To see men grovel before him wasn’t a thing of novelty to Keter. Usually, though, they were trembling with primordial fright, begging for him to spare their puny lives. This was the first time they regarded him with reverence, their heads pressed to the morning-damp soil while they muttered prayers in their gurgling language.

Keter shot a sidelong glance at Virrah, who was talking to the men with what sounded like an air of iron authority, belying of her young age. After another sharp hand gesture, one of the men fled off into the bush to do whatever Virrah had commanded him.

Watching her demeanor change from exhausted girl to cold monarch was quite a sight to behold. It told much about a person, how quick they could mask their emotions. Showed they were adept to it, and more than willing to use these skills often. There was more to Virrah than you’d think, and Keter was getting inquisitive about her story.

Why were these men obeying her without question? Was it him? The Prowl’s singed skull? Her authority alone? Why had she been in the crypt? Why help him? What did she gain by all this? Guessed he’d find out soon enough.

Keter tossed the skull to the ground, shrugging his sore shoulders loose. If they liked him enough to grovel in the dirt, they might as well carry the blasted thing to wherever they were going.

The closest man looked up at him from his kneeled position, eyes wide with awe. Keter stared down and showed his leering grin, then spoke in Virrah’s ugly language.

“Rhem Griefva ghedel!” The words that had echoed in his mind ever since he’d started lumbering the thing around.

*

Slickleaf was surprised to hear the God speak her tongue. She’d actually prefer it if he didn’t learn too quickly, lest Slickleaf would lose some of her value. The man she had sent back disappeared in the woods, off to announce her return and the coming of a new God. She could hardly wait to see old Grog’s furious face as his little plan falls into shambles. The Elder Shaman, too. A warmth spread through her stomach at the thought of Silva’s praising.

As the hunter, Yeht, she recalled his name, hauled the skull on his shoulder, stumbling slightly as he’d underestimated the weight, Slickleaf started walking towards her Clan, gesturing the God along while nodding low. She had to be careful to exert enough command to appear to him as competent, yet not too much so he didn’t think of her as a threat. Felt much to her like walking on thin ice; silent cracks spreading like a mad web beneath her feet. The God gave her a hard look with his dark eyes, but then complied when she didn’t look away.

The trek back was strange. Slickleaf had never imagined returning before she’d met the young Godling. She faintly recognized the wild trail they followed, reminding her of a time when she’d scourged the forest, together with a pair of hunters, to find any obscure plant or herp or shroom Silva had demanded found in her early apprentice days. Now, she had others to go fetch these things, like Halfbloom. Slickleaf suppressed a sneer at the idea of that stupid girl as the eldest pupil of Silva. Then almost chuckled, imagining her face on her return.

The white sun climbed the distant sky, reaching above the mountain peaks which Cradled their native land. As they neared the clan, and tracks became more prevalent, the one hunter who carried the Herald’s remains was sweating and puffing something fierce. Yet he didn’t ask his companion for help, his honor would not allow it. Still, seeing him suffer much like Slickleaf had before brought a strange sort of satisfaction with it.

She heard the hustle and bustle of the Clan before ever seeing them. The last line of trees opened up and Slickleaf was presented with a view she’d never seen before. Everyone, from the youngest girl, to the eldest man and all in-between were gathered in the Cattle Valley before the village. She knew about two hundred people to live in Hollow’s Maw but had never expected the gathered crowd to appear so overwhelming. Perhaps now she could imagine the grand scope of the ancient wars men had waged, told around the evening fire by the Elder Shaman.

And before the grand mob stood the leaders of Hollow’s Maw. Grog-je’cher, the chief hunter was an imposing man. Perhaps not the tallest or broadest, but his muscles were hard like stone, and wound around his limbs like hardy Greywood and riddled with a hundred old scars. His eyes always had a sharp gleam to them, like a predator judging its prey.

In the middle, Hawk, The Elder Shaman, grasped his bone staff, carved with intrinsic runes and symbols which lend him the power of the divine. He was a small, scrawny man, but no less dangerous. All he needed doing was speak some words to snuff a man’s life like a struggling ember. He wore the most pristine garb in the whole village; painted cloth that had been painstakingly weaved by the Clan’s women.

Slickleaf’s mood lifted once she’d spotted Silva, the Elder Owl, standing where once the Elder Chief had stood. Even though she was bent over her cane, Silva looked the tallest of the whole crowd, holding herself with a grace that told everyone she decided who lived and died once the wounded arrived at her cottage. She was the oldest, and no doubt the wisest person in the whole of Hollow’s Maw. Slickleaf would dare say the Owl was the most knowing in the whole Cradle.

The mob gazed at the God with the same glittering eyes the hunters had. Not a few were even drawing religious wards or runes in the air as they muttered a prayer. Slickleaf saw their stares pulled to the Herald’s skull too. Looking at it with both awe and fear.

The whole gathering was silent, and Slickleaf realized with a jolt that they all expected the God to start addressing them, not knowing he could not speak their tongue but for a few words. The mass of men and woman all looked expectantly at him; all except for Silva, who regarded Slickleaf with an eager smile.

She took a calming breath, then raised her voice as much as she dared, and spoke to the whole of Hollow’s Maw.

“As the Elder Shaman has foretold in his tales of old, the prophecy of God’s return has been fulfilled! And as proof of this He, the mighty Godling, has defeated the Herald and brought its lifeless skull with him on his arduous journey back to the people, you!” The crowd stirred at her words, whispering that turned into talking, then warped to calling and eventually they were shouting their devotion to their new God, loud enough to tip the mountains. Slickleaf glanced at the Godling and was surprised to not find him overwhelmed by the mob’s vigor. As if seeing such a gathering was normal to him. He was a God, after all.

The Elders neared when they saw their chance, though still somewhat careful as they didn’t know how the God would react to their presence. He simply regarded them with the same empty gaze as he gave everything else. Silva was the first to speak.

“Slickleaf, my child!” She grated in her papery voice. “Once again, you triumph over the challenges fate throws you! No doubt, you are my best pupil.” Slickleaf warmed at Silva’s words. Even if the other two frowned at them, they held their silence on the subject for now.

Hawk, the Elder Shaman, bowed as low as his warded staff allowed him before the Godling, who watched the old man with cold indifference.

“Oh, divine Master, it is an honor to be able to show my devotion before you!” He kept his head down for a while, until he realized the God would not answer him. Confused, he dared look up, then sideways at Slickleaf.

“The God has yet to learn our language, Elder Shaman.” Slickleaf answered calmly. Oddly enough, Hawk shook his head in disagreement; ready to start an argument, it seemed.

“He, blessed be his name, is not a God, but a Master.” He said knowingly. They all stared at him in disbelief.

“What’s the ripping difference?” Silva demanded. Hawk gave her a look, and Slickleaf groaned internally. She recognized that face. The senile Shaman was ready to blather on about the ancient writing until his tongue would flee him. Fortunately, Silva’s pointed stare snuffed his words in their bud. He cleared his throat and gave a simple explanation.

“Gods, mighty they may be, can only influence the world indirectly, within their own dominion. Storms, disease, beasts and plague are the limits they can exercise.” He dared steal a glance at the Godling before continuing.

“He is a Master; a God’s influence manifested among us mortals. Which Master, we do not know yet.” Grog’s eyes panned across the God’s, or Master’s, patchwork of bandages, then viewed the Herald’s skull.

“How…” He worked his jaws, thinking hard to find the right words with that soggy brain of his. “How do we know which Master he is? What does it matter?” The Shaman looked almost disappointed with Grog’s lack of finesse. No doubt pleased, then, that the Master did not understand them. No doubt, he would’ve been greatly offended otherwise.

“It matters because depending on his nature will he bring us change and prosperity.” His eyes lit up, probably imagining his own rise in power as a Shaman with the Master’s coming. “and we learn this through observing his actions. Say, Pupil Slickleaf, how did he defeat the Herald?”

Damn, all eyes were on her again. Well, she supposed she’d better get used to it, if she wanted to rise in influence herself. Slickleaf thought back of the fight and its horrible fury.

“He called down searing flame and roaring thunder to rip the Herald apart. So mighty was his mantra that the very core of the Hollows shook with awe.” They all took a moment to digest such an image.

“And he had cast his wrath in silence.” Slickleaf finished. A collective gasp. Even the Shaman, strong as he was in magics, seemed put-off by the revelation. A thought came to her and she regarded the Master.

“Make fire?” She asked carefully not to upset the Shaman with her boldness to ask of the Master. Slickleaf moved her fingers like licking flame, and the young Master understood. He raised a single hand, and before the gathering’s eyes, a clap of fire bellowed from his open palm, up into the morning air without a word uttered.

They all recoiled at the sight, and the disturbed look on Hawk and Grog’s face pleased Slickleaf greatly. When the blast of heat had finally dissipated, did Grog speak again.

“So, he be the Master of Flame, then?” Again, Hawk shook his head. Again, disappointed in the hunter.

“No,” he said, looking at the young Master. At his clothing, the cage that held flame, the sharp stone that gleamed in the sun’s light, held in his other hand. Then, the Elder Shaman smiled.

“He has made his body a weapon, he has made nature his protection, he has made the Hollows his domain, and he has unmade the Herald.” His eyes were glazing over with wonder.

“He is the Master Maker, the binder of lands, the builder of holds, the uniter of men.” His voice was loud, booming. It reached all the way across the great crowd. All could hear. “He will lead us to triumph over all others! He is the mightiest of Masters! The shaper, the Maker of worlds!” He almost screamed the last part at the people of Hollow’s Maw as they cheered and called out the Master’s name. The Grand Master Maker, who looked upon it all with the same black, calculated eyes.

Slickleaf mouthed the words silently, ‘Master Maker’. The terrible battle between Master and Herald came back to her; flashes of scorching fire and crashing thunder, blasting the Winged Speaker to dust. She recalled the dreadful grin he had shown, the first sign of joy reflected in his abysmal eyes. Slickleaf doubted the Master Maker could make anything but a mountain of corpses and ash.