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Borenson dreamt of simple things—a heavy-boned wife whose face was not quite human, for she had horny nubs upon her temples and heavy jaws, and canine teeth that were far too large. Yet he loved her as if she were beautiful, for she bore him stout sons who were destined to be warriors.

  In his dream, he was a warrior himself—Aaath Ulber, the leader of the High Guard, the king’s elite forces. His name was a title that meant Berserker Prime, or Greatest of All Berserkers, and like his wife, he was not quite human, for his people had been breeding warriors for two hundred generations, and he was the culmination of their efforts.

  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.

  But it had seemed impossible, and the king had worried at what would happen if his people were ever found there, cornered on some desert island.

  On Aaath Ulber’s world, this whole continent was underwater, Borenson realized. In the binding of the worlds, the two became one. That’s why there are sea animals here on dry land—it wasn’t dry on both worlds. Now the land has fallen. The sea is rushing in to cover it!

  “Run!” he shouted to Draken and Sage. “Run to high ground! The sea is coming!”

  He peered down at little Erin. He could not move her safely. Nor did he dare leave her here.

  He wasn’t sure how much time he had. Minutes? Hours? No, he could feel the land trembling. He might not have even minutes. The sea was rushing toward him in a flood.

  We may all be doomed!

  The squatters came boiling from under the tree, then stood gaping, gasping and crying in astonishment. Nothing could have prepared them for what they saw—kelp and coral and creatures of the sea all suddenly appearing where once there had been dry ground.

  “Run!” Borenson urged them.

  The valley here along the Hacker River was long and narrow, a mile or two across.

  On both sides of the valley, stark red-rock cliffs rose up. In only a few places could those cliffs be scaled.

  “There!” Borenson shouted. “Up that hill!”

  The squatters were shrieking, the children yelping in fear. At least one woman was still unconscious, and young men carried her. Others limped about groggily. The men were gathering bags while mothers tried to herd their children.

  Draken looked back toward the house. “Shall I save the horses?”

  “Save your sister!” Borenson shouted. “Get to high ground.”

  The earth continued to rumble, growing louder by faint degrees. Draken grabbed his sister Sage by the elbow and took the girl Rain by the hand. The three rushed off.

  It was nearly a mile to the ridge. They’d be minutes running toward it, long minutes climbing.

  Borenson looked down at Erin. “Daddy?” she said. Her eyes scanned left and right, unseeing, unable to focus.

  “I’m here,” he said. “Mother is coming. You’ll be all right.”

  Myrrima had some skills as a healer, as did all water wizards. Her kiss could calm a troubled mind; her stroke could draw away a man’s pain. But Borenson didn’t think that she could mend a broken neck, not in the time that they had.

  Perhaps the flood won’t reach us, Borenson dared hope. How far did the land sink? Certainly it won’t all be underwater. We are fifty-two miles from the sea.

  He imagined that some sort of balance must have been reached in the binding of the worlds. Perhaps his homeland would only sink halfway into the sea.

  He heard his wife crashing through the brush of the overgrown orchard. This part of his land was ill-kept.

  “Myrrima,” Borenson bellowed. “Over here!”

  She came running a moment later, leaping over a rock covered in coral, rushing between two trees, panting from exhaustion. She wore her deep blue traveling robe over a white tunic and leggings. The years had put a little weight on her, but not much. She did not run fast. No longer did she have any endowments of speed or brawn. The Dedicates who had given her their attributes had all been slain long ago, shortly after they’d fled Mystarria, as had his Dedicates.

  Yet as a wizardess she would enjoy a longer life than Borenson, and in the past ten years she seemed not to have aged a year.

  Myrrima stumbled to a halt, not even recognizing him. The woman had had the sense to bring his war hammer, throw together a bundle of clothes. Now she backed away with fear in her eyes.

  Her body language said it all: Who is this giant, crouching above my child?

  “Myrrima,” Borenson said. “It’s me—your husband.”

  Wonder and confusion warred in her face. Myrrima peered down at Erin, there gasping for breath, and she seemed to cave in on herself.

  “Erin?” she called, daring to scrabble closer. “My little Erin!” Myrrima dropped to her knees, still panting for breath, and kissed Erin’s forehead, then began to stroke her. “My baby! My sweet baby?”

  “She fell,” Borenson explained, “in the binding of the worlds.”

  “Mother?” Erin called. She peered up, unseeing.

  “I’m here,” Myrrima whispered. “I’m here for you.”

  There was a protracted silence. Borenson became more aware of the rumbling beneath his feet, the squawking of borrowbirds. The animals felt the danger, too.

  “We have to get her to safety,” Myrrima said. She eyed Borenson with distrust. “Can you move her gently?”

  Borenson let out a little wail of frustration. His giant hands were so powerful, yet so uncouth. They were ill-suited for such delicate work.

  “Can you hold back the water?” he begged.

  Myrrima shook her head in defeat.

  Borenson worried that nothing that he could do would save the child. Perhaps he could not even his save his family. How tall would the waves be? Forty feet tall, or four hundred?

  Myrrima shifted the child slightly, lifting her just enough so that Borenson could slip his fingers beneath Erin. As gently as he could, he slid one palm beneath the child’s body and another beneath her head.

  With great care he lifted. The girl seemed so small in his arms.

  I am of the warrior clan, a voice whispered in his mind. This child weighs nothing.

  It was Aaath Ulber’s voice.

  Borenson put one arm beneath Erin, like a board, and began to carry her as swiftly and as delicately as he could.

  The grass was wet, the ground uneven. Strange sea creatures dotted the land—enormous crabs creeping about with claws ready, rays gasping for air. Colorful coral rose up in shades of tan and bone and red, all surrounded by clumps of summer grasses.

  Borenson hurried, trying not to jar his daughter, careful not to slip. He kept glancing to the ground then back to Erin’s small face, contorted as it was as she struggled to stay alive.

  Is she even breathing? Borenson wondered. He watched her chest rise a little and then fall again.

  Yes, she breathes.

  Up ahead, Owen Walkin’s people lumbered along. All of them moved slowly, painfully, as if some great illness had befallen them.

  Suddenly, Borenson felt as if he were watching them from outside his own body. The people looked small and puny. “Run, you feral dogs!” he roared.

  People of such low breeding don’t deserve to live, he thought.

  It was not a thought that would ever have presented itself to Sir Borenson.

  Aaath Ulber was talking.

  Though the others were weak Borenson felt strong, stronger than either he or Aaath Ulber had ever been. In some ways, he felt as if something vital had always been missing and now he had found it.

  He reached the river, which had gone strangely muddy. A pair of giant rays were flapping about. The water was not deep this time of year, nor was it swift. But the rounded stones beneath the surface were slick.

  Borenson sloshed through, Myrrima at his side, and made it more than halfway before he slipped.

  He caught himself, but Erin’s little head swiveled to the right.

  “Aaaagh!” Myrrima gave a cry, then reached out and tried to hold Erin’s head securely in place. They attained the far bank, raced up wet stones. A patch of slick red kelp hindered him, but he finally made it to the base of the ridge.

  The squatter families ahead toiled up the l
ong slope. The ground trembled mightily now. The flood was coming.

  Borenson marched boldly, passing the squatters, holding Erin as securely as he could. He studied Erin’s face; she gasped for breath. Her complexion was as white as a pearl, her skin seemingly translucent. He could make out the tiny veins and arteries that colored her skin, blue and red. Her pupils had constricted to pinpoints.

  She’s in shock, he realized. She’s strangling for lack of air.

  There was no way to save her. Perhaps all of his efforts had been in vain. Yet he clung to hope.

  With giant strides he passed through the clot of squatters, surged uphill. The air filled with a distant roar and birds squawked.

  He’d climbed three hundred feet. He peered to the east and saw a gray cloud in the distance—a haze of dust and spray.

  He had to get higher. With a burst of speed, he charged uphill, cuddling Erin, trying to hold the life inside her.

  At last he reached the ridgetop and peered toward the sea. Just to the west lay Sweetgrass, its village bell ringing wildly. The whole earth was roaring, and beyond the town a massive wave surged through Hacker River Valley.

  The squatters, Myrrima, and Borenson’s children trudged up, their faces stark with shock and amazement; they stopped next to Borenson and peered at the rushing waters.

  The sea came far more swiftly than Borenson would have imagined. This was not some puny wave making its way along a sandy beach.

  It roared—a sound that shook the world in a continuous boom as if all the thunder that had ever been suddenly voiced itself at once.

  The ground was trembling now, and loose stones began to bounce down from some red-rock cliffs above. Borenson glanced up fearfully, but none of the stones came near.

  The valley spread below, and Borenson had an eagle’s view of the river snaking along, the green fields to either side. He could see his own pleasant home with its newly thatched roof and barns, with his sheep and cattle in his pens, and his yellow dog Mongrel standing out in front of the house, woofing at the confusion.

  His neighbors’ homes lay east and west. He saw the Dobbit family rushing about near their cottage, Farmer Dobbit racing to free his livestock, seeming only now to recognize the danger.