Prologue: The World-Eater

“When twilight draws near, the demon wolf will swallow the sun and plunge the world into darkness. How long this darkness will last, I cannot say.”

—Morene Gylfaginor, The Codex Gylfaginor

It had been three days since the mountain shook. The trees huddled together, beneath a sky as grey as the smooth river-stones beneath the streams, whispering to each other across the mountain. The silence was not natural, they said. It was not a peaceful silence. It was an expectant silence, the silence that came before a storm, the silence that came when the world itself was holding its breath.

A band of men marched up the mountain, heads hung low, armour rattling as they trudged through the snow. They wore the black and silver of the Legion, the spear and shield of House Uldan emblazoned proudly upon their breasts, all except one. Edric Thoren wore gold—the fiery-orange Rhinegold of the Kingsblades, shaped in the Soulforge itself.

Edric was not particularly tall like Long Jon, nor was he broad like Darius the Crusher—yet, when he raised his hand, the company halted. Edric lifted the visor of his helmet and looked back towards his men. Their faces were heavy with sweat, fatigue and homesickness.

“How far are we from the top?” Darius growled. The big man’s face was red and heaving, the sweat freezing on his skin before it could finish dripping to the ground.

Edric took a sip of water and pointed behind him. “The Summit of the World lies on the other side of this pass,” he said. “We’ll be there before sundown.”

The passage lay between two jagged crags, a yawning chasm of darkness in the side of the mountain. Rugged rock jutted out from either side like broken teeth coated in ice and snow. He was reminded of the great, gaping maw of a giant beast, looming over the band of men like an ill omen. The path spiralled upwards into the distance and disappeared in a haze of grey and white.

“We shouldn’t have left our mounts behind,” one of the men said. “We’ll be too tired to fight by the time we get through.”

“We would have had to leave them behind anyway,” another pointed out. “The pass is too narrow and dangerous for a horse.”

The men took turns peering into the gloom before settling beneath the shadow of the rock face, away from the wind and snow. They took from their bags stale bread and washed it down with water, every last crumb. One man unwrapped a wheel of cheese and sliced it into pieces, sharing it with everyone else. After that, the scowls eased considerably.

It had been a week since they’d left Darmouth at the base of the mountain Raginrok. The locals had been cold and unfriendly, their tongues only loosening at the sight of the King’s gold. It had cost a fortune to hire guides up the mountain, and even then they had had only agreed to take them halfway. They feared the mountain more than death itself. Mandara, they called it—the Pillar of Heaven, the Tomb of the Ninety. The locals firmly believed in their god, going as far as to offer sacrifices to appease it. The snowstorms were caused by the god’s roar, the tremors by its restless sleep. Everything wrong in the world was a result of its wrath.

Little did they know their god was actually a demon. A relict, a creature of ages long gone.

But is there really a difference between a god and a demon? Edric wondered. Winter stretches on all the same. Snowstorms and earthquakes happen regardless.

Long Jon had drawn a circle in the snow with a stick. He placed a statuette of a woman in the centre, a slender goddess with long, flowing hair and a floral dress, and knelt down before it. Edric watched with interest as the tall man closed his eyes and prayed before the makeshift shrine, his lips moving wordlessly in the wind. He had never really paid heed to any of the Pantheon save Mother Anturia and Kalador, the god of war. Perhaps it was time for a change.

Jon looked at Edric as he kneeled as well.

“I didn’t take you to be a religious man,” Jon said.

“I’m not,” Edric replied. “But this may well be the last chance I get to pray.”

Jon nodded. “You’ve chosen the right god, then. Cenedria is the goddess of love and mercy. She also watches over the mountains, and I daresay we could do with her help.”

Edric closed his eyes and clasped his hands together, wondering what he should ask for. Most of the men would be wishing to come home safely to their wives and children. Edric’s own wife was dead, along with their unborn child. So was his brother. In fact, his entire family was dead. He wasn’t sure what else to pray for, so he simply asked to be remembered. If the Thoren bloodline was to die, he wanted to at least be remembered.

He was halfway through his prayer when the cry of a hawk roused him and he stood up, the shrine forgotten. There were no hawks in this part of the world, yet there was one right above him, descending from the sky in a streak of grey. A few of the men raised their heads as the bird began to contort, growing in size as if its skin were wriggling beneath its feathers, growing bigger and broader until it was the rough shape of a man. The figure landed, and its feathers were no longer feathers but a shivering cloak sewn from a thousand patches of grey. A face emerged. It was the face of a man with matted hair and a beard trailing down to his chest, and it was older than any age one could place a figure to. There were lines on his face etched as deeply as some of the cracks that ran through the mountain, and he had a hooked nose rising up like a gnarled trunk.

“Keldan,” Darius grunted. “You took your time.”

The Druid ignored him and looked at Edric. “The pass is safe,” he said. “As for what awaits on the other side… I cannot say.”

“Is it dead?” Edric asked. “The mountain hasn’t shaken in three days. The people of Darmouth seem to think their sacrifice did the trick.”

Keldan shook his mane. “I cannot explain it. You must see for yourself.” He dusted the snow from his cloak and wrapped it about himself once more.

Edric looked at the plethora of faces around him.

“What do you say, men?” he asked. “Should we rest for the night, or forge on?”

Darius raised his axe. “Forge on, I say. I don’t want to stay another day on this damn mountain.”

“Aye,” said the rest, nodding in agreement. Long Jon packed up his statuette and erased the circle in the ground.

“Very well, then,” Edric turned to Keldan. “Lead the way, Druid.”

They heard the song about halfway through the pass. It was a haunting echo that bounced off the walls, multiplying into a ghostly choir that resonated from everywhere at once as if the mountain itself was singing. It was beautiful and eerie at the same time, rising to be heard above the howl of the wind and the rumble of the earth. It sang of ages long gone and times long passed, of sleep and dreams, and of memories that lay buried. Before he knew it, Edric had stopped.

“Concentrate,” Keldan said, turning around. “Don’t lose focus now.”

The other men looked dazed, as if they’d only just woken from a dream. Edric placed his hand on the hilt of his sword and shouted a few words of encouragement, moreso to rouse himself than anything else.

The wind had whipped into a frenzy, snaking along the two bluffs, tugging and twisting at the company as they made their way over rocks and ice to the top. They were approaching the highest point in Faengard, the Summit of the World, the closest man could get to the gods above. They clambered over rocks and brush, pulled each other over low ridges, waded through inches and inches of powder snow, all while the song continued around them. They were panting, each and every one of the men, gasping and wheezing in the cold. The air here was much thinner, and if it weren’t for the Druid’s protection, they would have long fainted from altitude sickness.

A shadow passed over them as they entered the final leg of the route. A section of the crag had fallen above the path, forming a small cave that wound the rest of the way to the other side. Sprigs of spruce and frostweed lined the walls, creeping down to the dregs of daylight that pooled in the corners of the passage. Keldan spoke a word and a flame burst to life in the air next to shi head, lighting their path. The song grew muffled above them, drowned out by the clanging of plate armour and the chink of swords in their sheathes.

At last they emerged, back into the roiling snowstorm, onto the mountaintop. The path fell away around them, plunging into a dizzying drop on either side. They were above the clouds now, atop a lonely peak that jutted from a sea of white and grey. Before them was a narrow stretch that led to a plateau with another ridge atop it. The song was as sharp and clear as cracking ice, piercing through the air, rolling off the mountain in quivering crests and troughs.

“There she is,” Jon shouted. “Chained in front of the crag.”

“Where?” Edric lowered his visor to keep the snow from his eyes. His armour rattled in his ears.

“Over there.”

Jon pointed, and Edric saw a slight figure sitting on the ground. It looked to be a girl on the border of adulthood, her long, dark hair whipping in the wind. The grey haze of the snowstorm prevented him from seeing more. He took a step forward, but Keldan stopped him.

“Be careful,” he said. “We don’t know where the relict is. It could come at any moment.”

Edric nodded and drew his sword. The fiery Rhinegold flashed defiantly against the cold wind. Slowly, one step at a time, he approached the Summit of the World.

The wind seemed to grow angrier as he traversed the path, threatening to pick him up and hurl him into the clouds. He crouched low, crawling his way forward on all fours, never looking down, never looking back. He heard the grunts and curses of his men behind him as they stayed close behind.

The girl wore a threadbare robe, the type a simple serving girl would wear, and she was barefoot. Her hair was midnight black, her eyes an ice-cold, her skin as pale as the snow. The song spilled from her lips, heavy with spirit, heavy with magic. It kept her alive in the storm, staved off the cold.

“She’s practically naked,” Darius shouted. “How has she not frozen dead?”

The girl jerked upright, the glaze in her eyes disappearing. She saw them and tried to stumble to her feet, but fell over. Edric realized she was chained to a stone in the ground, bound by a black manacle that had rubbed her skin raw.

“Hang on,” he cried. “We’re coming!”

She shook her head, hair whipping across her face, desperately waving her hands. As Edric and the rest of the men moved onto the plateau, she backed away to the rock behind her.

“Don’t come any nearer,” she cried. “Go back! Go back while you still can!”

The song broke to a halt, its spell shattered for a brief instant. The mountain trembled.

“Darius,” Edric yelled, ignoring her. “Help me break this chain!”

He brought the Rhinegold blade down as hard as he could. The sound of steel rang clear atop the summit, but the chain held. Darius stopped next to him, his axe ready.

“Go away!” the girl pleaded again. “Before it’s too late!”

Her voice was as hoarse as sandpaper. How long had she been singing on Raginrok, alone in the cold? She was just a girl, the age his son would be if he were alive. Anger boiled through Edric, at the people of Darmouth, at the relict that lived atop the mountain, at the mountain itself. No person deserved such a fate.

“Hold still,” he said. “We’ll have you freed before it comes back.”

The girl shook her head. “No,” she moaned. “It’s already here. It was always here.”

The mountain shook again. The stone structure behind the girl trembled.

“Hurry up,” Edric cried, “or the mountain will come down upon us!” He chopped at the chain again, but no one helped him. He looked around for Darius and the others, confused. “Come on, what are you all doing—”

The rest of his men were standing still behind him, looking past his shoulder. Frowning, Edric turned around.

The ridge shifted slowly, groaning as if waking from a deep sleep, snow spilling off its sides and to the ground below. It moved one leg and then another, reared its head towards the sky. Two blood-red eyes opened in its face, each as big as a horse, peering about the mountaintop, taking in the armoured men before it. Yellow teeth appeared in the mist.

The creature growled and shook itself. Snow fell off its fur in great chunks, spiralling into the wind, churning the snowstorm into a blizzard. The mountain quaked and trembled, sending everyone to their knees. Somewhere below them, they heard the sound of rocks and ice crashing to the base of the mountain.

“Wyd save us,” Edric said. He craned his neck up and up, trying to take in the sheer enormity of the beast. He had never seen anything so big. It dwarfed the tallest buildings in Aldoran, stretched across the entire mountaintop, rose almost as high as Uldan Keep. Its pelt was a silver so pure it almost blinded him with its majesty.

It was Faenrir the World-Eater, child of Al'Ashar, one of the oldest of the relicts, survivor of the Hundred Years War and the Age of Gods. Down by its feet, Edric saw the fetters that bound it—a gossamer thread of reds and yellows, blues and greens and violets that held its feet together, preventing it from standing. Even so, its maw was big enough to swallow them all—it could probably swallow the sun if it wanted to, if it somehow found a way to stand. The black-haired girl was silent, backing away from the beast as far as the chain allowed her to.

Edric shook, and it wasn’t from the cold.

The World-Eater roared, and the mountain roared with it. The earth quaked so violently the men were thrown off their feet. Pieces of the mountain broke free below them. The clouds were torn apart, the blizzard itself frozen for an instant as yet another crack threatened to split Raginrok.

The World-Eater roared, and its roar was the wrath of the mountain.