He dreamt of nights spent on guard duty on a lonely mountain with only a spear for company, and days hunting for fell enemies in the dank forests, thick with morning fog. He dreamt of raids on wyrmlings: pale manlike monsters that were larger even than he, monsters that fed on human flesh and hid from the sun by day in dank holes. He dreamt of more blood and horror than any man should see in a lifetime.
Last of all, he dreamt that he saw a world falling from the heavens, plummeting toward him like a great star that filled the sky. As it drew near, all around him his people cried out in wonder and horror.
He saw blue water on that world, vast seas and great lakes. He saw the titanium-white tops of giant clouds, swirling in a great vortex. He saw a vast crimson desert, and green lakes and hills. He saw a terminus, a line dividing night from day, and the gloriously colored clouds at its edge— great swaths of rose and gold.
Around him, people were shouting in alarm and pointing into the air. He was on the streets of Caer Luciare, a mountain fortress, and his own daughter was looking up and crying, “This is the end!”
Then the falling world slammed into his.
When he woke, Sir Borenson was still falling. He was lying on the ground, but it was dropping away. He cried out, and all around him the squatters shrieked in fear, too.
He slammed to a halt and his whole body smashed into the ground, knocking the air from his lungs.
Though the skies had been clear, thunder roared in the heavens.
The squatters under the tree were still shouting. The mother of one family begged, “Is everyone all right?”
“Earthquake!” someone said. “It was an earthquake!”
Sir Borenson had never felt anything like this. The ground wasn’t trembling or rolling. Instead, it seemed to have just dropped—perhaps hundreds of feet.
Borenson peered at the group. His heart raced. The ground was wet and smelled of seawater, and his clothes were sopped.
Other than that, he felt somehow disconnected from his body. All of the old aches and pains were gone.
“Father!” Sage shouted. “Father, help! Erin’s hurt!”
Borenson leapt to his feet and stood for a moment, dazed. The dream that he’d had, the dream of Aaath Ulber, cast such a huge shadow in his memory that he felt unsure just who he was.
He blinked, trying to recall where he was. Memory told him that he was on the mountain, on Caer Luciare. If he turned around he would see his girl.
But this was no mountain. He was under the tree.
He glanced at the squatter children in the shadows. Two women and a couple of children seemed to have fainted. A knot of children were trying to revive them, and suddenly one little girl peered up with terrified eyes. She shrieked, and others glanced up at him and followed suit. They fell over themselves in their hurry to back away.
Borenson looked down at the tots, wondering if he had blood on his face, wondering what frightened the children, and it seemed that he looked from too great a height.
“It’s all right,” he told them. “I won’t hurt you.”
He raised his hands. They were meaty things, huge and heavy. More importantly, there was a small spur of bone protruding from each wrist, something that no human should have.
His hands were the hands of Aaath Ulber.
He was wearing war gear—metal bands with targets on his wrists, heavy gray mail unlike any forged on his world.
He reached up and felt his forehead—the bony plates on his temples, the nubs of horns above that were more pronounced than those of any other warrior of the clans, and he knew why the children cried in terror.
He was Aaath Ulber and Sir Borenson, both men sharing one enormous body. He was still human, as humans had looked on that other world, but his children and wife here would not recognize him as such.
“Father!” Sage shrieked out in the orchard. She wept furiously.
Borenson turned and stumbled through the curtain of vines.
The world that appeared before him was a disaster.
Strange vortexes whirled in the sky, like tornadoes of light, and thunder crackled in the clear air.
Water covered much of the ground—seawater and beds of red kelp. Crabs scuttled about while starfish and urchins clung to the mud. Bright coral stuck up from a ridge of rocks that hadn’t been in the glade moments ago. Everything was sopping wet.
An enormous red octopus surged over the grass desperately, just up the path.
The walls of the old fortress leaned wildly, and everywhere that he looked trees had tilted.
Sage was under the huge apple tree, weeping bitterly and calling, “Father! Father, come quick!”
Part of that old rotten tree had fallen during the disaster.
Borenson bounded to her, leaping over an enormous black wolf eel that wriggled across the trail.
Sage stood solemnly, looking down at her little sister. Erin had fallen from the tree onto a rotten limb; now she lay with her neck twisted at a precarious angle.
Erin’s mouth was open; her eyes stared up. Her face was so pale that it seemed bloodless. She made little gaping motions, like a fish struggling to breathe.
Other than that, her body was all too still.
In the distance, a mile away, the village bell in Sweetgrass began ringing in alarm.
Sage took one look at Borenson and backed away from him in horror. She gave a little yelp and then turned, fumbling to escape.
Draken had come out from under the encampment tree, and he rushed up to Erin.
He tried to push Borenson away. “Get back, you!”
He was small, so small that his efforts had little effect. “It’s me, your father!” Borenson said. Draken peered at him in shock.
Borenson reached down and tried gently to lift Erin, to comfort her, but felt the child’s head wobble in a way that no person’s should. The vertebrae in her neck seemed to be crushed. Borenson eased her back into place.
If she lives, Borenson thought, she might never walk again.
Erin peered up at him, took in the horror of Borenson’s face, and there was no recognition in her eyes—only stark panic. She frowned and let out a thin wail.
“Stay calm, sweet one,” Borenson said, hoping to soothe her. But his voice came out deep and disturbing—more a bull’s bellow than the voice that Erin was used to. “It’s me, your father.”
In the distance a war horn blew an alarm. It was his wife Myrrima sounding a call from the old ox horn that he kept hung on a peg beside the fireplace. Two long blasts, two short, three long.
It was signal for retreat, but it wasn’t a simple retreat. He was supposed to go somewhere. He had not heard that call in so many years that it took a moment to dredge up its meaning.
Draken was at his side now, reaching down to lift Erin, trying to pull her into his arms. He was just as eager to help the child as Borenson was, just as frightened and dazed.
“Don’t touch her,” Borenson warned. “We’ll have to move her with great care.”
Draken peered at him in terror and disbelief. “What? What happened to you?”
Borenson shook his head in wonder.
In the distance Myrrima shouted, “Erin? Sage? Borenson?” She was running toward them; he could tell by her voice that she was racing through the orchard. “Everyone, run to high ground! Water’s coming!”
That’s when Borenson felt it: a tremor in the earth, a distant rumbling that carried through the soles of his steel boots.
The realization of his full predicament struck him.
On Aaath Ulber’s world there had been no continent where Landesfallen stood—only a few poorly charted islands on the far side of the world.
Borenson had taken meetings with King Urstone many times. The wyrmling hordes had all but destroyed mankind, and some of the king’s counselors advised him to flee to the coast and build ships to carry refugees to the Far Isles.