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my constant theme

my constant theme; My prayer was, by repentance true, All carnal passions to subdue. It is understandable, at least, that a young man with such sentiments should forego the prospect of worldly honor for a chance to serve his Master. Kingo was ordained in the Church of Our Lady at Copenhagen in September, 1661, and was installed in his new office a few weeks later. The seven years that he spent in the obscure parish were, no doubt, among the most fruitful years of Kingo s life, proving the truth of the old adage that it is better that a man should confer honor on his position than that the position should confer honor upon him. His fiery, forceful eloquence made him known as an exceptionally able and earnest pastor, and his literary work established his fame as one

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of the foremost Danish

of the foremost Danish poets of his day. Chapter Three While still at Vedby, Kingo had written a number of poems which, widely circulated in manuscripts, had 14 gained him a local fame. But he now published a number of new works that attained nation-wide recognition. These latter works compare well with the best poetry of the period and contain passages that still may be read with interest. The style is vigorous, the imagery striking and at times beautiful, but the Danish language was too little cultivated and contemporary taste too uncertain to sustain a work of consistent excellence. Most successful of Kingo s early poems are \\ Karsten Atke s Farewell to Lion County\\ , a truly felt and finely expressed greeting to his friends

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the Atkes, on

the Atkes, on their departure from their former home, and \\ Chrysillis\\ , a lovesong, written in a popular French style that was then very much admired in Denmark. Both poems contain parts that are surprisingly fine, and they attained an immense popularity. But although Kingo throughout his life continued to write secular poetry that won him the highest praise, that part of his work is now well nigh forgotten. It is truly interesting to compare the faded beauty of his secular poems with the perennial freshness of his hymns. It was inevitable that Kingo, with his high ambitions and undoubted ability should desire a larger field of labor. His salary was so small that he had to live in the home of his employer, a circumstance that for various reasons was not always pleasant. Pastor Worm had married thrice

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the tale; others
the tale; others were frightened, and a few seemed indifferent, almost bored. In frustration, he’d simply walked away, until he could no longer hear raised voices. Unable to be aimless, he chose to explore the perimeter of the camp, studying the lay of the land. The line of sand hills was backed by open scrubland. Standing atop a fallen tree trunk, he scanned the area with satisfaction. The kehklik wouldn’t be able to move on the camp without being seen. At least he would know the enemy was coming. The world was quiet. Suddenly quiet. The birds were gone. He spun, sword drawn, scanning for trouble. The log beneath him shifted slightly. 32 Sand erupted
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with a shriek.
with a shriek. Kaylen shielded his face while slashing wildly; his blade glanced off a hard object, then connected and dug into something substantial. Pulling his blade free, one eye clear, he aimed for what seemed to be its head. The kehklik collapsed and twitched in a pool of smelly orange blood. Catching his breath, Kaylen shook the rest of the sand from his face and examined his attacker. It was certainly a kehklik, with the same insane head as the one that haunted his nightmares – but this creature was different. It was smaller, with more legs, arrayed along the side its body. The overall shape was long and narrow, almost worm-like. Two huge pincers graced its face. Burrowers, he said to himself. Tohkay had mentioned them. He started back toward the encampment,
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focusing on the
focusing on the ground, looking for any movement. An odd noise, like the buzz of a bee, suggested that looking up might be a good idea. He did. Three shapes rapidly flew toward him. Pale shapes, difficult to see against the sky. They were not birds. Kaylen quickly sought any shelter, and saw none. “Damn you!” he called out, readying his blade. He hoped they would dive to attack him. If they could hit him from the air… he cursed himself for leaving camp without a crossbows. A flier bleated and spun into the ground, a long arrow protruding from its side. A second suffered a similar fate to the first. The remaining one dove at Kaylen, spitting. He jerked his head aside, and his cheek burned. A sweep of his blade
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gone with no
gone with no Robert Forster aboard. — 131 — She retraced her steps through the busy ter- minal building, bumping absently into several rushed flight chasers. She hoped therePd been a mix-up in flight plans, but wasnPt even slightly convincing herself. She was feeling more irrita- ble than usual at the stares from the executives waiting in the limousine lounge. ShePd always had that effect on men. Usually she didnPt notice, but at the moment it bothered her. The Mercedes sedan didnPt have official limo status, but stood impressive enough for Jimmy to attend it, right beside the sign reading OReserved for Limousine ServiceP. Jimmy was big, black and imposing, with a face like a homeless bulldog.
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He passed more
He passed more easily as a bodyguard, a serious one, than as a driver. No one had ever really put a job description beside JimmyPs name. Rachel sometimes intro- duced him as the Club Lucky mascot. It was not the kind of humor she indulged in often. Jimmy used to be a pretty good heavyweight, ending up looking a little rough from too many greedy man- agers. He used to clean up around the gym where one of RachelPs well-connected gentlemen would take her to see his latest discovery L the powerful and their gladiators. She took a liking to him. He used to open the door for her and shePd slip him twenty bucks L work a smile from the man with the dark, sad forex argentina

eyes. She
eyes. She was that kind of lady L a soft spot for hard luck folks and stray dogs. Those years living by her wits taught her a lot of things, like how to take care of herself; capable — 132 — of making some men feel theyPre getting their tes- ticles shaved with a dull sabre. She stayed smart with her money and worked her connections. She kept Jimmy with her all the way, and shePd moved a long way up. She had that kind of talent, that kind of tenacity. There werenPt many around now who knew her history very well L Jimmy and a few other old friends. It was the small clique she didnPt for-
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get from the
get from the good old days. Jimmy didnPt ask why Robert wasnPt with her. He could look and sound oafish, but he wasnPt stu- pid. He often knew without asking when there was something on her mind, and she could tell he sensed it now. She directed him onto the freeway, headed towards the older section of southern San Diego. He drove in silence except for a single con- firmation she was okay. MYes, Jimmy, IPm okay.N Jimmy thanked her for telling him she was okay and added, MWorryinP Obout you ainPt good for my heart Ms Rachel.N When she exited him at Mission Boulevard he knew then where she was headed L Mission Boulevard ended up at Mission precinct,
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some old turf.
some old turf. She was going to seek out an old friend from earlier days. It was time to talk to someone who could hardball her intuition, get her some infor- mation. She wanted to avoid the typical Mworry- ing for nothingN routine from a cop who didnPt know her. After all, Robert Forster had only missed one flight; he could be on the next. She didnPt want to hear it. Robert had once told her, — 133 — long ago when he still had many enemies in East L.A., that he would never stiff her. If he did, it meant he was in trouble. She remembered.
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Bar- ney Matthews
Bar- ney Matthews would know the worrywart label didnPt belong to her, and would take the time to hear her out. Jimmy waited by the car in the precinct visitor parking. As soon as she was out of sight he dialed New Orleans. Jimmy knew Rachel well; knew she would be on her way to New Orleans if nothing showed with her cop friends. Jimmy had a repu- tation in New Orleans, trained and fought there, lots of people owed him. MHello.N MSunny, itPs Jimmy in San Diego. Are you healthy?N Meanwhile, Rachel ignored the eyes cops could give you just because theyPre cops. She walked through it into the precinct as if it wasnPt there. She had other
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commented on her
commented on her enormous counter, short keel, great open well, and tall pole-mast. In a short time we stowed all our belongings, and set sail–mainsail, jib, and topsail–the spread of canvas rather startling Wynne, who had only been used to sea yachts. There was a light north-westerly wind, and we glided swiftly away before it. But ere we had sailed a 9 couple of hundred yards, Wynne insisted on our stopping to sketch the White House, at Whitlingham, which, with the trees on the hill, the wood-shaded reach of river, and the huge brown sails of the wherries, formed a picture we might well wish to carry away. Wynne often stopped in this way, to the intense disgust of our man, who liked to make his passages quickly, and had no sympathy with artistic amusements.
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The dyke leading
The dyke leading out of the river by the White House is a regular harbour for pike, which is continually restocked from the river. It is private property, but just at the mouth of the dyke, in the navigable river, is a good spot. At least three hundred pike were taken here last winter by Norwich artisans. \ What graceful craft these wherries, as you call them, are!\ remarked Wynne, as he rapidly sketched the high-peaked sail of one which was slowly beating to windward or \ turning,\ as the vernacular hath it, up the narrow river. [Picture: A Norfolk Wherry] And he was quite right. There is not a line that is not graceful about a Norfolk wherry. She has a long low hull with a rising sheer to stem and stern, which are
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both pointed. She
both pointed. She has a tall and massive mast supporting a single large sail which is without a boom, but has a very long gaff launching out boldly at an angle of forty-five degrees. The curve of the brown or black sail from the lofty peak to the sheet is on all points of sailing a curve of beauty. The wherries are trading crafts carrying from twenty to fifty tons of cargo. They are manned generally by one man, who sometimes has the aid of his wife or children. They are nearly as fast as yachts, sail closer to the wind, and are wonderfully handy. The mast is weighted at the keel with one or two tons of lead, and is so well balanced that a lad can lower or raise it with the greatest ease, when it is necessary to pass under
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\ Forethought always
\ Forethought always comes in a head s length, Mr. Smyth. Now, if you could only gain a pocket edition of the winning hand, your surveys would yield you a gold mine,\ said his hostess, gaily. \ Instead of as now, a few promissory notes,\ laughed Smyth. \ The gentlemen have been envying you your monopoly of Mrs. Gower, Mr. Cobbe,\ said lively Mrs. Smyth, in an undertone; \ she is an awful flirt, you had better take care of yourself,\ she added, mischievously. \ I mean to,\ he said savagely, and with latent meaning, adding, \ she is as fickle as her clime; I hope,\ he said, endeavoring to control himself, \ all you ladies are not so heartless.\ \ Oh, no; we are as constant
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as the sun,
as the sun, compared to her,\ she said, half jokingly. \ Would you be so to me,\ he said thickly, and coming near her. \ Go away, Mr. Cobbe; don t look at me like that, you awful man,\ she whispered, laughingly. \ When may I call, you are the right sort of woman,\ he continued, persistently. \ Will says so, any way,\ she said, archly. \ Say to-morrow,\ he persisted. \ Will!\ she cried, mischievously, \ Mr. Cobbe s compliments, and desires to know when he will find you in your sanctum, he wishes to smoke the pipe of peace with you.\ \ Hang it,\ thought Cobbe, \ she has no ambition beyond Will; give me the Australian
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women after all.\
women after all.\ \ Almost any evening, Cobbe, I am always good for a smoke; but my wife says I d better retrench, the house of Smyth is increasing so rapidly; good-night.\ \ May I see you home, Mrs. St. Clair?\ asked Mr. Cobbe, fervidly. \ It would be too sweet–but oh!\ and her arm above the elbow is rubbed, for the boy Noah has pinched her severely, saying, \ I ll tell papa.\ At this juncture Thomas appeared, saying, a coupe had arrived for Mrs. St. Clair and Master Noah. \ I must see you to-morrow, Mrs. Gower, after office hours,\ said Cobbe, adding, on meeting the sharp eye of Mrs. Dale, \ I have something very particular to tell you.\
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CHAPTER
CHAPTER VI. \ Say the day after, Mr. Cobbe, please; I shall endeavor to restrain my curiosity so long, even though I am a woman.\ \ No, no, I must see you to-morrow at five p.m.,\ he said, impulsively. \ The yeas have it this time, Mr. Cobbe. Mrs. Gower belongs to us for to-morrow,\ said Mrs. Dale, drawing her wrap about her, over her cream-silk robe, slashed with blue velvet, and laced amid innumerable buttonholes, her innocent look only apparent while, in reality, she is dissecting him, \ our kind hostess does some of the lions with us to-morrow afternoon; the evening, she spends with us at the Queen s.\ 56 \ Yes, we hav
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no end of
no end of a bill for to-morrow,\ said Mr. Dale; \ the Normal School, Mount Pleasant Cemetery, office of the Mail, and the University of Toronto.\ At this there was a transformation scene, the face of Mr. Cobbe changing like a flash from inane sulkiness to jubilant triumph. \ To the University! then Mrs. Gower will tell you what a paradise we enjoyed, when I alone was her companion there,\ he said, with excitement; and having previously made his adieu, he departed, chuckling inwardly at his parting shot, and thinking for once she is nonplussed. \ She is too high-spirited to sleep comfortably to-night, if so, she ll dream of me in spite of herself.\ \ What a funny man!\ exclaimed Mrs. Dale, \ reminds me of a Jack on wires.
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If I were
If I were in your place, Mrs. Gower, I d hand him over to his mother to bring up over again; till to-morrow, farewell.\ \ Au revoir, dear.\ \ Good night, Mrs. Gower,\ said Buckingham, with a firm hand-clasp; \ your evenings leave one nothing to wish for, save for their continuance.\ \ If your words have life, prove them by coming again; good night.\ CHAPTER VII. CHAPTER VII. ACROSS THE SEA TO A WITCH S CALDRON. 57 Broadlawns, on the outskirts of Bayswater, London, England, on the evening Charles Babbington-Cole, from Toronto, Canada, is expected, is all aglow with lights; its exterior a goodly spectacle with its many windows.
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just now engaged
just now engaged in circulating Matthew Arnold s poems in leaflet form in the jobbing district.\ \ I sympathize with that propaganda,\ I replied, gathering up my hat and stick, \ and am delighted to contribute to its support. And now I dare say you would be glad to be rid of me. The Asolando has tolerated me longer than my slight purchases justified.\ I bowed and had turned away, when she arrested me with the line,– \ My good blade carves the casques of men.\ I turned toward her. Several of the waitresses were now engaged in rearranging the tables, but they seemed not to heed us. \ Permit me to inquire,\ she asked, \ whether the lady who joined you here expressed any interest
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in the life beautiful
in the life beautiful as it is exemplified in the Asolando?\ \ I am constrained to say that she did not. She spoke of the Asolando in the most contumelious terms.\ The golden head bowed slightly, and a smile hovered about her lips; but her amusement at my answer was more eloquently stated in her eyes. \ I must explain that my sole excuse for addressing you is that we are required to learn, where possible, just why strangers seek the Asolando.\ \ In the case of the lady to whom you refer, it was a matter of this being the seventh shop from the corner; and my own appearance was due to the idlest curiosity, inspired by enthusiastic descriptions of the Asolando s atmosphere and rumors of the cheapness
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of its food.\
of its food.\ \ The reasons are quite ample,\ was her only comment, and her manner did not encourage further conversation. \ May I ask,\ I persisted, \ whether the Asolando s staff is permanent, and whether, if I return another day.\ \ I take it that you do not mean to be impertinent, so I will answer that my service here is limited to Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. On the other days Pippa is in the cash-booth. My name at the Asolando is Francesca.\ \ I had guessed it might be Lalage or Chloris,\ I ventured. She shook her head gravely. \ Kindly write your name in the visitors book at the door as you pass out.\
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There was no
There was no ignoring this hint. I thought she smiled as I left her. III I FALL INTO A BRIAR PATCH 14 Miss Hollister s summons lay on my desk the next morning and was of the briefest. I was requested to call at Hopefield Manor at four o clock the following afternoon, being Thursday. A trap would meet me at Katonah, and it was suggested that I come prepared to spend the night, so that the condition of the flues might be discussed and any necessary changes planned during the evening. The note, signed Octavia Hollister, was written in a flowing hand, on a wholly impeccable note sheet stamped Hopefield Manor, Katonah. Before taking the train I sought
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Wiggins by telephone
Wiggins by telephone at his office, and at the Hare and Tortoise, where he lodged, but without learning anything as to his whereabouts. His office did not answer, but Wiggins s office had never been responsive to the telephone, so this was not significant. The more I considered his conduct during the recital of my visit to the Asolando the more I wondered; and in spite of my wish to ignore utterly Jewett s revelations as to Wiggins s summer abroad, I was forced to the conclusion that Jewett had not lied. I had known Wiggins long, and this was the first time that I had ever been conscious of any withholding of confidence on his part; and on my own I had not merely confided all my hopes and aims to him, but I had leaned upon him often in my perplexities.
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over the others,
over the others, depending on its mode of operation at the time. Furthermore, the elements work together harmoniously at the cosmological level, as can be seen in runic activity. Scientists have discovered some of these interesting facts, such as water requiring fire in its creation. We can take a sphere and place within it, two parts hydrogen with one part oxygen (H2O), and we will not produce water without a catalyst. The earth element of palladium will work, or the fire element of a high voltage spark will do the same thing. Amino acids which are building blocks of biological forms, can be created in a sphere by combining the requisite gases (air element), and introducing a high voltage spark. It would be ludicrous to consider scientists in the light of “creators,” even if they did end up creating biological forms. As we have
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seen, they can
seen, they can only rely on the established creative processes which already exist for their use. Creation, after all, encompasses all the quantific processes responsible for electro-tonal identities, evolutionary processes of a cosmological, as well as a biological nature, and all the forces of adhesion, cohesion and balance, which allow for the eventual manifestation of elemental biological forms. It is equally ludicrous, then, to say that a very powerful humanoid called god said a few words, and created the world in five days, then drew in the dirt, and manifested human beings by blowing into it. As the force behind all power in the universe-even that of Sound and Light-the Higher Will serves as the ultimate force of ordered existence. Embodying this force which our Norse ancestors called “Megin,” is Solí ; the Runic representative of the “All.” A number of educators have confused this
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power with the
power with the önd, using the two terms interchangeably. Önd is Feyhju’s power of Sound and Light, which is a creative force. It is the Partiki which serves as material for the patterns of all universes, and the manifestations which comprise them; but Solí, with his “Megin,” establishes the patterns of all the universes. Megin is the power behind Light and Sound; it is the power of the Higher Will, to which all other powers in the universe(s) are subordinate. Naturally, then, Solí is the 1st Runic Light, which is Gold. The Higher will is the structure of universal law, and the force behind all power in the universe. This is the ultimate force of ordered existence we are talking about; and this is Soil’s cosmological purpose as the axis in the Runic Correlation chart which depicts the Cosmological Code, then. Solí is the
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embodiment of the
embodiment of the Higher Will, as a direct extension of the “All.” He is the “Force of Megin,” which is the responsible force behind the structural patterns resulting from the activities of the other Runic Forces in the Cosmological Code. The structural patterns which are powered by Soil’s force include the Sound current, the Runic Forces, personal identity and gender for electro-tonal energy-identities, the Cosmological Code, the planes of variable vibratory frequencies, and the elemental patterns of atomic, molecular, and biological manifestations. As we know, each individual has personal identity as a result of his or her particular vibrational harmony to the Sound current, and the potential for individual harmonics is limitless. We are categorized in all ways, by tonal frequency. The Runic Forces possess specific characteristics that relate to what we call gender, and they also embody specific tonal frequencies, unlimited by our concept of
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o� td
x��2� recital of my visit to the Asolando the more I wondered; and in spite of my wish to ignore utterly Jewett s revelations as to Wiggins s summer abroad, I was forced to the conclusion that Jewett had not lied. I had known Wiggins long, and this was the first time that I had ever been conscious of any withholding of confidence on his part; and on my own I had not merely confided all my hopes and aims to him, but I had leaned upon him often in my perplexities.
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Decorative drop capital]
Decorative drop capital] \ Do you mean to say,\ said Wynne, \ that these Broads are worth my giving up a few days to seeing them?\ \ If you will give up a fortnight, I promise you that you will find it too short. You went to the Friesland Meres years ago, and enjoyed it. You will like these quite as well.\ [Picture: Pull s Ferry] So he promised to come for a fortnight, rather reluctantly, and when, on his arrival in Norwich, he took a preliminary canter by rail to Yarmouth, he refused to say anything about what he thought of the country, which looked ominous. We had hired a ten-ton cutter, and she was lying at Thorpe, a mile and a half below the city. The man we had engaged rowed
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the jolly-boat up
the jolly-boat up for us, and as Wynne was enthusiastic about old buildings, we rowed him up the river to the New Mills, a very old mill, which spans the river Wensum near its entrance into the city. From thence we came back along the narrow sinuous river, overhung with buildings, many of them ancient and picturesque, under numerous bridges, wharves where wherries were loading or unloading, using the half-lowered mast as cranes, past the Boom Tower, still keeping watch and ward over the river; quaint Bishops Bridge; Pull s Ferry, where there is a ruined water gate, often sketched and photographed; past the railway station, into the reach parallel with King Street, where gables, and archways, and courts delight the painter. Here, on the left bank, is another Boom Tower, built of flint, the universal building-stone of Norfolk, faced by
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another tower on
another tower on the opposite bank, whence runs a fine piece of the old city wall up the hill to another and larger tower, in better preservation, on the summit. Then we next passed the very extensive works of Messrs. J. and J. Colman, and below them innumerable stacks of choice wood, out of which the boxes to contain the mustard, etc., are made. [Picture: Bishop s Bridge] [Picture: Boom Tower] \ You speak of this as the Wensum,\ said Wynne; \ I thought it was the Yare.\ \ This river is the Wensum, but this smaller stream coming in on the right is the true Yare, and from this point the united river takes the name of the Yare. This spot is called Trowse Hythe, and half a mile up it,
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got a bump,
got a bump, which I have still–for it was not right of me to laugh. But the whole now passes before me again in thought, and everything that I have lived to see; and these are the old thoughts, with what they may bring with them. \ Tell me if you still sing on Sundays? Tell me something about little Mary! and how my comrade, the other pewter soldier, lives! Yes, he is happy enough, that s sure! I cannot bear it any longer!\ \ You are given away as a present!\ said the little boy; \ you must remain. Can you not understand that?\ The old man now came with a drawer, in which there was much to be seen, both \ tin boxes\ and \ balsam boxes,\ old cards, so
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large and so
large and so gilded, such as one never sees them now. And several drawers were opened, and the piano was opened; it had landscapes on the inside of the lid, and it was so hoarse when the old man played on it! and then he hummed a song. \ Yes, she could sing that!\ said he, and nodded to the portrait, which he had bought at the broker s, and the old man s eyes shone so bright! \ I will go to the wars! I will go to the wars!\ shouted the pewter soldier as loud as he could, and threw himself off the drawers right down on the floor. What became of him? The old man sought, and the little boy sought; he
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was away, and
was away, and he stayed away. \ I shall find him!\ said the old man; but he never found him. The floor was too open–the pewter soldier had fallen through a crevice, and there he lay as in an open tomb. That day passed, and the little boy went home, and that week passed, and several weeks too. The windows were quite frozen, the little boy was obliged to sit and breathe on them to get a peep-hole over to the old house, and there the snow had been blown into all the carved work and inscriptions; it lay quite up over the steps, just as if there was no one at home;–nor was there any one at home–the old man was dead! In the evening there was a hearse seen before the door, and he
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was borne into
was borne into it in his coffin: he was now to go out into the country, to lie in his grave. He was driven out there, but no one followed; all his friends were dead, and the little boy kissed his hand to the coffin as it was driven away. 8 Some days afterwards there was an auction at the old house, and the little boy saw from his window how they carried the old knights and the old ladies away, the flower-pots with the long ears, the old chairs, and the old clothes-presses. Something came here, and something came there; the portrait of her who had been found at the broker s came to the broker s again; and there it hung, for no one knew her more–no one cared about the old
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that time was
that time was staggering. But the station-master, pacing solemnly up and down the platform, paid no heed to the inquiries addressed to him, and the guards answered only by a shake of the head which might mean anything. Then, quite suddenly, above the noises of the station, menacing and insistent came the low, ceaseless shuffle of approaching feet. A moment later the head of an infantry column appeared at the station entrance. It halted there, and an officer, in a long, gray cape that fell to his ankles, strode toward the station-master, who hastened to meet him. There was a moment s conference, and then the station-master, saluting for the tenth time, turned to the expectant guards. \ Clear the train!\ he shouted in stentorian German, and the guards sprang eagerly to obey. The
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scene which followed
scene which followed is quite indescribable. All the Germans in the train hastened to get off, as did everybody else who understood what was demanded and knew anything of the methods of militarism. But many did not understand; a few who did made the mistake of standing upon what they conceived to be their rights and refusing to be separated from their luggage–and all alike, men, women, and children, were yanked from their seats and deposited upon the platform. Some were deposited upon their feet–but not many. Women screamed as rough and seemingly hostile hands were laid upon them; men, red and inarticulate with anger, attempted ineffectually to resist. In a moment one and all found themselves shut off by a line of police which had suddenly appeared from nowhere and drawn up before the train. Then a whistle sounded
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and the soldiers
and the soldiers began to file into the carriages in the most systematic manner. Twenty-four men entered each compartment–ten sitting down and fourteen standing up or sitting upon the others laps. Each coach, therefore, held one hundred and forty-four; and the battalion of seven hundred and twenty men exactly filled five coaches–just as the General Staff had long ago figured that it should. Stewart, after watching this marvel of organization for a moment, realized that, if any carriages were empty, it CHAPTER II 14 would be the ones at the end of the train, and quietly made his way thither. At last, in the rear coach, he came to a compartment in which sat one man, evidently a German, with a melancholy bearded face. Before
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use, some were composed with alternating lines of Danish and Latin, indicating that they may have been sung responsively. Among these hymns we find the oldest known Danish Christmas hymn, which, in the beautiful recast of Grundtvig, is still one of the most favored Christmas songs in Danish. Christmas with gladness sounds, Joy abounds When praising God, our Father, We gather. We were in bondage lying, But He hath heard our prayer. Our inmost need supplying, He sent the Savior here. Therefore with praises ringing, Our hearts for joy are singing: All Glory, praise and might Be God s for Christmas night. Right in a golden year, Came He here. Throughout a world confounded Resounded The tidings fraught with gladness For every tribe of man That He hath borne our sadness And brought us joy again, That He

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in death descended, Like

in death descended, Like sun when day is ended, And rose on Easter morn With life and joy reborn. He hath for every grief Brought relief. Each grateful heart His praises Now raises. With angels at the manger, We sing the Savior s birth, Who wrought release from danger And peace to man on earth, Who satisfies our yearning, And grief to joy is turning Till we with Him arise And dwell in Paradise. The earliest Danish texts were translations from the Latin. Of these the fine translations of the well known hymns, \\ Stabat Mater Dolorosa\\ , and \\ Dies Est Laetitia in Ortu Regali\\ , are still used, the latter especially in Grundtvig s beautiful recast \\ Joy is the Guest of Earth Today\\ . At a somewhat later period, but still well in

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advance of the

advance of the Reformation, the first original Danish hymns must have appeared. Foremost among these, we may mention the splendid hymns, \\ I Will Now Hymn His Praises Who All My Sin Hath Borne\\ , \\ On Mary, Virgin Undefiled, Did God Bestow His Favor\\ , and the beautiful advent hymn, \\ O Bride of Christ, Rejoice\\ , all hymns that breathe a truly Evangelical spirit and testify to a remarkable skill in the use of a language then so sorely neglected. 6 Best known of all Pre-Reformation songs in Danish is \\ The Old Christian Day Song\\ –the name under which it was printed by Hans Thomisson. Of the three manuscript copies of this song, which are preserved in the library of Upsala, Sweden, the

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CHAPTER I. CHAPTER I. TORONTO
CHAPTER I. CHAPTER I. TORONTO A FAIR MATRON. 32 Two gentlemen friends saunter arm in arm up and down the deck of the palace steamer Chicora as she enters our beautiful Lake Ontario from the picturesque Niagara River, on a perfect day in delightful September, when the blue canopy of the heavens seems so far away, one wonders that the mirrored surface of the lake can reflect its color. \ Do you know, Buckingham, you puzzle me; you were evidently happier in our little circle at the Hoffman House than in billiard, smoking, or reading-rooms, and just now in the saloon you seemed so content with Miss Crew, my wife and our boy, that I again wonder a man with these tastes, and who has made
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his little pile, does
his little pile, does not marry,\ said Mr. Dale, in flute-like tones, distinctly English in accent. \ I really think, my dear fellow, you would be happier in big New York city with some one in it to make a home for you.\ \ I am quite sure your words are kindly meant, Dale, but look at me,\ he says tranquilly, \ I am not dwarfed by care, being six feet in my stockings, I have no worrying lines written on my forehead, and between you and I, I am fifty; to be sure I am bald and grey, but that is New York life, a bachelor life, then, has not served me ill; there is a woman at Toronto I should like as my wife, but until I can give her the few luxuries I now deem
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necessities, I shall
necessities, I shall remain as I am.\ \ I regret your decision, Buckingham, it is a rock many men split on, this waiting for wealth and missing wifely companionship.\ \ Perhaps you are right; but I should not care to risk it,\ he says, calmly. \ And you a speculator!\ his friend said, smiling. At this they drifted into business and some joint investments in Canadian mineral locations, when Dale said: \ You must excuse me now, Buckingham, I promised my wife to go and read her a letter descriptive of Toronto, as we, you know, have not been there.\ \ Who is the writer, if I may know?\ \ Our mutual friend at Toronto, Mrs. Gower.\ \ Oh,
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I am with
I am with you then,\ he said, with unusual eagerness, a fact noted by his friend. Entering the saloon, Mrs. Dale, a pretty little woman, fashionably dressed, with Irish blue eyes and raven hair, said, lifting her head: \ Excuse my recumbent position, but I feel as if my head wasn t level, if I try to sit up; ditto, Miss Crew.\ \ Where is Garfield, Ella?\ \ Over there with those boys; now read away, hubby, it will do my head good.\ \ Very well, let me see where the description commences (the personal part I may pass). Here it is: \ Toronto is a fair matron with many children, whom she has planted out on either side and north of her as far as
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her great arms
her great arms can stretch. She lies north and south, while her lips speak loving words to her off-spring, and to her spouse, the County of York; when she rests she pillows her head on the pine-clad hills of sweet CHAPTER I. Rosedale, while her feet lave at pleasure in the blue waters of beautiful Lake Ontario. \ Her favorite children are Parkdale, Rosedale, and Scarboro ; Parkdale to her west, ambitious and clear-sighted, handsome and well-built, the sportive lake at his feet, in which his children revel at eve; her 33 daughter, charming Rosedale, in society and quite the fashion even to the immense bouquet she carries at all seasons–now of autumn leaves, from the hand of Dame Nature; now of the floral beauties from
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her own gardens and
her own gardens and conservatories, again, of beauteous ferns gathered in her own woods across her handsome bridges. \ Scarboro , fair Toronto s favorite son, of whom she is justly proud, is a handsome young warrior, fearless as his own heights, robust as his own trees, which seem as one gazes down his deep ravine, like so many giants marching upwards as though panting to reach the blue pavilioned heavens where they would fain rest their heads. \ From the time spring thaws the sceptre out of the frozen hand of winter, until again he is king, the breath of Scarboro is redolent of the rose, honeysuckle and sweet-briar, with a rapid succession of the loveliest wild flowers in Canada beneath one s feet, a veritable carpet of sweet-scented blossoms has her son Scarboro .
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the sand and
the sand and let it all happen the way Gus wanted it to, secure in the knowledge that none of it was his own fault. Instead he had done the hard thing. The courageous thing. The moral thing. He had grasped the nettle. He had seen to it that death, if it had to come to somebody, would at least come to a man who richly deserved it. A man who had made a career out of telling his students that good and evil did not exist. A man who viewed death as a culturally constructed fiction. As crimes went, putting a man like that onto a pre-existing death list was a pretty minor offence. A pretty civilized one. Maybe you could even call it heroic. Was that going too far? Perhaps not.
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Perhaps that was
Perhaps that was about as heroic as you could get in this day and age. Damage limitation, victim management. Maybe that was about as moral as you could be, in this fucked-up world … How would these arguments go down in a police interview room? Would they cut any ice? Maybe – if the questioning was being done by one of those delightfully cultured detective inspectors you saw on crime shows. Some quirky, metaphysically inclined fat-boy with silver hair who played the clar- inet, or liked doing crosswords, or kept quoting Kierkegaard, or listened to Wagner at top volume while waving an invisible baton. Failing that, Fenton might be in a lot of trouble. Maybe
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he would get
he would get the other guy instead. The philistine with the loosened tie who thumped the table and asked him if he’d ever seen a dead man before. Or the look on a woman’s face when you knocked on her door in the dead of night to tell her the son she had carried and nurtured and suckled at her spent breasts wasn’t coming home … But again Fenton was getting ahead of himself. He shifted his head to a cooler section of sheet. He resettled his hips and limbs. He was skipping over the fundamental question, wasn’t he? Which was this: how real was the danger to Ivan Lego’s life? How sinister or binding was a death list drafted by a bunch of clowns? It didn’t feel
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real. Did that
real. Did that mean it wasn’t real? Or was this what being in a genuine terrorist outfit felt like from the inside? Did authentic terror cells have people like Col and Smithy in them? And leaders like Gus, and right-hand men like Warren? And personnel as seriously un- happy about the thrust of proceedings as himself? Did his own deep res- ervations count for anything? Or was terrorism one of those things you could just drift into against your will, like a bad conversation at a party, a friend- ship with someone you didn’t really like … And if he didn’t think the threat was real, then why had he been so desperate to get Robert Browning off the death list? He rolled restlessly back onto his other side. What should
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he believe? On 102
he believe? On 102 one hand, there was something inherently fantastic – was there not? – about the whole conspiracy. It was folly, surely, to fear that any plan of Gus’s might ever gain traction in the real world, the gritty real world of corpses, dental records, weeping relatives, arrests, arraignments, imprisonment without the prospect of parole. Operation Lego just didn’t belong to that genre, did it? It was a reverie, a cartoon. It had reality only in the crass themepark of Gus’s imagination. It reeked of unviability. But then again, so had Gus’s plan to break into the Union Bar at 2am last night. And then at a certain point Fenton
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(Stercorarius catarrhactes) under the
(Stercorarius catarrhactes) under the name of Catarracta, a skin of which he says was sent him by Dr. Walter Needham, and rightly identified it with the Skua which Hoier sent to Clusius, but his figure is evidently drawn from a skin of the Great Black-backed Gull. Hoier, whose name so often occurs about this time in connection with birds from the north, was a physician, living at Bergen in Norway. The Great Skua still breeds in sadly reduced numbers on the Shetland and Faroee Islands, but is rarely met with in Norfolk. As also that [strong struck out] large & strong billd fowle [Clusius nameth struck out] spotted like a starling wch clusius nameth Mergus maior farroensis[11] as frequenting the faro islands seated above shetland. one whereof I sent unto my worthy friend Dr Scarburgh. [11] The
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bird here mentioned
bird here mentioned is doubtless the Great Northern Diver, Colymbus glacialis. In another place Browne again refers to it as Mergus maximus Farrensis, which Clusius (\ Exotic.,\ p. 102) calls Mergus maximus Farrensis, a name used by Willughby as a synonym for his \ Greatest Speckled Diver or Loon\ (p. 341). This bird is known to our fishermen as the Herring Loon, the Red-throated and perhaps also the Black-throated Divers being called Sprat Loons. It is a pity Browne s \ draught\ is not forthcoming. Here is also the pica marina[12] or seapye many sorts of Lari,[13] seamewes & cobs. the Larus maior in great abundance [about struck out] in [written above] herring time about yarmouth. [12] The Oyster Catcher, or Sea Pie, is found in greater numbers on the north-west portion of the County of
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Norfolk than on
Norfolk than on the eastern shore; it breeds occasionally about Wells, where it is universally known as the \ Dickey-bird.\ [13] Browne here refers to the family in general terms. The various species of Gulls in their different stages of plumage were very puzzling to the Ornithologists of the last century, and it is often extremely difficult to say to what individual species they refer. By Larus major he would probably mean the Black-backed and Herring Gulls which are found on the shore all the year round, most frequently in the immature plumage, but they most abound \ in herring time.\ By far the commonest species at all times is Browne s Larus alba or Puet, the Black-headed Gull. Large flocks of this species and L. canus frequent Breydon and the tidal shores, especially the young birds
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of the year.
of the year. There are now two large breeding-places of the Black-headed Gull in Norfolk, a very old-established one at Scoulton Mere, and a more recent colony at Hoveton Broad. The former extensive gullery at Horsey, mentioned by Browne, has long since been banished by the drainage of the marsh they Notes and Letters on the Natural History of by Thomas Browne 16 frequented, and it is probable that a small colony which bred on Ormesby Broad some forty years ago, owed its origin to their banishment from Horsey. They, in their turn, deserted Ormesby on the erection of the works for supplying Yarmouth with water about the year 1855, and fixed upon Hoveton as their new home, in which place, as at Scoulton, they are carefully preserved.
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but I don’t
but I don’t think you’re a danger to us. Go ahead and take one.” Tohkay was motionless, except for his eyes, which followed the man’s 17 steps across the room. Kaylen took down the swords and examined them. The blades were long and curved slightly, sharp on both edges, made from a mirror-like, milky-white metal. The hilt wasn’t the basket he was used to, but felt solid in his hand. In an empty corner of the room, he tested both weapons, and chose the one that was slightly larger. “Interesting blades,” he said. “I’ve never seen any metal quite like this.” “A dwarven alloy,” Norgrim stated proudly. “We traded a few weapons to humans, back in the day. You won’t
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ever need to
ever need to sharpen it, and I can’t imagine that even Symurall could break the blade.” “Thank you,” Kaylen said, attaching the weapon to his belt; it fit, albeit imperfectly, in his old scabbard. “Now, about getting to the beach…” “Don’t be a fool!” Norgrim warned. “Do you plan to take on an entire army of kehklik by yourself? You don’t even know where you’re going exactly, or what might lie ahead. Tohkay said it before: Ignorance is suicidal. Go if you must, but your time is better spent here if you want humans to survive in Syraqua.” “Syraqua?” “My point exactly! You don’t even know the name of this land, and you certainly don’t know its history.” Norgrim motioned toward the overstuffed chair. “It’s your choice, but I think indulging
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Tohkay in his
Tohkay in his favorite pastime will be invaluable.” Kaylen weighed the possibilities for a moment, and sat down. I will keep this brief (said Tohkay, much to Norgrim’s obvious amusement). Humans once populated the great valley between the Stone Soul and Sanguine Mountains, from the Great North Sea to the edges of Wyvernrift in the south. They built many cities and towns, traded with dwarves, fought with kehklik and each other, and lived in tolerance with the great dragons. There are tales that humans came to this world in the company of dragons, millennia ago, from another place, as friends and companions. But over the centuries, humans changed, and their relationship with dragons changed as well. Three hundred years ago, humans began dabbling in magic. Ah! I
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to enter another
to enter another upon the death of the body. Not knowing what lies beyond this realm will give many people pause, and rather than taking advantage of my offer, they will remain secure in the trap that has become so comfortable to them. As we learn to meditate, the increase in our vibratory frequency will be noticed by our enemies beyond this realm. Possessing the technology with which to access the Akasha, or the collective unconscious, they will determine our thoughts and intents in order to ascertain whether or not we pose a potential threat to their agenda. Those who pose such a threat will become targets. Not everyone attempting to escape hell will necessarily pose a threat, but those with leadership abilities and/or warrior-like tendencies most certainly will. Astral entities, ascended masters, or so-called angels may attempt to entice such an individual away from his or her
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path through either
path through either direct communication, or fear and intimidation. The most common occurrence is the attachment of one or more entities to the auric field, for the purpose of interfering with one’s inner communication process. In order to prevent all this, and to secure our inner communication so that it remains one-on-one with the Higher Self, we must be able to establish a protective shield capable of withstanding not only the occult powers, but also those of the archangels. Again, I can assist in this, or you may be capable of constructing such a shield for yourself. The shield must protect the entire auric capsule, as well as the vapor light separating each of the subtle bodies, and even the entire Merkaba Field. In this way, we will remain free from all outside forces as we turn within as Christ turned his disciples within. Receiving the monthly
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discourses will enable
discourses will enable those who turn within to the Higher Self for their escape from hell, to have their psychic time loops removed, disconnecting them from Dominion’s electromagnetic time loop. Karma requiring their return to hell will be purified from the subconscious, and their vibratory frequencies will begin to increase. Auric purification will also be facilitated, in order to secure a pure connection to the Higher Self, and a protective shield will prevent any breaches of personal sovereignty. Finally, the purification of our lower emotional passions will accompany the purification of related karmic issues. So, now what happens after we escape from hell? Who can we trust, where do we go, and what do we do? It is possible for some people, if it is part of their destiny, to live until their vibratory frequencies allow for their ascension into the fourth dimensional realm. Such as these will have
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to suffer hell
to suffer hell until that time arrives, however. Those whose destiny it is to pass on to dimensions five and above, will give up their bodies, and take up residence in the astral realm associated with that particular dimension until reincarnating there. In all cases, we will work right along with the Higher Self in controlling our destiny after death. This concept is very discomforting for many people who lack knowledge and experience regarding life beyond the only world they know. It is easier to believe in a being who is more knowledgeable, who possesses greater wisdom, and who has more power than ourselves, who will guide us like sheep, promising to lead us to the promised paradise after this life, in return for our obedience now. On the other hand, if we wish to follow in the footsteps of Christ and do even greater things than
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a nineteenth-century Christian
a nineteenth-century Christian poet; while to many a pallid malcontent, wearied with inaction and panting for strife, might the Divine words still be applied: Could ye not have watched with Me one hour? Mildred Lambert s life for eight-and-twenty years might be summed up in a few sentences. A happy youth, scarcely clouded by the remembrance of a dead father and the graves of the sisters that came between her infancy and the maturer age of her only brother; and then the blurred brightness when Arnold, who had married before he had taken orders, became the hard-working vicar of a remote Westmorland parish–and he and his wife and children passed out of Milly s daily life. CHAPTER I 40 Milly was barely nineteen
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when this happened;
when this happened; but even then her mother–who had always been ailing–was threatened with a chronic complaint involving no ordinary suffering; and now began the long seven years watching which faded Milly s youth and roses together. Milly had never known how galling had been the strain to the nerves–how intense her own tenacity of will and purpose, till she had folded her mother s pale hands together; and with a lassitude too great for tears, felt as she crept away that her work was finished none too soon, and that even her firm young strength was deserting her. Trouble had not come singly to Mildred. News of her sister-in-law s unexpected death had reached her, just before her mother s last brief attack, and her brother had been too much stunned by his own loss to
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come to her in
come to her in her loneliness. Not that Milly wondered at this. She loved Arnold dearly; but he was so much older, and they had grown necessarily so apart. He and his wife had been all in all to each other; and the family in the vicarage had seemed so perfected and completed that the little petted Milly of old days might well plead that she was all but forgotten. But Betha s death had altered this; and Arnold s letter, written as good men will write when their heart is well-nigh broken, came to Mildred as she sat alone in her black dress in her desolate home. New work–unknown work–and that when youth s elasticity seemed gone, and spirits broken or at least dangerously quieted by the morbid atmosphere of sickness and hypochondria. They
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say the prisoner
say the prisoner of twenty years will weep at leaving his cell. The tears that Mildred shed that night were more for the mother she had lost and the old safe life of the past, than pity for the widowed brother and motherless children. Do we ever outlive our selfishness? Do we ever cease to be fearful for ourselves? And yet Mildred was weary of solitude. Arnold was her own, her only brother; and Aunt Milly–well, perhaps it might be pleasant. Say yes, Milly–for Betha s sake–for my darling s sake (she was so fond of you), if not for mine. Think how her children miss her! Matters are going wrong already. It is not their fault, poor things; but I am so helpless to decide. I used to leave everything to her, and we
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and stood, holding
and stood, holding onto the window frame. Broken fragments of brick sprinkled down as Dubell grasped the edge of the roof above. Thomas boosted him from below and the scholar scrambled over the edge. Digging fingertips into the soft stone, Thomas started to pull himself upward. Dubell had barely been able to grasp the ledge from here; Thomas knew he would have to stand on top of the cornice before he could reach safety. There was a crash just inside. Straining to reach the edge of the roof, Thomas bit his lip as something gave way beneath his left boot. Fingers wedged between the soft brick, he groped for another hold and felt the mortar under his hand crumble. Then from above, Galen Dubell caught his arm in an iron grip, supporting him as he found
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another foothold. For a
another foothold. For a man who must do little with his hands besides write or do scholarly experiments, Dubell was surprisingly strong. The man s gentle demeanor made it easy to think of him as nothing more than an aged university don and to forget that he was also a wizard. Thomas scrambled over the edge, his muscles trembling with the strain. \ I thank you, Doctor,\ he said, sitting up, \ but there are those at court who won t appreciate it.\ \ I won t tell them about it, then.\ Dubell looked around, the damp breeze tearing at his gray hair and his cap. \ Are those your companions?\ There was a shout. The two men he had stationed atop the tannery were waving from the edge of the next
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roof. \ Stay there,\
roof. \ Stay there,\ Thomas shouted back. \ We ll come to you.\ Slowly they made their way up the crest of the pitched roof to the edge where the others were throwing down some planks to bridge the gap. The slate tiles were cracked and broken, slipping under their feet. They had Chapter One 10 just crossed the makeshift bridge to the tannery when Thomas turned to say something to Dubell; in the next instant he was lying flat on the rough planks with the others as the timber frame of the building was shaken by a muffled explosion. Then they were all retreating hastily across the tannery roof, choking on acrid smoke, as flames rose from the Bisran
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sorcerer s house. *
sorcerer s house. * * * \ So much for keeping this quiet,\ Thomas remarked to Gideon. The two men sat their nervous horses, watching from a few lengths down the street as Grandier s house burned. There was a crash as the facade collapsed inward, sending up a fireworks display of sparks and an intense wave of heat. The neighborhood had turned out to throw buckets of water and mud on the surrounding roofs and mill about in confusion and panicked excitement. The real fear had subsided when the residents had realized the fire was confining itself to the sorcerer s home, and that only a few stray sparks had lit on the surrounding structures. Three of the hired swords had been taken alive, though Thomas doubted they would know much, if anything,
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as fast as
as fast as his mouth. MHePll get his cut. ItPs in the books.N HertzelPd run his course. The senator sat for a minute. The silence lingered until it grew dramatic. When the senator finally spoke his voice had a low, strange calm in it. His face was set deadpan, MLet me educate you, my friend. This is Luis EstaphanPs restaurant. YouPre drinking Luis EstaphanPs Scotch. YouPre sitting at Luis EstaphanPs private table. You probably got here in one of Luis EstaphanPs cabs. Luis Estaphan owns a lot of things. Luis Estaphan owns you.N The senator paused to let it sink in. MBut make no
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mistake about it,
mistake about it, Luis Estaphan is not a re- spectable businessman. But itPs very important he invest his money in respectable businesses. ThatPs what he thought he was doing when he took forty-nine per cent of International Salvage. And whatever happened in El Salvador two months ago has got the law chasing him.N The senator paused to make sure Hertzel was still with him. Twenty years ago, Luis Estaphan was an executioner. The Feds had him. He couldPve put half the Mexican American mobsters in Jail, but he didnPt. Today hePs a very important boss. HePs a very connected old man.N He paused again.
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MA very serious
MA very serious old man, you asshole.N — 71 — The senator stopped talking because he was getting himself nervous. He waited, checking HertzelPs intake before he wrapped it up. MThe only thing different now Hertzel is the fact he doesnPt do executions anymore. Somebody does them for him L now. Hertzel bought into the point of view, his pock- marks showing a little more distinctly with the loss of color. MIPve got nothing to hide from the man. IPll tell him what happened, just like I told you.N The senator chuckled softly, cruel menace rid- ing through his voice. MHe thinks youPre fucking him, putting him
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at risk here.
at risk here. He didnPt buy heat Hertzel; he bought a legitimate company. He doesnPt want people making problems where there shouldnPt be any. The senator leaned forward. MI know you let that idiot Howie blow that ship up down in El Salvador.N His eyes never left Hertzel. MIPve got political ambitions here, Hertzel, and IPm not backing your bullshit on this one.N He sat back silently and smiled. MWant another drink, big shot?N Hertzel glanced at his watch and nodded. He couldnPt see the entrance from his position at the back of the restaurant, but he knew something was happening. The place had taken on an air, a little
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extra silence,
extra silence, the maitre dP straightening himself as he walked past with a quickened pace. Hertzel fought the temptation to turn around. He knew well enough what was happening. Instead, he finished off his second double. No need to look anxious, he thought. He forced himself to relax, — 72 — knowing apprehension could look a lot like guilt. The senator was nowhere near as discreet, shuffling and stretching, probably figuring he had less to worry about. He looked like he was won- dering if he was sitting in the right spot as he awaited the approaching entourage. Hertzel noted it and found it didnPt do a lot for his anxiety.
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But two
But two doubles and he couldnPt re- sist. MRelax, Henry, itPs my ass on the line, re- member?N He enjoyed watching the bulldog-like senator step down from the number one spot. He ordered himself another double scotch. His confi- dence grew; he knew he could handle the situa- tion, no problem. Everybody liked money. MYou dumb shit. This is serious. DonPt play games with this man.N The shifty salvage dealer didnPt even notice the senator standing for the arrival of Luis Estaphan and his people. MSit down.N It was EnricoPs voice, LuisP lieu- tenant, and it came out from behind the two gi- ants preceding him. The senatorPs etched-in-stone smile did a quick fade.
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learn that so
learn that so many humans survived.” “And you?” Symurall shook his great head slowly. “They are here, and we must deal with them. My opinion is irrelevant.” “Never lie to another dragon,” she admonished. They sat quietly for some time, watching the humans. The woman had returned to the group, and they were roasting some sort of mussel she’d collected. “Resourceful, are they not?” Kyazura said. “Resourceful humans once attacked us.” “And other humans ensured our presence on this world. Perhaps these events are the world’s way of restoring balance.” The humans below were making more noise. One of the smaller ones, perhaps a child, pointed toward Symurall and Kyazura, crying out. Abandoning the fire, they all ran away. “At least they flee toward more of their kind,” said Symurall.
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“I found one
“I found one thousand, two hundred and fifteen of them while coming here. Including those below.” “They will not survive long if we do not help them,” Kyazura declared. “We tried helping them before. The results were disastrous.” Symurall stood, hovered, and then opened his wings. “I must go. Norgrim has likely reached Drakcaern by now. He might talk the fearless human to death.” “A council must be called,” Kyazura told him. “Any action will require a consensus.” “Agreed. We meet in Sanctagora, in two days. I leave the arrangements to you, my beautiful sister. Thank you.” Symurall flew toward his castle, moving faster than he had earlier, covering leagues in minutes. As he was about to turn inland, he noticed a commotion near the two ships he’d first found. Going down to
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investigate, the smell
investigate, the smell of kehklik reached him, accompanied by the scents of blood and fear. Several humans were gathered on one of the dunes; amid the grass and scrub lay a dead kehklik scout, beside the disemboweled corpse of a human. He changed course abruptly, heading south. The kehklik nest wasn’t difficult to find, its conical white mounds contrasting sharply with the low, brown-green foothills. Activity was obvious even from a distance. A few 11 warriors were emerging from the nest to form neat ranks around their overseer-leaders. Fliers buzzed in the air. None bothered the dragon. They instinctively knew better. Something else attracted his attention. Sytherek? No, the presence was gone. Symurall turned and flew toward Drakcaern.
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