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Chapter Thirty-Two

Beyond the Gate

Illarion Glazkov


Illarion woke up when Natalya said his name. She was going bedroll to bedroll, waking everyone. True to her promise, her internal clock had remained good. She seemed able to sleep anywhere, fall asleep on demand, and wake up at the exact time she wanted. He didn’t know if it was from practice being a scout, or a gift from her gods as she claimed, but Illarion hadn’t slept well at all the entire time they’d been here. When he tried to rest the eerie silence of the forest had kept him awake, no matter how physically tired he was. Only Natalya’s soft breathing next to him had kept him sane and enabled him to get any sleep at all. Even then he had been plagued with unremembered nightmares and was so tired he could barely think straight.

One of Darus’ trenchers carried their big water bag by so they could refill their canteens. The bag was getting very thin.

“Go easy on the water,” Darus warned the group. “We’re running low. We lost one of our bags at the mounds and we didn’t see so much as a puddle yesterday.”

Illarion refilled his canteen, and only drank enough to wash down the hard, dried meat he was allowed to break his fast with. His lips were dry and cracked, and his skin felt raw from the constant heat and red, baking light. Most of them were sunburned. When he shut his eyes now, all he saw was crimson.

“How much more water do we have?”

“We need to find a stream or that gate today, or we’re in trouble,” Natalya said. Then she turned toward where the mad scout, Eliv, was crouched. “Eliv, any idea where we are?”

“Hell,” the scout said, then laughed. “Or maybe Heaven. I suppose it depends which goddess you worship.”

His words shocked everyone. It was the most coherent thing he’d said the entire time they’d been here.

Darus rolled his eyes, but Illarion wondered if there was truth behind the madman’s words. If this was the Witch’s home realm that would indeed make it either Heaven or Hell. Maybe both. Illarion looked up into the tree branches and discovered the raven was still there, regarding him with boredom. Its presence meant whatever was coming next would be bad. The raven was a consistent harbinger of ill tidings.

Kristoph Vals walked over to the scout. “So you’ve finally decided to join us, Strelet Eliv.”

“I am here now, Oprichnik,” Eliv answered. “Ask your questions while you can.”

Kristoph gestured at Chankov and Darus to come over and interrogate the scout with him. Those were the ones with rank to ask the right questions. Then Kristoph appeared to mull it over, before signaling for Illarion to join them as well.

He sighed and got up. The other members of the Wall seemed curious as to why he’d been summoned and not them, but they were surely glad to avoid the Directorate man’s attention. So much for not standing out.

“You seem rational today, Eliv, but can your words be trusted? Lie to us and I assure you, this will be your permanent, personal hell.”

“Spare me your threats. There’s nothing you can do to me that’s worse than what this land already has in store for us. There’s nothing you can take from me that She’s not already stripped away.”

“That’s cryptic,” Kristoph said. “Stripped by who?”

“The Dead Sister.” Eliv jerked his head toward Illarion, and tapped hard in the center of his own forehead with a grime-encrusted finger. “He knows. As the Fallen Lady has marked me, he’s been marked by one of her siblings. I can see it on him, clear as day.”

Darus scoffed, but Chankov looked at Illarion and raised an eyebrow. Illarion just shrugged.

“What do you think, Glazkov?” Kristoph asked in a mocking tone. “Are we truly in Hell? Is this where the wicked go when they die?”

Illarion kept his expression neutral. “I didn’t pay much attention to preachers—not that many ever came to my village. I’d rather focus on finding the gate home.”

“A worthy goal,” Kristoph said, but his voice said he didn’t believe Illarion for a minute. “So Eliv, has our other scout, Natalya, kept us on the right track?”

“Yes. Her gifts remain. The Rolmani gods haven’t forsaken her like they have me, but she’s followed the map as far as it’ll take you. From here on, it’s up to the Sister whether you pass or not.”

“Do we get no say in the matter?” Darus quipped.

“You are a nonbeliever?” Eliv asked.

“I believe what the state requires,” Darus answered, as any right-thinking man would with one of the Tsar’s secret policemen standing right there. “They don’t say much about the Sisters anymore, just that they are subservient to and below almighty God.”

“Then you should keep your fool mouth shut before you get us all killed,” the scout spat. “The Three used to rule the world together, until man came. Two of them were fickle and abandoned their old children in favor of man. One adopted the Kolaks, the other adopted the Almacs, while the last would not forsake the old races and cried out for peace. For that the other two cut her down. Only you can’t kill a god. She fell here, to the land of the dead, where she’s ruled ever since. And there’s no leaving her kingdom without making a sacrifice.”

“What kind of sacrifice?” Illarion asked.

“Her children were driven from their homes, she was betrayed, and slain, impaled upon a spear made of Almacian steel and Kolakolvian oak. She’s filled with rage against the living. What kind of sacrifice do you think she wants?”

“She’s out for blood,” Chankov whispered, obviously scared.

Eliv sneered. “If you’re lucky.”

“Perhaps I should pick her some flowers,” Kristoph said. “Your map was unclear. What specifically will we face ahead?”

“Whatever She wants you to. My expedition saw things I can’t explain, terrors beyond anything you can imagine.”

“All we’ve seen so far is ghouls.”

“Those are nothing. They’re like roaches here. She doesn’t care if the living wander. She only cares when we try to leave. She doesn’t like that. Trying to leave draws Her ire. Every cairn marked on that map was paid for in lives. I’m sure this will be the same.”

“One last question. Do you know why the Chancellor is so interested in this realm?”

“May he wither and die.” Eliv spit on the ground. “No, policeman. I do not. If I knew, I’d surely tell in the hopes it helps you in your plot to depose and murder him.”

Eliv must have been more observant during his stupor than they’d thought, and Illarion wondered if he had overheard Kristoph conspiring with him to kill the Cursed Vasily.

“The ravings of a lunatic.” Kristoph shook his head, then apologetically said to the others, “It is terribly unfortunate the mad man’s moment of lucidity was fleeting and once again he speaks in crazed lies. Unfortunate, indeed.”

“Unfortunate,” Chankov agreed, not that any of them had any problem believing that Kristoph was indeed plotting against his superior.

“Get up, scout. You’ll be on point with Baston the rest of the way. It is too bad that I cannot yet trust you with a gun.”

Eliv stood up and gave Kristoph mocking salute. “Very well, sir. Your wish is my command, sir.” He cackled.

The group broke up, everyone going to attend to their duties, but Eliv followed Illarion as he walked toward Object 12.

“What do you want?”

“The Cursed sees all despite his blindfolded eyes, but the Chancellor isn’t the only one who sent a spy.” Eliv pointed upwards, toward where the raven was still watching them from its perch. “I wonder what the Witch hopes to accomplish, sending you here?”

Illarion turned back and grabbed Eliv hard by the collar. “I’m tired and in no mood for games. Speak plain or not at all.”

Eliv grinned. “She slaughtered my comrades because it amused her. What do you think She’s going to do to one of the marked servants of the Witch who helped cast Her down into hell?”

“Do your duty, Scout.” Illarion let go of him. “And I’ll see to mine. Then maybe we can all go home.”

As he walked away, Eliv called after him, “I think I might already be home! Yes . . . my home . . . or maybe yours . . . ”

While the others broke camp, Chankov hesitated by the Object. He made a subtle motion only Illarion could see. Illarion walked over to the suit and asked in a low voice, “What is it?”

“I have a feeling today is going to be rough. You drive.”

“You’re as good a pilot as I am, and I’m way down the list in seniority.”

“Not today. We both know why you should be in there. Dead Sister’s eyes, Glazkov. We’ve all seen what you can do in this thing. Back home. Here. It makes no difference. Well, here I guess you are even better. I’ve known you were different since that first battle. The suit responded to you. It does things for you it won’t do for anyone else—believe me, I’ve tried. If I jumped my Object like that, I guarantee it would be getting repaired for a month. You didn’t so much as shear a bolt. So you’re primary today.”

“Alright.”

“If something awful is just through the trees, we all stand a better chance with you driving. The crew will keep you moving, and the cannon loaded, but you’re the one who’s going to get us through. Got it?”

“Got it. We need to get you home so you can find that woman in your dreams.”

Chankov smiled broadly and clapped Illarion on the shoulder. “I saw her in my dreams last night. She even told me we’d meet soon.”

“You see her face this time?”

“Almost. She was clearer this time. Her hair, Glazkov. Black as midnight. I’ve never seen hair that dark. She was wearing the same white dress as always, but this time I could see it better. Looked like it was made from one single piece of cloth. No seams. Almost see-through. And the farm, Illarion. It was as beautiful as she was. I’m going to find her, and settle down, you watch.”

“Hopefully she’s a good cook. Because you’re terrible.”

Chankov winked. “I make up for it in other ways.” Then his expression grew serious. “If something happens to me, get the crew home. No matter what.” Then he dismissed Illarion with a wave of his hand. “Get to work.”

When he approached the Object, the ghosts spoke to him again, but he couldn’t understand their words, and once he began climbing aboard the voices died off. Ghosts, Illarion silently mused. Whose ghosts were they? Something to ponder on when they escaped this realm.

There was some good-natured grumbling from the more senior members of the crew as Illarion strapped himself into the Object, but they all knew as well as Chankov he was their best hope. He noted the rope tied to the back of the Object, which led to where Lourens was sitting, bound.

He looked to Chankov. “We can’t go into battle dragging a comrade behind us, Sotnik.”

“I suppose we’re going to need every hand we can get.” Chankov walked over to Lourens. “Get up, Strelet Pavlovich.”

“Yes, sir.” Lourens did as he was told.

“You promise to be on your best behavior?” Chankov drew his knife. “Because I’ve got other things to worry about today, so it’s either slice that rope or slit your throat.”

“I do solemnly swear to obey your orders.” Lourens held up his bound wrists so Chankov could saw through the rope.

“Seriously, don’t make me regret this, kid. We all loved Svetlana too. I’ll testify in your defense at your hearing when we get back.”

“We all will,” Igor shouted.

Illarion looked down from 12’s hatch and nodded at his friend, even as he knew the testimony of mere soldiers would mean nothing when compared to the words of one of the Tsar’s select men. For Lourens to survive, Illarion would have to kill the Chancellor’s Cursed observer and hope that Kristoph kept his word.

Natalya and Eliv took the lead as they moved out. The raven flew on ahead, perching on a distant branch until they came close, then flying off again, almost as it was leading them, but toward what, they didn’t know.

Over the next few hours Object 12 plodded through the trees without so much as a stumble. The Wall’s many tools were totally unnecessary. Illarion had buttoned the hatch, but the temperature was the same roasting discomfort inside as out.

To his left, he caught movement, but when he looked, nothing was there. Illarion blinked the sweat from his eyes, but he was sure he’d seen something. It had been a dark shadow at ground level, moving between the trees. “Chankov, possible movement to the left.”

“You heard the man,” Chankov said. “Get ready.”

“Guns ready,” Darus shouted at their infantry. “But do not fire until given the command.”

They continued on in the eerie forest. The only sound was the repetitive metallic clank of 12’s legs. Illarion could tell exactly which joint needed to be greased based upon the sound.

Natalya appeared, running back toward the main body of the group. “There’s a clearing half a mile ahead. There’s buildings inside.”

“What manner of buildings?” Kristoph demanded.

“They look like houses. Typical peasant houses. I couldn’t see any sign of life through my scope, but that doesn’t mean they’re not inside or hiding.”

Illarion couldn’t imagine how anyone could live in a place like this. What did they eat? Ghoul flesh?

“Proceed,” Kristoph said.

Natalya returned to the point and the rest of them followed her. Darus spread his men out, as if they were expecting artillery. As they left the dead trees, the full force of the red, blazing sky hit them all again.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Darus pointed. “Looks like a regular old village.”

There were a dozen homes in view, simple wooden structures, with the steeply peaked roofs you needed to survive a Kolakolvian winter. Did it snow here then? Part of a larger structure was visible on the other side of the houses. It appeared to be a mill.

It looked . . . it looked like his mill.

The raven was already there, perched on the roof of a house . . . The house that would have belonged to the Golubev family. A short grain silo stood off to the side, just like it had in Ilyushka. Balan had fallen off that silo when they were kids and broken his wrist. The larger house next door belonged to their village’s Starosta, Hana’s father. The shutters were just as he remembered, worn but maintained. Instead of being filled with flowers, the beds were filled with the same red dust as everything else.

“Is this some sort of trick?” he asked aloud.

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Illarion spun the Object around, but realized he wasn’t in the Object anymore. He was outside, in the snow. White snow. The red light was gone. The sky was a pure winter blue. The oppressive heat had been replaced with a comfortable chill. He looked down at himself, saw he was wearing the same sturdy hunting clothes he had been on that fateful day that the whole of Ilyushka had died. Only he was standing in Ilyushka as it once was, before the mill had burned. Before his world had turned to blood, mud, and terror.

“You can have your old life back if you wish.”

The most beautiful woman he had ever seen stood opposite him in the snow. Dark hair, olive skin, white dress. She . . . she looked like the woman Chankov described in his dreams. She didn’t wear any boots but didn’t seem to mind the cold. Her breath didn’t mist in the air like his own was.

“Who are you?”

“Why do you ask a question you already know the answer to? Do I not look at all familiar?”

She did, and she was right. She looked like the Witch, just younger. But then . . . somehow she also seemed older at the same time. “You’re the Third Sister. The Dead Sister.”

The woman curtsied. The motion was sarcastic. Mocking.

“And you are Illarion Alexandrovich Glazkov, who has been marked by the Baba Yaga. Very few mortals get to meet two goddesses, Illarion. I would expect more of a reaction. You are too young to be so jaded.”

He chose his words carefully but remained wary. “My apologies. I do not intend offense.”

“I see why she picked you out of the herd. Handsome, strong, a sense of honor that I can smell on you, you’re even idealistic by the standards of your pessimistic tribe . . . at least you were idealistic once. Do not lose that fresh-faced optimism, Illarion. When my eldest sister tires of her toys, she breaks them. I understand why she chose you, but do you?”

“I failed to live up to the covenants my people made.” He gestured around the quiet village. “And because of that, Ilyushka was no longer under the Sister of Nature’s protection. The Sister of Logic sent her beasts to kill us. I alone survived. Now I pay for my sins so that the souls of my people may rest at peace.”

The Dead Sister laughed. “That’s what she told you? And you believed her?”

Illarion said nothing.

“Surely your people have legends about how the Baba Yaga is a fickle creature. Those who please her, she blesses. Those who anger her, she destroys. I suppose it would be in her nature to let her demons devour a village just because one of their youth failed to heed her arbitrary commands. But no, Illarion, she picked you because every so often she decides the rotting husk of her puppet empire needs to be propped up, so she sends them a hero to inspire them. She clearly has great things in store for you.”

“I’m just a soldier who does as he is ordered.”

“How sweet.” Her voice let Illarion know she didn’t think that way at all as she all but spat out the word. “You are a vessel of power, with the capability to change your world. You are the thing most feared by priests and kings . . . an honest man. You are not the first fool she has tried to raise up as her champion. You will not be the last, unless of course, our other sister finally gets her way, and you are left with nothing to defend but smoking ruins.”

“She would use the Almacians to destroy us.”

“Of course. Just as the Witch would use your tribe of humans to do the same to her. I warned them against this needless war, but they did not listen. Now I desire for them all to die.” As she spoke it was as if bones shifted beneath her skin, and for just a moment, she had the jagged teeth of a ghoul, but then the image was gone. “My sisters play a dangerous game. I enjoy thwarting them. Which is why I’ve come to you with an offer. Abandon your patron and join me. It will frustrate her plans, and that brings me a small measure of joy.”

There was a caw. The raven had followed them into the snow. The Dead Sister scowled at it. “Begone.” And the raven instantly vanished. “Now we may continue without her meddling.”

Illarion had no doubt that she could make him disappear just as easily as the raven. “I am only a humble farmer turned soldier. The affairs of gods are beyond my understanding.”

“You are not required to comprehend, merely do as you are told. Is that not the way of your people? Forsake your mark. Serve me.”

“To do what?”

Her smile displayed fangs. “To bring righteous vengeance upon those two bitches and their nations of slaves. To purge my home world with fire, and leave the invader humans broken and contrite, except for the devout few who have been wise enough to beg my forgiveness for how their people wronged me.”

She took a step toward him. Illarion took an instinctive step back.

“I may be as cruel as my sisters, but I am also just. Forsake your patron and pledge yourself to me instead. I will compensate you for your losses.” She pointed toward his mill, where two figures were standing in the snow. Their faces were indistinct, but Illarion recognized his mother . . . just as he remembered her. And Hana . . . 

His heart swelled with pain at the lie. “You can’t bring back the dead.”

“I can do whatever I want. I am a goddess after all. Such things are within my power.”

“Why can’t I see their faces?” He didn’t have his glasses here, but this was a different kind of blindness. “Why can’t I see them clearly?”

“Because you do not remember them clearly.”

“No, it’s because it’s not really them.”

“Why does that matter?” she snapped. “What do you wish your betrothed to look like? I can make her look like the girl from the Wall.” The girl’s face shifted, took on Svetlana’s appearance. “Or maybe your traveling companion, Natalya—I can tell you feel strongly for that one. More so than you ever did for the farm girl.” The face changed again.

“Stop.” Illarion closed his eyes. “I don’t want that at all.”

“Humans are confusing things. Which would you prefer?”

Prefer?” Anger stirred in his chest. A white-hot rage that he’d been pushing down for months of war and pain. “I would prefer if the gods hadn’t killed my family to begin with. The Witch marks me—whatever that means—and now . . . now you want me to forsake her in exchange for these lies? No. Let us pass. We have no quarrel with you. It was the Sister of Logic who killed my people.”

“What a convenient thing for my eldest sibling to tell you. Which seems more likely? The winding, twisted story of a poor farm boy’s ignorance of ancient pacts dooming his entire village? Or did the Witch slaughter them herself, to use your pain to mold you into a more effective weapon?”

It felt possible, but that didn’t mean he would ally himself with her instead. Every instinct warned him that was a trap. It would have been better for him to have bled to death in the snow outside Ilyushka than to make a pact with the Baba Yaga, but it was too late for that now. He would not make the same mistake again.

“Maybe that’s all true, but as I heard a good man just say, lesser or greater, evil is still evil.”

She scoffed at his words. “Do not speak to me of things you cannot understand, boy. The three are beyond good and evil. You identified me as the Third Sister. That is my place by order of creation, but it is not my true title. The eldest you call the Sister of Nature, because she represents the basest patterns of life, the plants that feed or the vines that choke. The seasons. The tides. Primal, base life. The next one mankind called the Sister of Logic, because she represents the reason that came next, number and thought, the tools of sentient life imposing order upon the chaos. Then I was the last.”

“Who are you?” Illarion asked.

“Who was I. First comes life, in all its savage, merciless beauty. Then comes thought, except thought alone is cruel. To reach its potential sentient life must have compassion, mercy, and forgiveness. I was the Sister of Grace. For millennium we ruled in balance. Until mankind blundered in and ruined it all. The old races could not compete. The first declared the strongest would survive. The second marveled at mankind’s calculating and efficient ways. My sisters decided to forsake their children and adopt new, stronger ones. I plead for the old ways. I tried to stop them, and for that, they banished me to the land of the dead, where I wait, angry, as man lives in a fallen world of suffering, bereft of kindness.”

She was staring at her white hands, the fingers of which had turned into blackened points.

“What are you now then?”

“I have become the Sister of Vengeance.”

Snow began to fall. The fresh beautiful snow of the north. Large, soft flakes that children ran outside to catch in their mouths. That snow lovers took long walks in while under a shared blanket.

“This is your last chance, Illarion. The Witch wronged you. Help me kill her, as she once killed me. Help send the Witch to this world, to my jurisdiction, so I may have my revenge.”

“Your cause is just, but I cannot help you destroy my country and hurt my people.”

She nodded slowly. “You have made your choice and must suffer the consequences. If you will not help me, I will no longer help you. I am the only reason you have made it this far. I will not stop your passage through this realm, but I will no longer hold back the hunger of this land either. Farewell, Illarion Glazkov.”

“Farewell, Sister.”

Reality snapped back in harsh red.

“Glazkov, you there? Illarion?”

Someone was banging on Object 12’s hatch. He blinked a few times, eyes getting used to the harsh crimson light streaming through the view port again. The chill air had been replaced with oppressive heat. Ilyushka still stretched before him, but now it was a village of ghosts.

“What? Yes. I’m here. What’s wrong?”

“You’ve been standing there, motionless for a minute.” Wallen’s voice was muffled from the other side of the armor. “We were worried, to say the least. What happened?”

“I’ll explain if we make it out of this.”

“Out of what?”

From the cloudless, sunless sky, flakes began to fall. Snow, tinted red in the light. Natalya walked along, a few yards ahead of the Object, one hand held out. A flake landed on her fingers, and she rubbed at it. The flake smeared, red and thick. She brought her fingertips to her nose and sniffed.

She turned back toward the crew. “This isn’t snow. It’s blood.”

“Well shit,” Chankov said as the rest of the soldiers either took to swearing, or making various religious warding motions with their hands. “Of course it is. I should have encouraged Spartok to come in my place.” Ahead, the mill didn’t look as clean and clear as he recalled. The shutters drooped. The roof looked like it had collapsed from rot in multiple places. The false Ilyushka was decaying around them as flakes of blood began to pour from the sky.

“Come on, boys,” Darus said. “Didn’t your parents ever tell you not to stand out in a nightmare blood snow?”

“It never came up, sir!” one of the men shouted back. Light chuckles kept the madness at bay . . . for the moment.

Chankov thumped 12 on the arm with his pry bar to get Illarion’s attention. “Move up the main road and let’s find a building with some cover.”

“The Object will fit in the mill,” he replied with absolute certainty.

“How do you know that?”

But he had already pushed Object 12 into a fast walk, which everyone else followed at a run. Normally an Object would have required somebody to knock down the fence, but Illarion just hopped tons of armor over as it was nothing. He led the platoon around to the back side of the mill, where he knew the big barn door would be. He had loaded thousands of wagonloads of grain through that door, but it would do just as well for the massive suit. Sure enough, the door was there. One steel hand effortlessly dragged the heavy thing open. The center of the room held the massive millstone, just like he remembered it.

He ducked the Object through the door. There was just enough room for him to stand it upright without hitting the beams above. “Darus, the walls are thick and strong, but there’s shutters all along the ground floor to air out the grain dust. There’s two ladders. One will take you up to the storage landing. There’s a shuttered window on each side there. The other ladder will take you to the very top where there’s a narrow ledge and four narrow view ports in each compass direction. Those will make for good firing positions.”

“How—”

Kristoph cut him off. “Send riflemen to each. Do it now, Sotnik.”

“I know where I’m best needed.” Natalya slung her rifle over one shoulder and immediately began climbing.

Darus sent men up the ladders, and then had his soldiers fan out, checking for potential danger. The ones in the lead put a hand to their faces, gagging or covering their noses.

“What is that smell?” a man asked.

“I am surprised you do not recognize the smell of death, Trencher.” Kristoph pointed to the millstone and its track. Old, black, fetid blood had pooled there. The grinding wheel itself was smeared with the ichor. Bits of chitinous shell stuck to the wheel and floated in the pool of black blood. Leaning against the wheel was an old shovel, its point smeared in the same blackness.

“I smelled plenty of rotting death, sir, but nothing like that.”

“Dead Sister,” Chankov muttered. “What happened here?”

No one spoke. No one had any idea, except Illarion. He had to tell them all the truth, no matter how insane it sounded. Otherwise he was no better than Kristoph.

“I happened.” 12’s magical voice magnification carried his message to the entire group. “This was my home. I grew up working this mill.” He had to resist reaching out with one giant metal hand to see how easy it would be for the great machine to turn the stone that had made him strong.

“We are a long way from the frozen north, Kapral Glazkov,” Kristoph said. “Unless . . . this village was put here specifically as a form of torture for you.”

Not a question, but a statement of fact. Kristoph was no fool. He recognized there were forces in play here, far beyond their understanding.

“This is where my mother was killed. Where I was nearly killed. I used the mill to trap the monster that did it, then beat the thing with a shovel. Though . . . the shovel shouldn’t be here. I used it as a crutch to escape as this place burned down. This was my home the night my village was destroyed.”

“I . . . I don’t understand what’s happening.” Darus and the rest of the trenchers looked terrified, as the man driving their greatest weapon spoke as if he’d lost his mind.

“They killed everyone. Except the babies. The cribs were empty. They took the babies, but for what, I don’t know.”

“What’re you going on about? What happened here?” Wallen demanded. The man had seen unspeakable terror on the battlefield, but outside the barn doors, it was snowing blood. Every man had his limits.

“I think I understand now. What happened here was everyone died except Glazkov.” Chankov walked around the front of the Object, a scowl on his face. “And it’s going to happen again if we don’t keep it together.”

Inside the suit, Illarion gritted his teeth and focused. Chankov was correct. “This realm is toying with us. When I froze up out there, it was because the master of this place was speaking to me. It’s the Third Sister, and She’s got an anger you can’t even begin to understand. Believe me or not, I don’t care, but we’re about to get attacked.”

“By what?” someone shouted.

On cue, from outside, rose the wailing of the creatures that had attacked his village all those months ago. Tortured, hell-claimed wails. First one, then two, then a dozen.


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