Overhead, the first pale stars of twilight began to emerge and the ravens of Darkhaven fluffed their feathers, settling on their perches and calling to one another with sleepy squawks. All was quiet. in the Delta, and at its heart, a pair of yellow-green eyes hung like lanterns in the dimness, hinting at the enormous bulk beyond. Ushahin gave one last tug on the bilge-sodden rope, and smiled. “Mother of Dragons.” He bowed to her, then sat, feeling the skiff rock a little beneath his shifting weight. “I am listening.”

“In the beginning,” said Calanthrag the Eldest, “there was Urulat …”

“PULL!” SPEROS SHOUTED.

The Gulnagel groaned, hauling on the ropes. They were heroic figures in the red light of the setting sun, broad backs and shoulders straining, the muscles in their bulging haunches a-quiver. The chunk of rock they labored to haul moved a few paces on its improvised skid, built of a dented Fjel buckler and rope salvaged from the Well. It hadn’t been on a pulley, either; just a straight length of it, impossible to draw. He’d had to send one of the Fjel back down the Well to sever it and retrieve as much as was possible.

“Pull!” Speros chanted. “Pull, pull, pull!”

With grunts and groans, they did. It moved, inch by inch, grinding across the hard-packed sand. He joined his efforts to theirs at the end, rolling it manually to the lip of the Well. It wasn’t easy. The standing monoliths of Stone Grove had shattered when toppled, but even the pieces into which they had broken were massive. Atop the mound of the Well, Speros stood shoulder to shoulder with the Gulnagel, heaving.

“All right, lads,” he panted, loosening the rope with dirty fingers. “Now push.”

It fell with a satisfying crash, landing only a few yards below. Their long labors showed results at last; the shaft of the Well was well and truly clogged. Speros flopped onto the cooling sand, giving his aching muscles a chance to recover.

“More, boss?” One of the Gulnagel hovered over him.

“A few more, aye.” With difficulty, Speros rose, gathering the rope. It was vine-wrought, but sturdy beyond belief. Those poor old Yarru had woven it well. “One more,” he amended, weaving toward a distant boulder. “Bring the skied.”

Stout hearts that they were, they did. He helped them lever the next rock onto the concave buckler and wrapped the rope around it, securing the boulder in place, lashing it to the handles. “Once more, lads,” he said encouragingly, helping the Gulnagel into harness. “Remember, push with the legs!”

One grinned at him, lowering his shoulders and preparing to haul. Freg was his name; Speros knew him by the chipped eyetusks. that gleamed ruddily in the sunset. There were marks on his shoulders where the rope’s chafing had worn the rough hide as smooth as polished leather. “You drive a team hard, boss.”