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him.
He flowed back into the insect shape. Terror spread like ripples in a pond.
He enjoyed the fear. Grim would be in heaven in this situation. Grim had been
a bully born. Svavar had had to learn to take pleasure in the fear and misery
of odiers.
He moved more slowly as the cold deepened. The insect form was vulnerable to
low temperature.
The land grew bleaker and more sparsely inhabited. Farms - and whole
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villages had been abandoned. There was no growing season anymore.
Svavar discovered that the insect form was not the only one j he could take.
That distracted him for weeks, till he learned to \ assume a dozen more
shapes, mostly useful, some just horri-ble. The limits of his imagination were
his only constraint. Someday, he would learn to become a dragon. A huge black
dragon, all fangs and fire and claws.
When he became less amused by shape-shifting play he resumed the mission he
had assigned himself.
At Grodnir's Point, now uninhabited, he took the shape of a bull walrus,
crossed the ice and slipped into the sea south of Orfland. The channel between
the mainland and the island was narrower, now, and was frozen over. Sea level
seemed to have dropped a few yards. Svavar wondered how much the Shallow Sea
had dwindled.
Waters that once teemed with sea people were now almost barren. Svavar
needed three days to find a colony sheltering in a cove on the western coast
of a small, rocky island thirty miles out in the south Andorayan Sea. A
minuscule leak of power kept the cove more habitable than its surroundings.
The power seepage felt like warm sunshine on a spring morning. Svavar had
not known about the gentle pleasure the
power could give. Nor how mucjj stronger he might grow,
given a chance to bask.
The people of the sea were frightened. He was the greatest power they had
known. The Instrumentalities of the Night were seldom seen these days. The
lesser entities were gone, fled or buried beneath the ice if they were the
sort attached to a particular place.
Svavar tried to be diplomatic. He insisted that he meant no harm. He
summoned a school of cod, learning that fish were scarce now, too. Then he
explained, "Somewhere out on the water mere's an opening into the realm of the
gods. To the world of the Old Ones."
The fear of the sea people made for a long silence.
Svavar told them, "The One Who Harkens to the Sound is no more. Arlensul and
Sprenghul are no more. Once I reach the Great Sky Fortress, the others will be
no more as well."
None of these creatures had known any of the Old Ones. The gods of the north
had not been active for centuries. Not since, Svavar surmised, a southbound
band of hunters from Andoray disappeared a long, long time ago.
He was the fear the sea people knew now.
A reluctant trio of young males received the task of showing Svavar where
legend told them the gateway to the realm of the gods lay. The horror the sea
people called the Port of Shadows.
SVAVAR THE WALRUS ENTERED THE HARBOR OF THE GODS. Most of (he water there
contained the warmth of a power leak. But thin ropes of cold snaked around its
surface. Everything ashore seemed soft focused, as though seen through
cataracted eyes.
Svavar heaved clumsily ashore, assumed the guise of As-grimmur Grimmsson.
Dwarves surrounded him immediately. They brought clothing. It fit. He did not
wonder why. Not then.
He stared up the mountain. The Great Sky Fortress looked like a distant
dream lurking behind thin trailers of gossamer. The dwarves were solid enough,
though. And they were afraid.
Svavar thought back. He could not recall the dwarves speaking last time. Nor
could he recall much about them from the myths. They were the wondrous
artisans who crafted the magical artifacts that made the legends go. If
treated badly or cheated they could become quite unpleasant
He who was widest, shaggiest, and grayest asked, "Are you the One Foretold?"
"Huh? What's going on?"
"The End of Time." The old dwarf said no more. He answered no questions. His
companions were astonished that he had spoken at all.
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