He repeated the process with all five; he rearranged them and made them better, according to his lights, and he imprinted himself on their meat, leaving them very little self and a reimagined node that would function only to receive and transmit his will. Each received an entire imprint of him.

But he found there were aspects of Orley that pleased him—in spite of its debasement, or perhaps because of it—and he overwrote these aspects of Orley on them all.

He grinned with pleasure, and his grin caused the same terror as his grimmer face.

“Good,” he said. “Now you are all Orley. A triumph, of sorts.” He touched each of them. “No mortal weapon of steel or bronze will touch you, my children. You are my will.”

“Yes,” all six of them said instantly.

“It is almost like talking to a person,” he said.

“Yes,” they chorused.

He couldn’t stifle a giggle. “I am God,” he said, delighted. “I can make and I can destroy.”

He touched another dozen cringing slaves and made their slavery more abject.

And more efficient.

All of this required an investment of power, as did the maintenance of his armies, the empowerment of his various shields, and the bonds of adamant that held his aquatic “allies” to his purpose.

And through the ties of will that bound him to every bogglin in his host, he felt the further stirrings of the will. The process was not unlike the way a cat might feel the edges of a tunnel with her whiskers. And Ash’s reaction was as instinctive.

Even as the distant will began to seize his slaves, Ash drew himself up. He withdrew his will from Orley’s monsters and turned to walk back down the beach.

In a forest clearing, a hundred leagues to the south, two Rukh, a cave troll, and a hundred bogglins were conquered. The process was as swift as lightning.

The battle was on.

Ash cursed.

Trees died.

He took on his true form and leapt into the air, flying south. Almost as an afterthought, he ordered Orley’s horde to follow him. Lot had won this round; he could not retake the well and face the will at the same time. And the well was not vital.

Ally with Lot?

The will was the true enemy.

Or so he might say to Lot.

The Inner Sea—Aneas Muriens

On the shore of the Inner Sea, Aneas’s rangers were ready. The two Gallish round ships waited like floating fortresses in the two coves, covering possible landing beaches; the rangers waited in concealment, under webs of defensive spells, their own and those cast by Master Smythe.

The sun rose and dispersed the mist on the great lake, and eyes searched the sun-dazzled water for the flash or oars or paddles.