. . .

He even stops for a moment before the cell of space’s wicked god, as if to free it.

He does not free it.

He chooses not to free it; but it is too late. It has slid a tendril of nothingness through the gap in his attention, caught the key from him already, and it will later slip its locks.

Then Hans mounts up on his storm-horse and he charges out.

Vaenwode runs. He staggers. He runs.

 

<< . . .

. . . >>