Ragnarson chuckled and looked at the wizard askance. That was not a Varthlokkur metaphor.

“Excuse me. You mentioned Mist. That reminded me of Visigodred, which made me think of his apprentice, Marco. I heard Marco say something of the sort once.”

Visigodred was a mutual acquaintance, an Itaskian wizard who had helped during the Great Eastern Wars. He was a long-time friend of Mist. His apprentice, a foul-mouthed dwarf named Marco, had perished at Palmisano.

“Marco. That’s funny. Every damned conversation today leads to somebody who died at Palmisano.”

“We left a lot of good people there. A lot of good people. Victory may have cost us more than we could afford. It took the good people and left the blackguards. They’ll start their power games before long.”

They were in the back exercise court now, standing over the body. The soldiers had beaten a hasty retreat. Bragi said, “Maybe they’ve already started.”

“Maybe. Move back. You don’t want to be too close.”

“I don’t want to be in the same province,” Ragnarson muttered. Nevertheless, he seated himself on some steps and waited.

Varthlokkur did not do anything flashy. He just stood there, head bowed, eyes closed, concentrating. Neither he nor the King moved for twenty minutes.

Ragnarson felt it before he saw it. He stiffened. His right hand strayed to the sword he always carried. He grimaced. As if mere steel could avail against the Unborn.

He hated the thing. Created by one of the Princes Thaumaturge, it had been insinuated into the womb of his Fiana. It had grown there, and grown there, and its coming forth had killed her.

Varthlokkur had delivered that child of evil, had made of it a terrible tool, and had turned the tool upon its creators.

It drifted over the east wall, looking like some new, bizarre little moon. It glowed softly, palely, the color of the full moon soon after rising. It bobbed gently, like a child’s soap bubble drifting on the breeze.

It settled toward Varthlokkur, becoming more defined as it drew nearer. A luminescent globe about two feet in diameter. Inside, something hunched and curled…. Up close, clearly a fetus. Humanoid. But nothing human. Far from human.

Its eyes were open. It met Ragnarson’s gaze. He battled a surge of hatred, an impulse to hack away with his sword, to hurl a rock, to do something to destroy that wickedness. That thing had killed his Fiana.

Varthlokkur had used it to terrible effect during the war. It kept the Tervola east of the Mountains of M’Hand even now. It was the one weapon in the western arsenal capable of intimidating them. They would find a way of destroying it before coming west again.

It made Ragnarson secure on his throne. At Varthlokkur’s command it would drift through Kavelin’s nights routing out every treachery. It could do countless wicked and wondrous things, and was almost invulnerable itself.