Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 125422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
But our respite is short-lived. I feel a rumble beneath my feet, a sick twisting sensation in the ground. Old Gods are stirring again, no doubt drawn by Kaaos. Without the sampo’s stabilizing influence, we have little to hold them back.
The ground cracks and heaves as greenish fluid seeps up. Yggthra’s roots appear again, snaking across the plains as Zelma’s darkness stirs at the edges of my vision and Thaerix’s winds whisper on the horizon, stirring up red dust.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Them again? These Old Gods refuse to let us escape. Ilmarinen must have let them loose, or maybe their destruction had always been temporary.
Vellamo steps forward, pearl-crusted spear in hand, her face contorted in anger. “They will not take this land!” she vows. She kneels, pressing a palm to the dusty ground, and I feel a shift in the air—moisture gathering, pressure building. She’s summoning water, asking the River of Shadows to flood these plains. It’s a daring move, considering the river isn’t close, but one that might give us an advantage. The undead and Old Gods might be hampered by water, and that river flows right from the Great Inland Sea, which means its power is limitless.
Cracks appear in the dry soil, and then water gushes forth in glistening streams. The river floods upwards, rising from aquifers beneath the desert floor. Within moments, puddles form, then pools, before a shallow flood spreads across the plains, soaking our boots. The skeletons look around in confusion.
The Old Gods rise from sinkholes of mud and muck, their bodies half-formed of root, shadow, and storm. Now, they must contend with water swirling around their anchors. Vellamo raises her arms, and a serpentine shape emerges from the newly-formed flood—a massive serpent with too many teeth, the Devouress, twisting sinuously through the knee-deep water. Alongside it swims other water creatures—Näkki, a female water spirit with sharp claws and webbed fingers, a creature called the Ved-Ava. They dart in and out, dragging skeletons under the surface.
We fight half-submerged now, sloshing through rising water. Soldiers adapt quickly, lashing out with polearms and spears as the trolls wade in, their great legs stable in the flood, smashing skeletons with mighty blows. Olso the bear stands chest-deep in water, snarling and swinging massive paws to fling enemies aside.
Still, the Old Gods try to lash out. Yggthra’s roots attempt to grip the mud but slip and slide. Zelma’s shadow tries to blot out what faint light we have, but the water’s reflection and the shimmer of warding spells defy total darkness. Thaerix’s vortex hovers above the plains with a howl, but the moisture in the air dampens its force.
My attention swivels to Torben, the shaman trapped between two skeleton soldiers, struggling to maintain balance in the swirling currents. The ugly Old God who killed Tapio suddenly pops up out of the water, lurking behind the shaman, claws extended. My heart clenches. If Torben falls, we lose a crucial ally, and I lose my father-in-law, someone I never thought I’d care for, considering our fraught beginnings. But now, I cry out and surge forward, sword raised, pushing through water and debris.
It’s too late. I’m too far away, and the Old God lunges for him.
“No!” Hanna’s voice pierces the chaos. She stands on a slight rise of packed dirt, water streaming around her legs. Her eyes flare with panic and resolve. I see her raise her hand, trembling.
She doesn’t hesitate this time.
A burst of light erupts from Hanna, bright as a solar flare, piercing through Zelma’s gloom. She cries out like a warrior, like a Goddess. The light intensifies, banishing shadows, reflecting off the floodwaters until the entire scene is bathed in radiance. The Old God about to strike Torben shrieks, recoiling as its chitlin-like form smolders and cracks.
Hanna’s body changes, her outline blurring into a figure of molten gold and flame. She is incandescent, painfully bright, terribly beautiful, a living star in the midst of battle. I shield my eyes, tears leaking from the corners. Around me, soldiers gasp, some crying out in awe or fear.
Under Hanna’s blazing aura, skeletons crumble into ash. Yggthra’s roots recoil, scorched and blackened, and Zelma’s webs of darkness burn away like cobwebs in a furnace. Thaerix’s vortex screams once more before it unravels, the winds scattering to nothing.
The Devouress and the Näkki pause, momentarily disoriented by the sudden brilliance. Even Olso the bear bows his great head, whining softly. Our soldiers shield their faces, squinting through their fingers.
Hanna sweeps her gaze across the battlefield, and wherever she looks, enemies ignite and disintegrate. The water steams, rising in pale clouds, and in moments, the battle is over. The Old Gods burst into flames, the skeleton army gone, nothing but drifting flakes of ash on the water’s surface.
I stand transfixed, pride and love battling with fear. This power is immense, greater than any I’ve wielded. Hanna has saved us all—but at what cost?