The hidden seat of Udgrond’s power.
The laws of time and space bend and warp this close to the core. This is why we have left our time-bound and space-bound selves far above, locked in the spirit chamber and guarded by Eyeni’s keen senses.
Our timeless journey brings us at last to a great sea of molten silver. There, nestled at the center of a molten orb large as the moon, a titan sleeps. His body has become the earth itself, and we look upon his naked spirit, curled like a babe in its mother’s womb. I call Udgrond him, but he is a genderless force of nature. That is the role he has chosen to play in the drama of this world’s ongoing existence. My companions know this instinctively as we glimmer before him, a quartet of moths buzzing about the sun.
Calling upon the strength of my allies, whose spirit-selves are linked to mine, I send a great thought spiraling through the molten core to awaken the Maker of Mountains. It strikes him as a ray of starlight strikes a still pool, without ripple or wave.
Somewhere far, far above, the earth trembles.
Again I call out to Udgrond, and now the stellar sea ripples.
I might say that he opens his eyes, but that would not be accurate. His awareness opens, turns away from the long dream of continents and oceans and mountains and sliding tectonic plates. Earthquakes and tremors rattle the globe along its ancient faults.
Udgrond.
I name him, and so bring myself into the focus of his celestial glow. He gathers the molten silver as a King gathers up his cloak to meet guests in his throne hall. Giving himself form now, he dwarfs our minuscule spirit-selves with his immensity. His eyes are blazing suns erupting in a molten face. He might swallow us and return to his epochal dreaming. I cannot let this happen. Currents of fear and awe radiate from my companions.
Maker of Mountains, I call out to him. Do you know your cousin?
His memory is ancient and deep. His form becomes a silver immensity, stretching itself into arms and legs and head. Here, at the earth’s blazing core, his size has no consequence. If he were to stand this tall and mighty in the world above, his very weight would crack its surface and send him plunging through its crust back to this place of compressed celestial forces.
Tiny spirits. He notices us. How long has it been since anyone has spoken to him via thought or language? He is beyond both, and my presence calls him back toward the ephemeral states of form and density. Does the world end so soon? Must I awake to enter the void once more?
No, I tell him. The world yet lives, Udgrond. But it needs your help.
His colossal bulk shifts. I do not think of the earth far above, shaking and trembling at his every twitch. I must convince him to take a less massive form so that he may leave this place and aid us.
I remember you, Iardu Starwing.
None have called me this name since the Age of Walking Gods. We were not Gods, which are wholly human inventions, but we might as well have been in that distant era.
Long have you slept here at the world’s heart, I say. And now I ask you to awaken, to join me in the raiment of flesh, and to walk the world above. Your power is needed, cousin.
There is silence in the world’s silvery core.
I wait for the significance of my plea to dawn upon Udgrond’s waking mind.
I have made the mountains and seas, he says. I am weary from it. I must rest. This is the place I have chosen. Let others walk the surface and play the games of Blood and Fire. This is not for me.
He is stubborn, as I remember. Always he walked alone. I must sway him.
You have children in the world above, I tell him. They are called Men, and they are the fruits of the earth you have molded. And there are Giants, born of the stones you cherish. And others, a thousand forms and shapes manifested from the earth’s bounty. Will you not come and meet them? Bless them with your favor?
Udgrond’s mighty eyes scintillate, memories of the cold void appearing and vanishing.
What of the Ogvaeth, the Vequanad, the mighty Muthsaka? They, too, were my children.
All gone, I say. Swept away by the winds of time. The world belongs to Men now.
The Maker of Mountains does not like this news. The lost races he remembers are less than memories to those who inhabit the world-sphere now. I realize too late that I have upset him. He curls fists the size of asteroids, and certain volcanoes erupt across the globe.
Life endures, cousin, I remind him. The depth and variety of its forms are unbounded. Yet Men are among its most brilliant creations, for they most mirror the Old Breed in thought and deed. Your long sleep has lasted long enough. The Age of Men requires your attention. I awaken you to help us in the final shaping of the world above. As your kinsman, I beg you: Rise up with us and walk the world again.
Sharadza, Vaazhia, and Alua say nothing. They are stunned mute by the majesty of Udgrond’s realm and the potency of his nature. That is all to the good. There is nothing they can say beyond what I have said. My will reaches out to the Maker of Mountains, strengthened by the wills of the three linked to me, and I shape Udgrond’s thoughts toward my own ends.