hundred by one hundred, your group enters the city, hopefully putting an end to what has been an arduous journey for so many of you.

  You walk the cramped, winding streets of the city, Lawkeepers forming a wall on either side. At some point you lose contact with Devin, leaving you to wander about your group of one hundred and offer words of comfort to lessen their nerves.

  “Londheim is a city of plenty,” you tell one nervous couple. “The Septen River’s bounty alone will keep us all fed.”

  You’re not entirely sure that’s true, but better that than a panic.

  What helps not at all is the rumble of the ground underneath you. It starts low at first, then grows in intensity.

  “Keep moving,” Lawkeepers shout, but your curiosity is overwhelming. Throughout the past days, the mountain has loomed closer and closer, traveling somehow in a way you cannot even guess. Now that the people are safe, you’re ready to leave them be, and resume your other responsibilities. Plus, you’re sure your Vikar, Forrest Raynard, would love to hear your story in full.

  Come the third quake, you hear Londheim’s people, cordoned off behind the Lawkeepers, begin shouting and calling for others to come look west.

  You leave your group to join them, only for a Lawkeeper to immediately try to stop you.

  “You haven’t been questioned yet,” the man says.

  “I am a Soulkeeper of the Keeping Church,” you say, refusing to back down. “I will not be detained by a mere Lawkeeper of the city. If you dislike that fact, you are welcome to bring the matter of my refusal to Deakon Sevold.”

  The man pales slightly.

  “I suppose no Soulkeeper’s gonna be stirring up panic,” he says, giving himself an excuse to let you leave. “Just, no stirring rumors, all right? I’ll make sure the Church knows who’s responsible.”

  “You do that,” you say, and sprint past him. You need to reach the walls. You need to see what is happening with your own eyes. You’ve spent days with the mountain behind you, lurking, taunting you by its sheer presence. What could explain it? What could justify it? Nothing, and so it wore on you, crooked little fingers scraping along your mind. For good or ill, at last you will have an answer.

  You race along the lively streets, weaving past people looking west and chatting with one another. The roads are cramped and winding, and made to feel almost claustrophobic with how high the stone spires and multi-story homes loom over them. The ground rumbles beneath your feet as you reach the wall and search for stairs. There, not far. A few soldiers are at the top, gazing out. You’ll just have to hope they don’t mind your joining them.

  “Make way,” you say as you reach the top of the stone steps and onto the ramparts. Two of them glance at you, see the triangle pendant hanging from your neck, and immediately relax.

  “Happy to have a servant of Anwyn with us,” one of the men says. “Because I think she’s going to be taking the whole lot of us soon.”

  “Keep such comments to yourself,” you say quietly as you step past him. “Of all precious things, hope is the last we can afford to lose this day.”

  He mumbles an apology, which you mostly ignore, for your attention is upon the mountain.

  From base to peak it looks about a third of a mile high, and twice as long in length. Its individual peaks are sharp, and while they seem covered with snow, something is wrong about the color and texture. It’s as if they were painted that color. A hill is between you and it, covering your sight of the mountain’s base. With each passing moment, you feel the ground rumble, tiny little quakes that reverberate up your legs.

  “What could it be?” one of the soldiers beside you asks. His voice is calm, but his eyes are wide and his hands shaking. “It don’t make sense.”

  “Nothing has lately,” you mutter, mostly to yourself.

  The mountain reaches the hill, and with a great shaking of earth and explosion of dirt, it pierces right through in a great black cloud. You clutch the wall of the rampart and watch with dread growing within your chest. The dust fades, and at last you can see the truth of the mountain that has followed you.

  The mountain crawls. Six legs poke out from each side of it near the base, vaguely resembling a turtle’s, only these are massive in size. Each of its claws is the size of a house, each leg, larger than any spire in all of Londheim. These legs slam into the earth, dig in their claws, and then drag the mountain along. The bulk of it carves a groove through the dirt, leaving a chasm behind that must be gigantic in size. At its front is a serpentine head, eyeless and smooth. Its scales are so dark it looks like it is made of onyx or obsidian. Leaking from its closed mouth, to drop down its chin and splash upon the earth, are streams of black water.

  This is it, you think. This thing, this crawling mountain, is what created the black water.

  Viciss, Wotri had named it. A being of another time, you can only surmise, now unleashed upon your world. The ground trembles with its every footstep. No hill or tree slows its progress straight toward the gates of Londheim.

  Panic spreads throughout the soldiers as they grow more numerous along the western wall. Many pass out bows and crossbows, though you laugh at the thought of them being used against a creature of such size. What could arrows do to a thing whose very hide is the thick rock of a mountain? Still, you suppose it is something to do, a way to prepare to hold off the growing nerves.

  The sound grows louder along with the shaking. The monstrous creation is so close, you can hear the ground churning. Its a thunderclap of breaking rock and scraping dirt, so loud and so deep you feel it in your teeth.

  Shouts behind you momentarily steal your attention. Word of the mountain’s approach has spread, and you see the telltale signs of panic. People shouting and running every which way, wanting to flee, but to where? You suspect the east gate on the opposite side of the city, and you are not surprised to see hints of smoke from that direction. A riot, perhaps?

  “We…we can’t fight it, can we?” the nearest soldier asks. He’s looking at you for reassurance. You want to offer it to him, but it would sound hollow.

  “Pray we must not fight it,” you say. “Better peace than violence, especially against a foe we do not understand.”

  The soldier swallows hard and cradles his crossbow to his chest.

  “I don’t want to die today.”

  We may not have a choice, you think to yourself as you stare at the black water drooling from the thing’s mouth. You imagine the devastation of Westwall and Elkwerth, inflicted upon a city the size of Londheim. Hundreds of thousands of people, all buried under a wave of black water shimmering with stars and foul magic, corrupting them, turning them into monsters…

  Perhaps it would be better to die this day, than survive amid that madness.

  You wisely keep such comments to yourself.

  Then without sign or reason, the living mountain comes to a halt. Its legs sink into the dirt and grow still. The rumble of its passage, nearly deafening by the end, suddenly ceases. The ensuing silence is shocking with its power and tenseness. You watch the head of it, and now only a half mile away, you can see clearly the grooves of its scales, and your breath catches at the sight of gigantic blue eyes along the top of its head, staring at the walls of Londheim.

  Its mouth opens. Black water pours out to form a ruined stretch of grass beneath it, hundreds of yards long.

  “No,” you whisper. Crynn. Westwall. Elkwerth. It couldn’t happen here. It cannot happen here.

  Teeth the size of houses fill its mouth, white as alabaster and jutting like stalagmites and stalactites. It inhales, so long and deep you feel the wind of it blow across your skin.

  And then it roars.

  You clutch the wall to hold your balance as the force of the roar shakes the very firmaments of the city. Your ears ache, and you fear they will pop. The roar goes on and on, blasting through you, shaking your bones and robbing you of breath. Soldiers around you cry out, some falling to the ground, others fleeing the ramparts for the city below.

  Its head turns to the north. A river of black water roars out from its mouth, traveling with silent, horrifying speed. The sun glistens of its surface like it were oil. The night sky swirls within its depths. All the lands north of Londheim are buried within it, the grass turning a now familiar pale, ashen shade. On and on goes the flow, traveling so far you cannot see its end. At last, the river ceases, and the monster slowly turns its head from north to south.

  Another flood of black water, this time to the south. It’s forming a line before Londheim, a strange demarcation to the west. The sight is staggering. To one direction, a line of foul rot. The other, green grass, and then the sparkling waters of the Septen River. When finished, it turns its gaze to Londheim, and opens its mouth.

  This is it, you think. We’re isolated. We have nowhere else to go.

  You don’t know if the water can climb the walls. You fear it won’t matter.

  The crawling mountain opens its throat once more. Out comes a third deluge of black water, silent in its passage as it rushes toward the western gate of the city. You imagine the destruction that will follow. Buildings crumbling, their supports unable to hold up their old stone. All food turning to rot. Men and women lashing at one another, their skin pale as the dead, their mouths sealed over with black blood. All who survived would be overwhelmed by the creatures that remained.

  Soldiers scream. Some drop their weapons and run. You stand firm, determined to watch to the very end. You will not look away. You will stand strong, to the end of all things and the start of whatever lays ahead in the Sisters’ arms.

  Two hundred yards from Londheim’s city gates, the water suddenly splits in half as if striking an invisible wall. It rolls north and south, forming two perfectly straight lines. Not a drop passes beyond. It flows on and on until reaching the edges of the city, where it fades away like smoke.

  You have no time to ponder its meaning, for the ground is shaking, and you clutch at the rampart. What screams you hear dwindle as people realize their doom has not yet come. The mountain shudders, its legs curling and its massive weight settling down into the grass. Its eyes close. All is still. The mountain sleeps.

  “Are we…we safe?” the nearby soldier asks. He’s clutched his crossbow so tightly to his chest its handle has broken against his cuirass. His face is wet with tears.

  You look upon the crawling mountain, the being Wotri named Viciss, the Dragon of Change. Your hands itch for your sword and pistol.

  “I don’t know.”

  18

  The ruling seat of the Keeping Church in Londheim is at the Cathedral of the Sacred Mother. It is a gargantuan complex, surrounded by three walls, each one dedicated to one of the goddesses. You climb the steps toward Anwyn’s Gate, through which is the Soulkeepers’ Sanctuary. It’s quieter here compared to the teeming mass of people at the main entrance of Alma’s Greeting.

  The people are frightened. They’re looking for answers, and you don’t blame them.

  Two novices stand guard, and they nod at you and step aside upon recognizing your garb and the pendant hanging from your neck. You pass through the halls, the contents within a peculiar mixture. Some rooms are dedicated to study and learning, while others, the martial arts of battle. Libraries are next to armories. Such is the life of a Soulkeeper. The walls are decorated with scriptures from Anwyn’s Mysteries carved into golden plaques, and the many paintings showcase their patron deity lovingly guiding the souls of the dead on from their bodies to the stars beyond. A few familiar faces recognize you in the hallway and call out greetings, and you politely greet them back while hurrying onward. There is only one man you wish to speak with right now.

  Your Vikar’s office is separated from the barracks by a long, carpeted hallway. At its end is a door laced with silver, and in its center, a triangle-shaped window. You hear voices arguing from the other side. After hesitating to knock, you decide not to bother. After the last few days, you’ve lost what little patience you have for etiquette.

  “Who’s interrupting now?” Vikar Forrest Raynard asks from his chair. He is Vikar of the Dusk, and in charge of all Soulkeepers in West Orismund. The tight black uniform is a comical sight on a body so full of muscle. A silver moon pendant hangs from his neck, a larger, more ornate version of the one you wear. There are two decorations on the plain gray walls. One is a portrait of Forrest’s wife and children. The other is the enormous ax he’d wielded prior to becoming Vikar, when he had been known as one of the strongest, most headstrong Soulkeepers in all the church’s history.

  “Soulkeeper Robin,” you say, though Forrest well knows your name. It’s more for the other two in the room. One is a Faithkeeper you do not recognize, the other, a man in a fine suit you suspect was sent by the mayor, or perhaps the Royal Overseer. “And I’ve just arrived from Elkwerth.”

  “Elkwerth?” Forrest says, and after a second, you can tell he has mapped out the path you traveled. “Goddesses help me, the shit you must have seen.” He turns to the others. “You two, out. Now. You have my answers. We in the Cathedral shall help Londheim in any way we can, but it won’t be done in a rushed panic. Get the Faithkeepers to open up their churches, and get them counting numbers. Once we have those, we can figure out what we have to spare, and where.”

  The two men exit in a huff. Forrest glares at them as they leave, then bursts out of his chair the moment the door slams shut. He steps around his desk in a heartbeat and wraps you in an enormous hug.

  “Robin, you bastard, it’s so good to see you alive. I’ve been getting reports from every Soulkeeper who’s returned from the wilds and the stories they tell me are horrifying.”

  “That’s one way to put it,” you say.

  Forrest steps back, claps your shoulder hard enough to nearly knock you over, and then returns to his seat.

  “All right, your turn to fill me in. I’ve had Devin explain the madness he saw at Dunwerth, and Lyssa’s given me some details of what it was like when she traveled from the north in Pathok. I believe you were with Devin for some of it, right? What happened before then?”

  So it sounds like Devin did not tell your story to your Vikar. You appreciate it greatly. So much of it already feels like a fever dream, and you are unsure just how your Vikar shall react to what you have experienced. Part of you wants to reveal everything, starting from your arrival at Elkwerth. Part of you fears if you describe encounters with talking wolf kings and the dead walking will have him believe you lost your mind.

  Then again, a mountain did crawl to the fields beyond the city and spew black water.

  “It started in Elkwerth,” you begin. “With a dozen souls occupying a single body.”

  You tell Vikar Forrest everything. You spare no detail, not your terror at the events unfolding, nor the bizarre changes happening to the world around you. Forrest says little, but at the point you reach the encounter with the spider wolves, he interrupts you.

  “Hold it up,” he says, and reaches into his desk. From a drawer, he pulls out two glasses and a half-full bottle of Nelme bourbon. He fills both, and then offers you one.

  “Gladly,” you say, and down it greedily. The burn in your throat feels refreshingly simple, a pull back to the here and now. Forrest drains his own glass, refills it, and then settles back into his chair.

  “All right then,” he says, and tips the bottle toward you. “Go on.”

  He listens in silence to the tale of Wotri, King of Fang and Fur. He shakes his head at the destruction of Crynn, which you know he has already heard much more of from Devin. You continue until reaching Devin’s band of refugees, what had once been a small group fleeing the village of Dunwerth now numbering in the hundreds.

  “From there, I suspect Devin has told you everything useful,” you finish.

  Forrest leans onto his desk, his folded elbows atop it. A bit of fire enters his blue-green eyes.

  “You are not to speak a word of this, do you understand?” he says. “Not to your friends, not to fellow Soulkeepers, no one.”

  “Is the truth now dangerous?” you ask.