Guild Wars_ Edge of Destiny - J. Robert King [66]
“Over the next hundred fifty years, the voice seduced more norn, and they joined the cult, becoming the Sons of Svanir. They believed they were drawing upon the ancient voice, but in fact it was drawing upon them, gaining the power to rise.
“And it did rise. One of the Elder Dragons. Jormag was its name.
“We fought Jormag—gladly we fought it, for norn are made for battle. But never had we fought a beast like this. It was a living blizzard. It and its minions froze us where we fought and buried our lands in snow and ice and tore apart Gunnar’s Hold with a massive glacier. It took our lands. It drove us south.
“And despite the destruction, there are still foolish norn who hear the call of Svanir and seek the power of Jormag. In the end they are reduced to icebrood themselves, flesh wrapped in ice, fed by malevolence and hatred.”
As Eir’s tale fell to silence, her comrades stared into the fire and listened to it crackle.
At last, Rytlock said, “You want us to destroy a living blizzard that defeated the entire norn nation?”
Eir’s eyes were fierce. “I want us to destroy the dragon’s champion, his right arm. When the Dragonspawn is dead, Jormag will be maimed. Then we can strike the dragon’s heart.”
Rytlock took first watch while Eir, Caithe, Logan, and Garm took their rest. Wrapped in blankets, they nestled down on the mossy tundra, seeking warmth. Only the two asura worked on. By the middle of Rytlock’s watch, Zojja had became cruel and cranky, like a tired child. Her verbal barbs grew sharper by the minute, and at last Snaff sent her off to sleep.
Rytlock walked the perimeter. Overhead, a sickle moon tore through rags of cloud. On the icy desolation all around, moon shadows flitted like ghosts. Rytlock shivered. “We should let the dragon keep this place.”
At the darkest corner of night, Rytlock returned to the camp to wake up Logan.
“You’re quite a pair,” came a nearby voice, accompanied by the rasp of a socket wrench.
“Hm?” Rytlock turned to see Snaff straddling the leg of the golem and working by the faint blue glow of a powerstone.
“You and Logan,” Snaff replied, flashing a smile. He turned back to the conduits he was repairing. “After all this time, a charr and a human make peace.”
“Ha!” Rytlock blurted, but then glanced toward the sleepers. He went on more quietly, “It’s not peace. More like mutually assured destruction.”
Snaff laughed. “Ah, it’s more than that. He idolizes you.”
“He covets my sword. It’s not the same.”
“Oh, it is the same. What little brother doesn’t want what his big brother has?”
“And what big brother doesn’t hate his little brother for wanting it?”
Snaff nodded. “Yes. I suppose that’s part of the dynamic. Love and hate hand in hand. Apprentices feel the same way toward masters—love them for all the knowledge they have, and hate them for the same reason.”
Rytlock glanced over at Zojja. “Nah. You’re her whole world. She just doesn’t know it yet.”
“Funny how that works,” Snaff said philosophically. “People become part of you, and you don’t realize until they’re gone.”
“Right. Listen, uh, my watch is over and Logan’s up next.”
“Good, good. He’ll be good company.”
By the next morning, Rytlock, Logan, and Eir had each taken a watch while Snaff worked on. Soldering and shaping, rewiring and refitting—by the time he was done, Big Zojja had been resurrected. She stood at the edge of the camp, dented and dinged but ready for action.
Eir gazed soberly at the result. “You’ve worked a miracle.”
“That’s what I do,” Snaff said with a smile.
Zojja rubbed sleep from her eyes. “Too bad the other one couldn’t be salvaged.”
Snaff’s smile never wavered. “That’s all right. We brought a spare.”
“A spare?”
Snaff donned a powerstone laurel, and with a boom and a hiss, the tarp on the wagon bulged