The vault held one thing, but that single treasure dominated the space. It was a dome covered in muscle and slowly pulsing veins. Walkways crossed around it, wires and slack pipes dangled from the walls to its sickly-blue grey surface. Acrid smells dripped from it. It was alive and powerful, even as it slept.

“It’s a Stormender,” Hope said. She closed her eyes and sighed.

“This is the worst thing I’ve seen you excited by,” Brunhilde said. At the edges of her vision the thing seemed to pulse and breathe, but though she flicked her gaze she could never catch a detail of its movement. Something like a heat haze warped the air around it. To her direct gaze it looked like gnarled stone with a streaky colouration like fatty meat gone rotten.

“Yes, it is. This is an abomination. A revolt against the Gods’ power. An army of these could unweave the sky and commit us all to oblivion,” Hope said.

“You’re not giving this to that spluttering reed-muscle!” Brunhilde said.

“Of course not! This is for me. I could do anything with this. Carve out a kingdom, ransom an empire. I could go home!” she cried. She stalked around the walkway. “I just need to find the mind-pattern. This is workmanship from the Age of Storm! It’s still alive, I can feel it. You have no idea what I can do with this.”

Brunhilde wanted to speak, but the air choked in her mouth. She backed out of the room and gasped in the cleaner air of the workshop. She spat the oily bitter taste of the vault air out. She waited but Hope was busy working inside. Despite her calls the mage refused to answer.

When she could brave the foul aura of the thing in the vault Brunhilde entered again. Hope was above, pacing the walkways and staring at things on the wall.

“Don’t wake this thing,” she shouted up. There was no response. She leaped up and pulled herself onto the walkway above, then clambered up to Hope’s side. The power emanating from the mass made the air warm and sticky.

“Listen to me,” the barbarian shouted. She stepped in front of Hope. The princess tried to slip by but Brunhilde body checked her. “Hey!” she said. She grabbed Hope’s arms.

“Let me be, I have work to do,” Hope said. She glared up at Brunhilde. Even in her rage she still had the look of a petulant child who got her way no matter what.

“This is not a thing to be played with,” Brunhilde said.

“I am not playing, this is complicated arcane work,” Hope replied.

“Listen.” Brunhilde tightened her grip gently. “I’m worried about you.”

Hope’s face fell into an impassive mask. Her magic sparked and tiny daggers of pain lanced through Brunhilde’s hands. The barbarian squeezed for a moment and then let go.

“I want no part in waking that thing,” Brunhilde said.

Hope turned around with answering and went back to her work.

Brunhilde swore and descended down the walkways. She wandered out into the workshop. She looked out over the abandoned space. There was nothing familiar here, only strange things with uses she cared not to learn. She could take some of this back to Bedehv, fulfil her promise and leave Hope to her work. Or she could wait for the Princess to finish. Would she have any need of a barbarian wanderer when she had woken that sick thing in the vault?

Brunhilde made her way back into the garden. With no light from the central column her lantern light made it a strange gloomy sight. Under the soft orange flicker of the burning oil the brilliant flowers looked musty and old. Shadows loomed and lurched as she moved through the garden. No matter where she went it was as if something dark followed her. She flattened a circle of grass with her feet and sat down amongst the beautiful shadows. She pounded her fists into the soil, flattening a deep hollow in the turf. She let out a roar that echoed through the vast chamber.

She rose and made her way to the central pillar. With her chisel she tested the surface, it gave to her tool and she carved small charm.

“Fertile mother, generous until death,” she whispered as she carved. With the runes complete she nicked herself and smeared the blood on them. The crystal of the pillar woke and splintered; large chunks dropped from it. She took them back to her sitting place and stacked them around to make a firepit. Hope’s power had left plenty of charred and dried wood for Brunhilde to collect and stack into a small fire. She carved a tale on the stones of the firepit, a raider lost on the seas, alone and delirious, who dreams of his family back home. She lay more of her blood on the runes, and then lit the fire.

The flames whipped and twisted, smoke curled upward. Brunhilde closed her eyes and gave in to the power of the runes. The warmth of the fire soothed her face, she felt tension drop from her. In her mind she told the story of the runes again and again, calling it to do its magic. The smoke along with the dull burnt scent of the garden overwhelmed the other smells of the garden. She smelled something cooking on the fire; haddock.

She opened her eyes. The spiral of smoke curled up into the dark like a staircase. She stood up slowly, like a dreamer waking from a dream, and climbed onto the smoke. It was sooty and hot, but strong enough to hold her. She clambered up, the smoke rising pulled her up with it so that she accelerated as she went. Soon she was above ground, then she was in the sky, surrounded by the stars. She had no time to stargaze, she kept climbing. The smoke slowed, so she climbed faster. Now she was climbing against its downward pull.

Above her a light shone. Another fire was burning there, pushing smoke down towards her. Figures sat around the fire, suspended upside down from a ground that was above her. She pushed herself up with a burst of speed and twisted in the air. As soon as her feet touched the ground she felt the right way up. The fire burnt, smoke whirled away into the night sky, and the figures around the fire peered at her. They were smoky and vague, but one stood out to her. Its hair was red, thin on top but still long and braided. And it had a striking white beard.

“Father,” she said.

“Daughter,” it spoke. It stood up and she saw the faint hint of his kind eyes, and steady gaze.

“I’m lost,” she said.

“We know. Can you return to us?”

“Not yet.”

“Then keep looking. Why are you here?”

“I don’t know what to do? My companion, my friend. She’s strong, but innocent,” Brunhilde said.

“She’s in trouble?” her father said. He stepped closer and she saw more of him. The scar down his crooked nose, the drinking horn in his hand. She wanted to reach out and grab him, but that would break the spell.

“She will be, by her own hand.”

“She’s headstrong? Does things her own way, even though it may cost her own life?” he asked.

“Yes! She’s so stubborn,” Brunhilde.

“That is why you are friends, daughter-in-self-exile,” he said. He laughed.

Brunhilde heard herself in her description of Hope. “I’m not that stubborn. Well, maybe I am. Sometimes. What do I do?”

“You have no thoughts? Why ask for mine, oak of the head-dress?” her father said. His face was clear now. She saw the same expression she had seen when she made her choice to leave her homelands. The deep loving gaze, something painful beneath it, but unwavering and clear.

“I’m lost.”

“Then come home.”

“You know I can’t.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Because my destiny-” Brunhilde started.

“Why did you leave?” her father interrupted. “Why do ships leave for trade in winter?”

“Because the trade winds are stronger then.”

“Why did you leave?” he said with intensity. She saw the deep blue of his eyes, even the grey flecks in them. He lifted his hand to point to her heart. “What wind moves your mind-stone?”

“Father-” she said. She reached out for him. The spell broke and she was back in the garden. The fire was guttering and low. More riddles from her father, never a straight answer. Why had she left her homelands? She grabbed one of the crystal chunks and hurled it into the river. Water sprayed up from the impact.

“Why am I in this sun-cursed grove?” she shouted out. The only answer was the rush of the waterfalls.

She threw handfuls of earth over the fire until it went out completely. Now only her lantern lit the scene. She looked about and laughed. The garden had been burnt already, and without light it was sure to die, why bother to clean her fire? Because it was the responsible thing to do. She remembered the strong wind of resolve that had pushed her to leave her homeland. She had left because it was the responsible thing to do.

“Treat friend as friend; enemy as enemy,” she said to herself. Hope was her friend, whether she knew it or not. So, she must act with generosity to her.

She made her way back to the workshop. A deep breathing sound emanated from the vault. Inside the complicated machinery was moving too. Hope worked above, scurrying from point to point.

“Hope!” Brunhilde called up. There was no answer. She looked at the thing in the centre of the room. Now she could see movement in it. Something was waking inside. She pulled herself up onto the scaffolding and climbed up to Hope.

“It’s almost here,” Hope said. Her eyes were manic and sweat plastered her hair against her head.

Brunhilde moved towards her, but the princess skipped backward. “I’m busy, don’t touch me you commoner.”

“Stop this game. You have no servants, there is no court here to serve you. You are just as far away from home as I am. We are equals here,” Brunhilde said.

“I’m a princess of the sky. I’m waking a warrior that nobody else on this broken world can wake,” Hope growled. “I’m powerful.”

“I realised that if I was in your position, I would need somebody to beat the sense into me,” Brunhilde said. She flexed her arms and crouched into a wrestling stance.

“You think you can best me?” Hope shouted. She put her hand on her sword, and tensed into a fencing position. “I can use this to strike down anything or anyone who disobeys me.”

Brunhilde’s jaw tightened and challenge flashed in her eyes. “If you think you can, little princess,” she said. She gestured for Hope to strike.

Hope shifted and swayed slightly. She was a deadly swordswoman, but in close quarters Brunhilde felt she had the advantage. She had wrestled the strongest men in her clan, bears and even a demon possessed weasel. If she had to wrestle some sense into this little brat she would. Even if Hope mustered unfair mysterious power against her, it would be a good fight.

Hope pulled her sword in a sudden motion like a snake readying to strike. She shrieked in pain. The Blade that Burns Night or Day was fickle in its power and hunger. The sword was night black, cutting chill into the air. They both felt its pull, the air was thick and difficult to move through.

“Put it away,” Brunhilde said. Her words were dull as if the sword were drinking in the sound.

Hope lunged, but her stroke passed through the metal of the walkway as Brunhilde dodged the blow. The barbarian struck a light punch into Hope’s exposed side. Hope reeled and lashed out again, but her strike went wild. She fell against the railing and grabbed it to steady her. She eyed Brunhilde.

“Show some sense. This thing is evil,” Brunhilde said.

“Evil does not exist. Power is assessed by its utility,” Hope said.

“That’s something you read in a book,” Brunhilde said.

“Yes, it is! One of the Sixteen Books of Power!” Hope shrieked. She feinted to the left, but as she lunged, she swung her blade out to the right. The edge of it nicked Brunhilde’s leg as she dodged. For a moment she blacked out, she felt nothing, she saw nothing. Just the tiniest cut from it felt like a great hook, ready to plunge into her soul and drag it from her body.

Hope weaved her sword before her, teasing Brunhilde with the threat of a blow.

“Strike then,” Brunhilde said casually.

Hope thrust her blade out. It sliced through the railing where Brunhilde had been standing. Now Brunhilde was beside her, inside her guard. The barbarian grabbed her sword hand and twisted. Even in her rage she was no match for Brunhilde’s strength. The sword fell. The metal of the walkway started to melt like ice in summer.

“Don’t,” Hope gasped. The blade slipped and tumbled through the metal below them. It twitched like a compass needle as it fell. There was a great power in the Stormender and the blade felt it. It slid with purpose and buried itself in the side of the foul thing in the centre of the vault.

Hope raced down after it. She pulled it from the Stormender with great difficulty, the Blade that Burns Night or Day quivered with hunger and resisted. But she was still the master of the blade. She sheathed it and fell back. “You’ve killed it,” Hope wailed.

“Good,” Brunhilde said. She had made her way down after Hope. The surface of the egg-like dome was bleeding tar-like blood. Smoke sputtered from the wound the blade had made.

“No, no, no,” Hope cried. She put her head in her hands. Tears fell between her fingers. “I wanted to go home. I wanted to show them. I’m not weak, I’m strong,” Hope said.

Brunhilde put a reassuring hand on Hope’s shoulder. “You are strong, you don’t need power like this.”

Hope said nothing.

Painful bellows sounded. The earth shook and the Stormender writhed. A serpent-like shape twisted beneath the membrane. A vast head tore at the outer membrane and thrust up towards the roof. It was a grim eel-like giant. The great head turned and stared down. Milky blue eyes swirled like a seizure-ridden drunk.

Hope stood and called out her strange language. A halo of arcane symbols glowed around her head. The Stormender turned down to listen to her. With her hurt hand clutched to her stomach she raised up her other hand and called out a command to the thing. Brunhilde saw her as a princess then, she could have ordered armies to do her bidding. She was a slight beauty with the determination of an avalanche.

The Stormender was completely under her control. It lifted itself up into the air above them, wounded and struggling, but with immense power. Its head struck the roof of the vault and the stone parted like water. The two had to jump backwards as liquid stone dripped from its passage. The long body disappeared up into the stone above them like the last wreath of smoke from a fire.

“Where is it going?” Brunhilde said.

“Don’t worry, it’s dying. I told it to enjoy the sky while it could,” Hope said. She looked up with a sad smile. “After doing one thing for me.”

***

In the quarry God-greeter was working his shift. His lantern was safely stowed away. He was working in the dark, carving stone into offerings for his Saviour. There was a sick rumbling in the ground, he felt it. Cries of panic sounded around the quarry, they all felt it. Something strange and unnatural moving above them.

There was a shift in the stone and a rush of air upward. The workers sniffed cautiously and stroked the stone beneath them. The movement had stopped, but something powerful had left its mark on the cavern. Slowly a strange new light crept into the cavern.

God-greeter rolled out into the centre of the quarry and peered upwards. A huge tunnel up to the open sky had been carved above them. Other workers around him snuffled and marvelled at this new sight. Delicate points of light glittered at the end of the tunnel above them. They chattered. Was this another reward from the Saviour’s avatar, the Living Lantern? Word spread and others came to lie on the cavern floor and stare at the faraway beauty above them.

It was a wonder only surpassed by the slow rise of the sun above them the next morning.