Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 125422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Outside the forest’s protective canopy, it’s snowing lightly, and a few stray flakes drift down through the woven branches.
In the dim light, Ilmarinen crouches near a mossy rise, preparing to use the sampo. This morning, he found a ley line right there—one of the vital currents of power Louhi and the Old Gods have twisted out of shape. If the sampo works, the Old Gods will lose some of their strength, if not all of it. We desperately need that edge, especially with Hanna’s power out of the picture.
Hanna shifts, and I catch her eye. I see the flicker of determination and fear in her gaze as she glances at Ilmarinen’s preparations.
“Is that thing really going to make a difference?” she asks softly.
I shrug. “It better,” I say as I rise, stretching sore muscles. The night’s rest on the forest floor wasn’t kind to my bones—I’m feeling less like a God by the day—but we survived another night. That alone is a blessing.
I walk over to Ilmarinen, damp moss squelching underfoot. he kneels with his ear to the ground, muttering to himself. Soldiers form a loose perimeter, watching silently, curiously. Torben appears, yawning deeply, Rasmus by his side, his hair a mess from sleeping, both ready to help if needed.
“So?” I ask Ilmarinen.
He looks up, thinning hair pulled back, cheeks smudged with dirt. “So,” he echoes, “I can feel it pulsing beneath us. This spot is as good as any.”
I glance back at Hanna. She stands behind me, silent, her presence an anchor. My hope rekindles, small but steady.
Ilmarinen positions the strange device with reverence. It gleams faintly, a complex work of metal and crystal and grinding parts etched with ancient runes. I feel its hum, as if hearing a distant choir singing beneath the soil.
He spins one of the spheres and begins a soft chant. Soldiers tense, hands on hilts. The forest hushes. For a moment, I imagine this working smoothly: ley lines stabilizing, the Old Gods losing their stranglehold. Then, we can push forward to Shadow’s End and challenge Louhi on more even terms. Hanna’s hand drifts near mine, as if seeking comfort. I brush my knuckles against hers.
A sudden creak of wood snaps me back to reality. The ground vibrates, and Ilmarinen jerks upright, hands stopping the sphere.
Suddenly, vines and roots at the edge of the clearing heave as if alive, dirt flying through the air. The ground near us splits, moss and ferns sucked under. Soldiers shout in alarm.
“Yggthra!” Rasmus yells as a blackened trunk rises from the ground, an Old God of twisted roots and tangled vines. It must sense us trying to mend the ley lines. Thick, wooden tentacles surge upward, lashing out. Ilmarinen leaps out of the way with his sampo as soldiers quickly spring into action, hacking at roots as thick as a man’s arm. Hanna lifts her hand, golden sparks dancing at her fingertips, then hesitates. I see the conflict in her eyes. She could obliterate these roots with solar fire—but at what cost to her memory?
“Do what you must,” I say, pressing my sword into my palm. I charge forward, slashing at a thrashing root. Sap and black ichor splatter the moss. Hanna draws a careful breath and then unleashes a narrower beam of radiance—less than what she’s capable of, but enough to scorch a cluster of roots. She’s holding back, rationing her power.
Yggthra’s limbs keep coming, writhing in fury. Soldiers form a line, shields raised. The Magician and Lovia return from the forest depths, the Magician weaving mycelia up from the ground to slow the roots, Lovia’s sword flashing in the dim light. From the way she charges at the creature, it’s apparent she has fought the Old God before.
Tapio and Tellervo join in, summoning vines and other roots against the beast. I strike down two more twisted coils, my blade humming with each swing.
“Allow me!” Kaleva the troll says, running through the forest toward it, the ground shaking with his heavy footfalls. The soldiers jump out of the way just in time as Kaleva throws himself on the Old God, punching it hard enough to break wood, bark flying.
Well, well, well. Thank the Gods for the Keskelli.
However, it doesn’t kill the Old God, only disables it enough for it to flop and writhe on the ground, its roots still reaching for people but slower now.
Then, I hear the dry rattle of bones. Skeleton soldiers appear from the shadows between trees, encircling us. We’re flanked. The undead hordes press in, their hollow eyes glowing green, shields and swords raised. The timing is perfect—too perfect. We’re caught between Yggthra’s thrashing roots and the skeleton army.
Hanna stands at my side, jaw tight. She could incinerate them all if she let the sun loose inside her, but she doesn’t. Instead, she summons controlled bursts of light, firing them at the undead, killing some of them.