“Aye, Freg.” Speros laid a hand on the Fjel’s arm, humbled by his strength and endurance. Never once, since the Marasoumië had spat them out, had he heard one complain. “And you’re the team for it. Pull, lads, pull!”

Groaning and straining, they obeyed him once more. Taloned feet splayed, seeking purchase on the churned sand. Yellowed nails dug furrows on top of furrows, strong legs driving as the Fjel bent to the harness, and the buckler moved, iron grating and squealing as it was dragged across the desert.

How many times had they done this? Speros had lost count. It had seemed impossible on the first day. Boulders were like pebbles, dropped into the Well of the World. On the first day they had merely fallen an impossible distance, shattering, dispersing fragments into the cavern of the dead Marasoumië. He had been uncertain that the Well could be blocked. It had taken all his cunning to achieve it; rigging the skid, utilizing the full strength of the Fjel, moving the largest pieces first.

Even then, he had been unsure.

And yet … and yet. In time, it had happened.

The last boulder crashed like thunder as they rolled it over the lip. Speros straightened, putting his hands at the small of his back. His lower back ached, and his nails were torn and bloodied. “Good job, lads,” he gasped. “Fill in the rest with loose rock and sand, make it look natural. That ought to do it.”

The Gulnagel surrounded the shallow mouth of the Well, backing up to it and squatting low. Sand and shale flew as they dug dog-wise, shoveling a flurry of debris betwixt their rear legs, braced and solid. The remaining feet of the Well’s open throat dwindled to inches.

“Good job, lads,” Speros repeated, eyeing the rising level and trying to remain steady on his feet. “Remember to make it look natural.”

One of them grunted; Freg, perhaps. It was hard to tell from the rear. Speros clapped a hand on the nearest Fjel appendage and let his staggering steps take him down the mound. The earth was churned and torn. He had to tread with exhausted care to avoid turning an ankle. All around the desert floor, the jagged stumps of the monoliths remained, raw and accusatory.

General Tanaros was seated on one, sharpening his sword and gazing westward.

Speros wove toward him. “Lord General!” He drew himself up in a weary salute. “The Well is filled.”

“Thank you, Speros.” The General spoke in a deep voice, absentminded. “Look at that, will you?” He pointed with the tip of his sword; to the west, where a red star hung low on the horizon. “Dergail’s Soumanië still rises. What do you think it means?”