Shaking his head, Gerin went into the castle, too. He’d been wet for a good long while already, and enjoyed changing into a dry tunic and trousers. He knew the spell that had brought Baivers to him, but reviewed it in the library all the same. A mistake might mean the god’s failure to appear, which might mean the northlands’ going under.
Selatre poked her head into the library, saw him busy, and slipped away. When she came back, she set sausage, bread, and a jack of ale at his elbow. He’d eaten the food and almost emptied the jack before he noticed they were there and thought back on how they’d arrived. When he studied, he studied hard.
As far as Baivers was concerned, he was ready. Bringing forth the monsters’ gods was a different business altogether. He had no invocation specifically intended to do that; whatever dealings with those powers mankind had had till now were designed to keep them under control and far away, not to bring them forth. Considering his meeting with them, he understood that down to the ground—and down under it, too.
Desperation, though, drove him to turn the usual way of doing things on its head. He got parchment and quill and ink and began adapting the spells of repulsion into ones that would draw the monsters. The spells he was crafting had not been refined by trial and error—others’ error, corrected by mages who had observed … and survive … their colleagues’ failure. That increased his risk in another way, and he knew it: if his own creations had flaws, the only way he would find out about it was the hardest way possible.
He looked up at the timbers of the ceiling. “If I had a choice, I wouldn’t be doing this,” he told them. They didn’t answer. He suspected that was because they already knew.
Along with Selatre and Duren, Van, and Geroge and Tharma, Gerin squelched through the mud of the courtyard toward the shack that doubled as his sorcerous laboratory. Cold rain still fell, stubbornly, steadily, out of a leaden sky, as if it had looked around, decided it liked the country, and settled in to stay.
Gerin patted his chest. He was carrying inside his undertunic the spells he’d written, to make sure—or as sure as he could—the rain didn’t land on them and soak them into illegibility. The roof of the shack leaked. Normally, he didn’t worry about such things. Today, they were liable to matter.
He’d been out there before, getting everything ready for the conjurations he would attempt: barley, ale, and porridge for summoning Baivers, and other things for summoning the monsters’ gods. One of the other things, a billy goat, bleated as he and his comrades came in. He’d tied it to a post, with a rope so short it couldn’t chew itself free. Its gaze was fixed on the barley on the worktable, which it could see and smell but could not reach.
“Sorry, old fellow,” he told the goat. It bleated again, indignantly. He ignored it, pouring ale for himself and for Geroge and Tharma. After they’d drunk it, he got to work summoning Baivers. “Come forth!” he called when the spell was done. “Come forth, lord Baivers, come forth, come forth, come forth!”
For a moment, he wondered if he would have the same difficulty making the god notice him as he’d known the time before. But then the shack seemed to get bigger inside without enlarging on the outside: the sure mark of a god’s presence. “I am here,” Baivers said, and the stalks of barley that did duty for his hair rusted softly. His green, green eyes took in the interior of the shack. They rested on the billy goat: none too kindly, Gerin thought, for a goat could wreak havoc in the fields. “You have all in readiness to summon the other powers, the powers from under the ground?”
“Lord Baivers, I hope I do,” Gerin answered, a statement true on several different levels.
“Begin, then,” Baivers said “We have little time to lose. The Gradi gods are reaching out, greedy as grasshoppers. Can you feel them?”
“Yes,” Gerin said. He reached under his tunic and drew out the spells he had hastily devised. He started to shield the parchment from drips from the roof with his hand, then realized it hadn’t leaked since Baivers came forth: an unexpected advantage of the god’s presence.
Now he wished he’d drunk no ale. A slip in the spells summoning Baivers might well not have been fatal. A slip in the spells he was trying now surely would be. Geroge and Tharma watched him, their deep-set eyes wide, as he incanted. What were they thinking? They’d said little on the way up from Ikos by which he could judge how they’d taken their first meeting with the gods who ruled their own kind.
He shook his head, though the motion had nothing to do with the magic he was working. Even the monsters’ gods had said Geroge and Tharma were neither fully of their kind nor of mankind. He wondered how those gods would have responded to his overtures had he slain the two monsters as cubs, as he’d been sorely tempted to do. He was glad he didn’t have to find out.
Maybe that relief helped steady him. Whatever the reason, he managed to get through the chants and intricate passes of the spells unscathed. Nothing in those hastily adapted chants had either loosed the monsters’ gods on the northlands or provoked them to eat them up. He reckoned that a triumph. The powers, though, still remained unsummoned.
“Let the blood bring them hither,” he said, at the same time thinking, Now we find out what sort of fool I am, meddling with things beyond my power. He knelt beside the billy goat. Up till his last trip out to the shack, he’d intended to slit its throat with a bronze knife. Since then, he’d had what he hoped was a better idea. From a pouch on his belt, he drew the severed finger of the monster the powers had given him in exchange for taking Geroge’s fang. The finger had not decayed to any discernible extent, which made him think some power still lingered in it.
He used the claw to tear the goat’s flesh. Though it did not feel unusually sharp to him, it might have been the keenest dagger he’d ever handled. Blood fountained from the goat’s throat and drowned the animal’s terrified, anguished bleat. “Let the blood bring them hither!” Gerin cried again, as it made a great red steaming pool that slowly began to sink into the ground.
The interior of the shack seemed to … expand again. For a moment, it seemed to go dark, too. Gerin wondered if the monsters’ gods could stand the light of day. But then that light returned, and for the first time he saw the gods he had summoned.
As mankind’s gods mostly partook of and modified the manlike shape, so the monsters’ powers resembled the mortal creatures whose patrons they were. They too modified the basic pattern. One of them glowed. One had eyes bigger and rounder than an owl’s, another great, batlike ears. One seemed nothing but muscle and fur and fangs and talons: if he didn’t do duty as a war god, the Fox would have been mightily surprised.
“Blood-brings us,” they said all together, their voices dinning in his mind. “We have kept the bargain. Now it is for you to keep it as well. Show us the way to battle and slaughter.”
“I’ll do that,” Gerin told them. Fighting was all they wanted, he realized; had he set them against Biton or against the Elabonian gods, they would have entered that fray with as much ferocity as this one. He shivered. If this fight should be won, he’d do what he could either to restore those wards under Biton’s shrine or to form some arrangement between the monsters’ gods and those who lived on the surface of the earth.
This is the way to the Gradi gods: he cast his thought toward Baivers. As Mavrix had, the Elabonian god picked up his mind and carried it along with his own over a plane of being no mortal could reach without divine aid. From his place as a small cyst on Baivers’ vaster consciousness, the Fox sensed the underground powers following where the god of ale and barley led.
The route felt different this time: no sea of wine, no equally turbulent sea of sensuality. Gerin wondered if he was perceiving the same “places” through a different god’s sensorium, or if Baivers had simply chosen a different path. Amber waves of grain were certainly more sedate than wine and polymorphous fornication.
Whatever the truth, whatever the route, in the end they reached the snow-covered forest of conifers to which Mavrix had brought him. Too bl
eak for barley,” Baivers said, in a tone of condemnation and abhorrence. “This is what they want to make my land into, is it?” The monsters’ gods said nothing at all. They stared, hungrily, every which way at once, as if looking for rivals to massacre.
A path led through the woods, as it had before. Baivers started down it, the underground powers at his heels. The wolves of the divine Gradihome stared out from the trees at the strange gods who dared walk it. A couple of monsters sprang at the wolves. Maybe that was blood on the snow when they were done, maybe ichor. It looked like blood to Gerin.
“Who comes to Gradihome?” As he had during Gern’s visit with Mavrix, the fierce god named Lavtrig stood in a clearing as Voldar’s first sentinel against attack.
Baivers pointed a finger. Through the snow under Lavtrig’s feet burst shoots of green. The Gradi god stared at them in something like horror. Mavrix had joked by setting flowers blooming in this grim land Baivers used fertility as a weapon.
Lavtrig thundered toward him, stamping the shoots flat as he came. He raised a great club, plainly intending to smash the Elabonian god out of existence. Baivers pointed at the club. It turned into leaves and blew away on a sudden warm breeze. Lavtrig roared with rage. He drew from a sheath a bronze sword with a gleaming edge. Over metal Baivers had no power.
The monsters’ god that was all thews and claws and teeth sprang out from the pack and onto Lavtrig. Lavtrig smote him. He smote back. “Good battle!” he shouted joyously.
Gerin sent a thought toward Baivers: “Shall the rest of us go on? He seems to have found what he wanted.”
Go on they did; Lavtrig, though not defeated, was far too busy to block their path. More wolves stared out at Baivers and the underground powers as they pushed along the path. The wolves, though, no longer stayed to fight, but fled through the pine woods, wailing the alarm in all directions.
“They summon the rest of the Gradi gods,” Baivers said.
He sounded worried to Gerin. If the monsters’ gods shared his concern, they gave no sign of it. “We want those gods,” they said in ragged chorus. “We will chew their flesh; we will gnaw their bones.”
When they reached the next clearing, there stood Stribog, the father of all storms. He shouted in what might have been wrath and might have been fear at having his place in Gradihome assailed once more. Giving his foes no chance to enter the clearing, he flung a blast of chilly rain into their faces.
Baivers spread his arms wide. “I thank you for your gift of water,” he told the Gradi god, “and shall turn it into blessed barley.”
Stribog shouted again, this time in obvious fury. “Go back!” he roared wetly. “You and your band are doomed. Flee while you may.” The rain changed to sleet, then to hail that pounded the unwelcome visitors like bullets from a sling.
The monsters’ god who glowed stepped forward from among his fellows. That glow had been pale and wan; Gerin had associated it with the pallid gleam of fireflies and molds and certain mushrooms. All at once, though, its nature changed. It grew red as fire, red as the vents through which lava spilled out of some mountains and over the land. The glow grew hot as fire, too.
“Light,” the other underground powers crooned. “Precious light!” To them, Gerin realized, any source of illumination, whether from decay or an underground vent for molten rock, was precious and potent.
Their light-bearing god sent a blast of fiery heat back at Stribog, melting hail, sizzling sleet into steam, sending the snow under the weather god’s liquid feet boiling up as steam. Stribog roared in anger and pain and fought back with whips of winter. He rushed forward to bluster at the monsters’ god, making steam rise up from his shining skin as snow and ice threatened to douse his flame. The underground power in turn redoubled his own effort.
Again, Gerin said, “The rest of us can push on, I think,” and again Baivers and the monsters’ gods did push ahead through the clearing. Like Lavtrig before him, Stribog was far too busy to prevent their passage. As they found the next path, the Fox warned, “Up ahead is the clearing where Nothing dwells. Watch out for him—he’s dangerous.”
Baivers, sensibly, stopped at the edge of the next clearing. Gerin let out a tiny mental sigh. He didn’t know if he would be able to tell whether Nothing had been playing his tricks this time. He’d managed when Mavrix came this way, but who could guess whether the Gradi god was able to learn new tricks?
His old ones were quite bad enough. A couple of the underground powers, maybe filled with contempt for Baivers’ cowardice, maybe just looking for a fight wherever they could find one, sprang out into the clearing with ferocious roars, staring all about them in search of a foe.
They sprang out, they roared … and they were gone.
It was not merely that they vanished. It was as if they had never been. Gerin needed a distinct mental effort to recall that they had been part of the ravening pack of gods accompanying Baivers here.
As for Baivers, he said, “You were right, mortal. This power is not to be despised.”
“Mavrix didn’t beat him,” Gerin answered. “He managed to distract him, and that proved enough to get him by.”
“Mavrix is full of distractions,” Baivers answered. “Distraction is all he’s good for. Sometimes I think distraction is all he is.”
Behind the Elabonian deity, the monsters’ gods were milling around and muttering among themselves. After a moment, one of them, in the shape of a monster but perfectly, light-drinkingly black, stepped past Baivers and out to the very edge of the clearing. “Nothing!” he called in a voice that sounded as if it was echoing and reechoing down the corridors of a cave.
“I am here,” Nothing answered, his own voice quiet and flat. “I am everywhere, but I am here most of all.”
“Give me back my comrades,” the monsters’ god said.
“It cannot be,” Nothing said.
“Give them back, or you shall not be,” the monsters’ god warned.
“It cannot be,” Nothing repeated.
“It can,” the underground power answered, “for I am Darkness.” He raised his hands, and the clearing was plunged into blackness as absolute as that Gerin had known when the monsters’ gods met his summons below Biton’s shrine. Darkness went on, “No one will know whether you are here or not, Nothing. No one will care. When you cannot be found, no one will miss you.”
“Or you,” Nothing returned, and for a moment black shifted to gray, or rather to the shade of complete and utter neutrality for which gray is the closest earthly approximation.
“I think we’d best move on, while they’re busy figuring out which of them is less than the other,” Gerin said.
“That’s the right way, sure enough,” Baivers said, and the rough chorus of the monsters’ gods muttered agreement. They advanced into the clearing in which their comrades had ceased to be—into it and through it. As best Gerin could tell with his limited senses, Baivers did not need light to know where he was going.
On the far side of the clearing, light returned. Baivers seemed to glance through Gerin’s mind. “Only this Voldar to go, eh?” the god of barley asked.
“I think so,” the Fox answered. “After Mavrix got past Nothing, she was the last deity he met. She beat him, but we have more strength with us now.”
“We will devour her and gnaw her bones,” the monsters’ gods chorused. Gerin remembered some of the things the monsters had done while they roamed above ground. If their gods did things like that here … he would, he supposed, be glad. And then he would worry about how to make sure the monsters didn’t come boiling up onto the surface of the world once more. If I can make sure of that, he thought.
Whatever the answer was, he could worry about it later. The fight with Voldar was the immediate concern: immediate indeed, for the path opened out just then into the clearing where the queen of the Gradi gods stood waiting.
That clearing, Gerin thought, was larger than it had been when Voldar summoned him in the dream, larger than when he had come here
with Mavrix. That jolted him far less than it would have back in the merely material world; the stuff of the gods had change as part of its very nature.
And it needed to be changeable, for Voldar did not stand alone here: the clearing had grown to accommodate what looked to be the rest of the Gradi pantheon. Most of the gods looked, not surprisingly, like Gradi—tall, fair, gray-eyed, with dark hair and grim expressions. Voldar led them, taller than any, grimmer than any, beauty and terror and rage all commingled.
She started to shout something to the divinities she headed. Before she could, though, Baivers outshouted her: “You frosters! You freezemakers! You bloodspillers! You blighters!” In the little encysted space in Baivers’ mind where Gerin sheltered, he had all he could do not to giggle. Down in the City of Elabon, a few languid, affected young men had used blighters as a name for those of whom they did not approve. Imagining Baivers in their company was deliciously absurd. The god of barley, though, meant his insult literally.
Voldar did shout then, a belling contralto that sent shivers up and down the spine from which the Fox was divorced at that moment: “It’s the local grass god, all puffed up with himself. And he’s brought the kennel with him. We whip them back home, and then we go on about our business.”
“Blighters!” Baivers bellowed again, and rushed forward. Voldar loped toward him, as deadly graceful as a longtooth. He picked her up; she let out a most ungodlike squawk of startlement as he slammed her down to the snowy ground. Inside Baivers, Gerin was cheering wildly. He’d wanted the god of barley angry, and now he’d got what he wanted. Not at his finest had Mavrix given Voldar such an overthrow.
But she was on her feet in an instant—feet around which little shoots of barley began to show, pushing their way up through the eternal snow of the divine Gradihome. Voldar hewed at those shoots with her axe. Each one she cut bled real blood, and at each stroke Baivers groaned as if she were cutting him down.
“Forward!” Voldar shouted to her divine companions. “Lets get them, and get them now. We’ll—”
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