9

The parson had listened from afar in a state of dull indifference. His Huntress had been defeated, his enemy reinstated; his wife had turned out to be some kind of Seeress-and what did it matter anyway? What did anything matter, now that he had lost the Word?

He looked across at Ethel, standing among the Seer-folk with Dorian on one side of her and that absurd pig on the other. Even the goblin was with them, he thought, and he felt a sudden wrench of self-pity as he realized that no one was watching him, that he could just stand up and walk away into the desert and no one would miss him or even notice that he had gone. He might be dead, for all they cared; even that damned pig got more respect-

Stop whining, man, for gods’ sakes!

Nat jumped as if he’d been stuck with a pin.

Who’s that? Who spoke? Examiner?

But Nat knew that it was not the voice of an Examiner. It was no more than a whisper in his mind-and yet he knew it, heard it as if through dreams…

Then it struck him with the force of a slap.

Why, that’s my voice, thought Nat, lifting his head. And with the realization came another thought, one that lit up his eyes with sudden eagerness and set his heart a-fluttering.

Perhaps he didn’t need Elias Rede.

Rede was just one man in an army of thousands. And an army of thousands would have its own general-a general whose powers would be unimaginably greater than those of any foot soldier-a general who might be grateful for an insider’s help…

Nat looked at the Good Book in his hands. Stripped of the powers the Examiner had brought him, he saw that it was just so much worthless ballast now, and he dropped it without a second thought. More important to him now was the knife in his pocket: just a simple clasp knife, such as any countryman might carry, but sharpened to a lethal sliver.

He knew where to strike, had used it many a time when he was a boy, hunting deer with his father in Little Bear Wood. No one would suspect him now. No one thought him capable. But when the time came, he would know what to do…

And so Nat stood up and joined the group, and followed, and watched, and awaited his chance as the light of Chaos lit the plain and gods and demons marched to war.

“Gods,” said Heimdall. “There are so many of them…”

They had reached the edge of the battle line. It was vaster than any of them had ever imagined, vast with the false perspective of Hel’s domain, and lined from one horizon to the other with the dead.

Whatever they had been in life, Odin thought, in death the Order had merged as one: a last Communion, a deadly swarm armed with one Word, which, when uttered, would increase its power by ten thousand.

He could already feel it building: it raised his hackles, shivered the ground, made the clouds shift and circle. If there had been birds in those clouds, they would have dropped from the sky; as it was, even the dead felt it and followed, like dust on a wind of static.

They were waiting, he sensed, for some command, some new word that would galvanize them into movement. All of them silent now, eyes closed; all of them focused with the unbreakable concentration of the dead. The column seemed to stretch out for miles, and yet beyond it the farsighted Watchman seemed to see something-something impossible, he told himself, and yet if he’d not known, he could almost have sworn…

But then came a rumbling across the plain, a silent resonance that nevertheless penetrated the listeners to the marrow and beyond.

Bragi heard it as a lost chord.

Idun heard it as the silent sob of a dying man.

Freyja heard it as a cracked mirror.

Heimdall heard it as a blackbird shadow.

Frey heard it as a death wind.

Skadi heard it as creeping ice.

And Odin heard it as a whisper of the Elder Days, a low sound of ancient spite, and suddenly he understood-not everything, but some at least-and as once more the ten thousand dead opened their eyes and spoke as one, everyone heard the Word that was spoken, a teasing, seductive whisper of a Word that hung over the desert like a distant smoke signal under the putrid clouds.

Odin, it whispered.

“I hear you,” he said.

Then come, it said. Come to Me.

And as the Vanir watched, the ten thousand with their ranks and columns parted silently and in a single fluid movement, leaving a narrow passageway across the sand.

Odin smiled and stepped forward, staff in hand.

Heimdall made as if to guide him.

The dead column seemed to tremble. Ten thousand pairs of eyes opened once more and ten thousand heads turned in his direction. The combined weight of their concentration made the Watchman’s teeth ache.

Alone, said the Whisperer, and every Examiner mouthed the words in perfect synchronicity. The General must stand alone.

There was a long pause. Then Odin spoke. “At least let me take the goblin,” he said. “I’ll need his eyes to lead me through.”

Agreed, said the Whisperer, and its voice moved through the mouths of the dead like the wind through a field of corn.

Odin smiled.

“If you think I’m letting you go alone-” said Heimdall.

“I must,” said Odin. “The prophecy-”

“Damn the prophecy!”

With an effort Odin drew himself up to the full height of his Warrior Aspect. Light and fury blazed from him; the air about him was bright with runes.

“I’m ordering you to stay here,” he said. “You and the other Vanir too.”

“But why?”

“Because it’s the only way. And because if I lose this battle, it may be that the Vanir will be all that stands between Chaos and the Middle Worlds.”

“But you can’t fight. You can’t even see-”

“I don’t need to see. Now let me go.”

“At least let Idun give you some apple-”

“Listen, Heimdall.” Odin turned toward him, and his one eye, though blind, was shining. “If my suspicions are right, then even in my youth, armed, in full Aspect, and with my glam intact, I would have been no match for the powers here. You really think fruit is going to help?”

“Then why are you going?” Freyja said.

Ethel could have told her, with her new clear sight, but Odin had bound her to silence. The image of the death ship was strong in her mind-the fallen General with his dog at his feet-and she wished there was something she could say to make him turn back…

But by then Odin was already gone, with Sugar leading him carefully across the dusty ground, and the ranks of the Order closed as he passed, erasing him like writing in the sand.

10

Nat Parson had watched with apparent indifference as Odin vanished into the ranks. Inside, however, his heart was racing.

That Voice!

He’d heard it as they all had, whispered across the battlefield, and he’d clapped both hands to his face as blood began to drip from his nose. It was the Word-he could sense it as a rabid dog scents water-and for a moment he thought he might go mad from terror and desire.

And now he could almost touch the Word; it trembled all around him like the coming of spring; it called him in a voice like gold-

Laws, that power!

Ten thousand times stronger than anything he’d felt before, the pull of the Word was not to be denied, and who could know, when at last it was unleashed, what gifts it might bestow on a faithful servant?

Worlds, Nathaniel. What else is there?

He stared at the obedient dead, pegged out across the colorless horizon. Ten thousand dead, yet strangely alive-his strained senses could feel their vigilance, their stillness a blind over that horrible alertness. He could feel their unity: the ripples that ran through them like wind through grass, a single flicker of an eye echoed in ten thousand pairs of eyes as they stood in terrible Communion.