Clej Sedlakova asked, "What're you going to do?" Hecht thought it worth noting that the handicapped officer was among the first actually to come for instructions.

"I'm going to kill it."

Seven falcons were in position. The other three crews were still getting organized. There would be personnel adjustments later. If there were survivors.

The god grub continued trying to shake the chains of the earth. Hecht moved down to the front end, which had come out of the ground a few dozen yards from the river. That end had developed obvious mouth parts and dark patches where eyes might appear.

Pinkus Ghort jogged up. Hecht demanded, "What're you doing back here?"

"I couldn't miss this."

"You could be as sorry as you've ever been. Rhuk! Weber! Stand by. Hell, Pinkus, we need to get behind those things."

Rhuk and Weber took his sudden movement for the signal to fire.

The simultaneous roar of both pieces, hurling sulfurous hot gases, felled Hecht and Ghort. Hecht rolled over in time to see hundreds of black spots appear on the grub's vast face. Three more falcons discharged, raking the monster's length.

The earth shook. Three-quarters of the grub rose into the air. It crashed back. Hecht, trying to get up, went down again.

The acne spots on the grub grew quickly. As did the spots that would become eyes.

"Get the eyes!" Hecht shouted. "Keep it blind!"

More falcons barked. The least competent crews were in place. Rhuk and Weber prepared their second shots.

Principate Delari limped down to where Hecht had given up trying to get his feet under him, dropped to his knees. Shaking his head. "There's no choice. I know there's no choice. I can't guess what spawned this… There's going to be a storm, Piper."

Hecht had no chance to ask what that meant. Falcons discharged. They ruined the face of the grub and tore smoldering black wounds along its length. Ten thousand tails of vapor, like feathers stirring in the breeze. The grub shook and screamed – inside every mind for miles.

Hecht's new amulet was not supposed to hurt. Good thing. He could not imagine how bad the pain would have been were he wearing er-Rashal's gift.

There was always ambient power in the world. It kept the ice at bay, made sorcery possible, fed the Instrumentalities of the Night. Like air, the power was always there. Like air, its presence went unnoticed. It became notable only when it was absent.

Rather than absorbed, the ambient power began to be sucked into the god grub. Its wounds stabilized.

Hecht made a whimpering noise.

Principate Delari shouted. The storm had arrived. "This is too damned expensive!"

The falcons barked raggedly, voices nearly lost in the psychic roar. A power vortex began to form above the grub. It darkened and grew, spinning, streaked with threads of every imaginable color.

Delari said, "You have to get your men away from here. If the falcons don't work…"

"It's under way." The officers had gotten the rubberneckers moving at last.

Hecht spied Cloven Februaren back up the slope. Which had begun to shake with vigor.

The light grew feeble. Hecht barely made out Februaren falling. He headed for the old man, moving as though through waist-deep honey. Muniero Delari shouted something he did not understand.

The old man uphill tried to get his feet under him. He fell again and began to slide toward the tear where the grub had begun to thrash.

Two more charges ripped along its flank and back. And did not fade.

And did not fade.

The black began to spread.

The deep honey drag weakened.

The grub's thrashing increased. Like the writhing of a broken snake.

A sour, stink bug reek hit Hecht. His nose and eyes watered.

Cloven Februaren's slide toward catastrophe quickened.

The old man clawed at the grass. Hecht knew he would not get there in time.

The old man's left foot tangled in a ground-hugging vine. Hecht did get there as Februaren swung end for end. He snagged the old man's tangled ankle, ripped him loose, pulled him in, hoisted him onto his shoulder, and ran.

Instinct more than thought drove him. He had trouble staying upright. The grub kept punishing the earth around it. The stench punished the air.

He had staggered a hundred yards, gasping painfully, when he recalled the Gray Walker's death.

He pushed even harder, till the fire in his chest forced his collapse. He dragged himself into a low place, pulling Cloven Februaren. The ancient muttered some unintelligible warning.

Where was Muniero Delari?

Lightning filled the universe. The ground shook its worst yet. The earth itself rumbled but no thunder followed the ferocious flash.

Cloven Februaren moved feebly. He tried to say something. Hecht could not hear. The old man stabbed one weak finger.

Hecht looked.

A pillar of scarlet stood a thousand feet tall, its red deepening fast. A red and black ball churned atop it. It seemed to include a cherubic demon's face, looking for something it could never see because it was blind.

Hecht lay there a long time, watching. The pillar degenerated into smoke and soot. Some drifted on the wind. Most fell in a fine black snow.

The old man wanted him to do something.

Get up and take charge. Get up and find Muniero Delari. Get up and growl defiance at the Night.

Hecht got his feet under him. He had no strength left. He spotted a wooden shaft nearby. It had been part of a tool for swabbing the bore of a falcon. Now it was a broken stick but long enough to lean on.

He got the pole, then hoisted the old man. "Hang on. I can't carry you anymore. But I'll go slow."

Februaren grabbed hold, then tried to say something about pain in his side.

Hecht moved a dozen yards uphill, to a vantage from which he could see how fortunate he had been to get down when he had.

From that small eminence he could see that half the world had been toasted. Fires still burned where bushes and trees had stood. Smoke still rose from burnt grass. Yet patches and stripes of green spotted and wove through it all, fading into obscurity beneath falling soot.

A firepowder caisson exploded.

The falcon in a smoldering carriage nearby looked like wax left too long in the sun.

There were human shapes everywhere. Those in the black were charred, though a few still tried to move. Songs of pain rose all around. From the greens, though, healthier men appeared, all fascinated by the collapsing tower above the god grub pyre.

The black extended a quarter mile toward the mill. Which still stood, though its ruined sails had fallen and were burning. The black itself faded into the brown of dead grass, then the yellow-green of sick grass. A mile away the earth was normal.

The ruined castle had collapsed. A gray dust cloud still trailed downwind.

Februaren made a feeble gesture indicating direction.

"Go. Help Muno."

Hecht set him down where he could be found easily, then shuffled off as fast as his body would allow.

He found the Principate a hundred yards away, stirring weakly in a low place that had not been quite low enough. Delari's backside had been crisped. His behind had suffered local roasting. "Principate? Can you understand me?"

Delari made funny noises. Hecht turned him gently. There was blood in the old man's nose and mouth. He wiped at it with his fingers, having nothing better to hand. Delari croaked, "Grandfather?"

"He's alive. Maybe a little bruised from me falling on him. I don't know about anyone else. I see a lot of bodies."

Another cask of firepowder exploded. The Patriarch would be livid about the waste.

"Anyone who… wasn't in a… direct line… should be all… right."

A racking cough seized him. It sounded like the cough that had dogged Grade Drocker when he was dying.