Imagined crawling through branches and knots of World Tree. Smell of Druff on wind. Damaged branches to fix. Parasites to harvest. Old leaves to prune. New growth to feed and nurture.

Felt sick for home. Then moved on.

Battle damage critical in places.

Hound of Difficulty like large wounded creature. Not showing pain or weakness to the world, but dying inside unless fixed.

Came to end of duct and dropped into corridor.

List of jobs as long as all six arms.

Always more to fix.

Always more.

And sleep far away. No sleep for hours. Not with so much fixing left to do.

Missed nest.

Good nest.

Set off walking along corridor when felt something.

A change in the air.

Something electrical.

A cloud passing in front of the sun.

And a familiar voice.

An old, old voice.

It spoke in my head, like the voice of an old friend.

Like the voice of the World Tree.

The voice of god.

And it said,

Hello, Nod.

I said, “Hello, world creature.”

World creature asked about ship. Told it Hound of Difficulty a quarrelsome, cantankerous piece of garbage.

Told it ship honourable, despite everything.

Told it that ship care for Nod.

Told it Nod also care for ship, although wouldn’t admit it aloud.

Told it Nod trust ship. Nod trust Captain Konstanz.

Nod like humans. Humans broken and stupid but funny. Humans trustable.

And world creature thought and thought about this.

Then it said,

Good.

Sixty-Five: Trouble Dog

SIXTY-FIVE

TROUBLE DOG

The tower was old, the stones mossy. From the summit, I could see the forest canopy stretching away to the horizon, rising and dipping in the wind like the swell of a rough green ocean. I felt like a lighthouse keeper. The breeze hitting the side of the tower brought with it the sticky smells of pine needles and fresh sap. It ruffled my hair and tugged at the hem of my trench coat. Birds and insects hopped and skittered among the branches. The cries and hoots of unseen animals echoed up from the forest floor.

Behind me, the avatars from the Adalwolf and Righteous Fury stood on either side of a crude wooden table. The Adalwolf had reverted to its default portrayal of a young, thin-faced man with unruly black hair, gaunt cheeks and smouldering eyes. A dark robe streamed and snapped around his emaciated frame. In contrast, the Fury’s avatar was a muscular and vengeful god, in the style of the Ancient Romans. A pristine white toga wrapped his bronzed, muscular torso. Gold ringlets tumbled across his shoulders, held back from his face by a platinum band. His thick fingers grasped the shaft of a golden trident with prongs shaped like lightning bolts, and his eyes were the startling, timeless blue of the Mediterranean Sea. When he opened his mouth to speak, his voice boomed like surf on a pebble beach.

“I speak for the Conglomeration Navy.”

Arms folded, Adalwolf looked distinctly unimpressed. “As do I.”