Echoes of the Night

The second song of the Age of Night

"Something is stirring in the deep;
Old hatred, newly kindled;
The fifth, emerging from troubled dreams,
Remembering a world all thought was gone.

Will it return?
Will vengeance be borne on shadowed wings?
The oceans boil with rage unfettered;
Who can stand in its way?"

Van Canto, 'Dragonwake'

Prologue: Of a Fallen Age

Ethereal tides shifted, rousing a creature birthed in an age long forgotten. No muscles stirred beneath frozen hide as thoughts quickened from a glacial stupor. Images danced behind sealed eyelids as an ancient mind awoke.

"Here I am, ungodly beast! Fearless Finn Hofferson! I've been waiting ten years for this moment! Come and get me, if you dare!"

Tursas seized the memory with mental claws, tearing it to shreds and casting them aside.

Irrelevant. He had seen the passage of five thousand seasons; dragons did not care for the stubbornness of ants. He emptied his mind of all distractions; focusing on his senses.

His eyes were frozen shut, his body cold and numb, but he had no need of such mundane senses; he had the Aür; birthright of all dragonkind. In the darkness he sensed a faint light; the barest trickle of energy, less than a thousandth the strength of full Aurlós, but it was there, ever-present.

Tursas turned his mental eye inwards, to the spark of Auric light that blazed in his breast, sustaining him while his heart and lungs slumbered. He watched the spark carefully, sensing the rate that it drew energy from him, and subtracting the amount of energy it should have consumed; calculating the strength of the background Aurlós.

It was only after he had triple-checked his calculations, that Tursas allowed himself a brief moment of emotion: Anticipation.

The forty-season long cycle of the Aurlós was nearing its peak; it was time to awaken once more, and soon, to feast.

Tursas willed the spark in his chest to brighten, sending a wave of warming light through his body; transmuting ice crystals to liquid water and revitalising dead flesh.

Crushing jaws of pain clenched around his chest, as if his icy refuge had collapsed atop him. Tursas resisted the futile urge to gasp in agony, enduring the pain of his heart's unthawing with single-minded focus.

The first spasmodic clutching of his chest felt like it shook his entire world, though it was impossible for him to have moved a single tail-width. The second clenching was easier, and by the third, the pain had faded, replaced by the regular, thump, thump, thump, of his heart.

As one pain faded, more came on its tail: the aches of a thousand muscle groups waking from slumber, and more pressingly, the burning of his air-starved lungs. Tursas ignored the demands of his flesh, forcing down the instinctual fear-response; it would only waste precious Auric light.

Gathering what power remained after his long sleep, Tursas sent it out of his body, commanding the ice encasing him to become liquid. For the first time since he had closed his eyes, he saw light: a faint glow, tinged purple by his eyelids, as his Aür went to work.

Weight returned to his limbs, as streams of icy water began to flow across his scales. Then, with a crack that resounded through the small space around him, wind and sunlight fell upon his face.

Tursas' jaw was the first part of his body to move; cracking open as his lungs expelled the stale air of the last cycle, and drew in the first breath of the next. He opened his eyes.

He glimpsed a jagged fissure in the ice, before the blinding light shining through it forced his eyes closed. Tursas blinked rapidly, encouraging his tears to flow, and gradually the brilliance resolved into bands of colour: above, the pale blue of the sky; below, the deeper shade of the northern ocean, and immediately before him, the stark white of the great ice shelf.

His bones grinded against each other as he unlocked his leg joints, and hauled himself out onto the ice. Tursas collapsed onto his stomach, gasping for breath, the small effort leaving his heart pounding and limbs trembling. The weakness was only temporary, he knew; the time of Aurvandil's fire was fast approaching, and with it, the revitalising power of the Giftbloom.

Tursas snarled. It had been his work - hundreds of seasons observing and recording the Aurlós - which had proven the existence of the cycle. But the surge in activity that marked its peak bore the name of the Bewilderbeast who had claimed dominion over his home.

At the same time that the skies blossomed with heavenly light, it was mirrored in the oceans below: they called it 'Trinity's Gift'; a rare algae that glowed with Auric light, which bloomed in huge volumes at the cycle's peak.

Tursas growled again; the very name betrayed the Alphas' ignorance. The stories of the Trinity and the balance between the cosmic powers were myths, perpetuated by the Alphas to maintain their control. Anyone who saw the world as it truly was knew that Ülgen's eye was a dull, lifeless rock, and that Yilbegän's 'bodies' were unfeeling points of light, tracing predictable paths across the night sky; the Aurlós issued solely from Koyash's fire.

Tursas took a deep breath; these were old wounds, they should not be bothering him so.

He exhaled slowly, rising to his feet and sweeping his head from left to right, examining every facet of his surroundings. Something was different this cycle; he had subconsciously noticed, and it was unsettling him.

He finished his sweep: nothing stirred on the ice sheet, nor disturbed the undulations of the sea. Tursas closed his eyes, reaching out with his Auric senses.

Something was missing.

Even this far from her nest, he should have felt the Tyrant's power, subtly influencing the thoughts of her most distant subjects, keeping them docile and loyal.

She was of little concern; she could destroy him if she put her mind to it, there was no doubt, but they both knew that conflict would be too costly to consider, so they maintained an unspoken policy of non-agression.

Tursas extended his senses further. Nevertheless, if something had happened to the Tyrant, he needed to know about it. His awareness passed over hundreds of body-lengths of empty sky and barren ocean, before encountering another point of light; a lone mind at altitude, on a westward heading.

He extended a cautious tendril of thought towards the dragon. At this distance, he could only perceive vague impressions of the ocean's expanse, far beneath its wings, but he could detect no trace of the Tyrant's presence either. Gathering his power, he implanted a suggestion in the dragon's mind, turning its flight towards him.

Bile rose in Tursas' throat as he returned to himself. It had been almost trivial. He doubted the dragon - a Nightmare, he now knew - had even noticed its thoughts being manipulated. What did they do to you, you piteous thing? Have they bred away all your ferocity, that you submit to anyone with a spark of power?

While he waited for the Nightmare, Tursas planted his feet in the snow and rolled his head from side to side, testing the limits of his neck's motion. Then, one by one, he lifted his forepaws from the ice, rotating his shoulders through their full range of movement. Next he spread his wings, holding them at full extent, he moved through every combination of positions he needed to control his flight, finishing with a few slow, controlled flaps.

These positions were one of the many secrets hoarded by the Night Furies that Tursas had discovered in the ruins of their capital. Originally developed to aid convalescence, the motions promoted blood-flow to the muscles and aided the natural healing abilities of the Aür; it had been easy enough to adapt them to his form.

As he finished the last position - tilting his head back towards the sky as he arched his tail over his body to touch his muzzle - he spotted a black speck in the distance. His body already feeling stronger and more limber, he settled into a comfortable position to wait.

He didn't need to influence the dragon's thoughts again; the brief impression he'd got from the Nightmare's mind was that he was rather young; he wouldn't be able to resist the curious sight of a lone dragon sat on the ice.

Sure enough, the Nightmare began to spiral down towards him.

"Hi there!" The Nightmare chirped as soon as his hind-paws touched the ground. "Who are you? And what are you? I've never seen your kind before."

Tursas suppressed his irritation; five thousand seasons, and fledglings never changed; more questions than there were fish in the sea.

"If you must know, my name is Tursas, and I am a Flightmare. You won't see any others of my kind; the Tyrant saw to that." His kind had an above-average chance of becoming Aurfýr, so they had shared the Night Furies' fate.

The Nightmare cocked his head to the side. "The Tyrant?"

"The Red Death who inhabits the island the humans call 'Helheim's Gate'. Even one such as you must have heard of her."

"Oh!" The Nightmare's face lit up. "You mean the Queen!"

"I meant what I said, Hatchling. None who call themselves 'Alpha' are deserving of that title."

The Nightmare blinked. "Anyway, you don't need to worry about her any more, she's gone!"

"What?!"

"Uhhh... The Night Furies and Vikings killed her; they made her chase them into the clouds and-"

"Did you say Night Furies, plural?" He knew of only one survivor of the Tyrant's genocide.

The Nightmare gave him an odd look. "Are you okay? Did you hit your head or something? Don't you remember-"

"Quiet!" Tursas growled. This was taking too long; if something had happened to the Tyrant he needed to know now. Gathering his Auric power into a single point, he thrust it towards the Nightmare's mind.

The fledgling's defences crumpled before his assault. Tursas felt sparks of confusion and alarm shoot across the Nightmare's mind, and he clamped down on his muscular control before he could think to flee. Finding his limbs paralysed, the Nightmare began to panic, battering against Tursas' power.

Ignoring the Nightmare's struggles, Tursas focused on the mind laid bare before him. Now that he was closer, he could see evidence of the Tyrant's past control: The first few weeks of the Nightmare's life on the Rookery Isle were bright and colourful, as all hatchlings' were, but as soon as his dam took him back to the nest, the memories became dull and lifeless; the young Nightmare only half-conscious as the Tyrant's will surplanted his own.

The featureless expanse of memory continued for season upon season, until, less than a quarter-season ago colour and feeling abruptly returned to the Nightmare's life.

Tursas plucked the Nightmare's name for itself from his thoughts; Flametongue - what kind of ridiculous name was that? - before he immersed himself in its memories.

"Stop!"

The word rang out, echoing in the young Nightmare's head, reverberating through his thoughts. His wings stilled. He shook his head. He felt slow and groggy, like he'd just woken from a deep sleep. Where was he?

He glided over a gravel beach, in the shadow of a great mountain.

Your nest.

The Nightmare winced. The thought was wrong, somehow. It was familiar, a thought he'd held almost all his life, but now, like a misshapen piece of Boneknapper armour, it didn't fit and threw the rest of his thoughts out of line.

A squawk of alarm dragged the Nightmare's attention to his surroundings. A Nadder had wandered into his flight path. Throwing himself to the side, he narrowly avoided a mid-air collision. As he recovered, he looked around, belatedly noticing that the air was filled with thousands of dragons, all wearing the same confused expression.

Below them was a great mass of humans, arrayed for war. Here and there, bloody dragon corpses broke the warriors' lines. A chill traveled down his spine. What had happened here?

As if in answer, a monstrous roar erupted from the mountain.

Invaders! They assault your nest! Threaten your Queen! Drive them back into the sea!

He growled in sympathetic rage. His wings twitched, nearly sending him hurtling towards the humans below.

What was he doing?

The wrong thoughts whispered in the back of his mind. They told him that the voice accompanying the roar was his Queen. That she protected and nurtured the flock, and in return he had offered his service. That it was right.

But it wasn't.

It didn't make sense; he had no memory of being offered a position in the Queen's service, nor of accepting it.

He circled around as the Nadder he'd nearly crashed into roared and dove towards the beach. The humans reacted in the blink of an eye; raising their shields and bracing their weapons. The Nadder's eyes widened in panic as she realised her mistake, but it was too late. Her momentum carried her down, onto the points of the humans' spears.

A low growl rumbled in his throat as the humans withdrew their weapons from the Nadder's body and carelessly tossed her to one side. He didn't remember pledging himself to the Queen, but maybe she had a point; these humans were clearly invaders in dragon territory, perhaps-

"Dragons of the North!" a new voice bellowed. "Look to the sky!"

The Nightmare did so. Above the battlefield floated a distinctive silhouette; one that stirred distant, primeval memories.

"The Night Furies have returned!"

Night Furies; the name brought more memories; himself, looking up at a much larger dragon - his dam, he realised - as she spoke of the mythical black dragons in halting tones.

A new figure rose above the flock; a sky-blue Nadder, with a human perched upon her back. "Slavery was not always the way of our kind! The Queen has tried to hide it, but look inside yourselves, you remember!"

He remembered the sorrow in his Dam's voice as she recounted the tales; he had been too young at the time, but now he understood: she had known that as soon as she brought her hatchling back to the nest he would become another mindless slave.

"There was a time when Alphas ruled with respect, not fear!"

In his mind's eye he saw his dam, held down by humans, as another smashed her skull with a great hammer. He remembered feeling no sorrow at the sight; only the Queen's cold satisfaction at the stolen food clutched in his and his flock-mates claws.

"That time can live again, but only if you fight for it!

"Yilbegӓn's judgement has come for the Queen! So Fight!

"Fight for a true Alpha! For freedom; for justice;

"For your future!"

The Nadder roared, exhaling a column of brilliant white fire, then snapped her wings to her sides, diving towards a group of dragons making a second attack on the humans below.

The Nightmare made a split-second decision. He bellowed a challenge, igniting his skin and following the Nadder; better to fight and die by his own will than live as the Queen's slave.

Like the first spark that triggered a wildfire, his movement loosed chaos onto the flock. Deep within the mountain, the Queen roared, and more dragons swarmed from the nest.

A great weight smashed into him, sending him tumbling. He screeched in agony as claws and teeth rent his scales.

Half-blind with pain and fury, he writhed in his attacker's grip. Twisting around, his head shot forwards, sinking his teeth into a dark-scaled leg. His powerful neck muscles jerked, savaging the limb between his jaws.

The metalic taste of blood flooded his mouth, his ears rang with a cacophony of screams and rushing wind, and all he saw were indistinct flashes of scale, sky and ground.

He pulled his head back - spitting out a lump of torn flesh - finally getting look at the dark Nightmare atop him.

"Let go!" he hissed. "Or we'll both crash!"

The darker dragon's eyes were emotionless, unfeeling slits.

He roared, forcing his wings open. He couldn't flap, not with claws embedded in his flight muscles, but he could slow their fall. He redoubled his efforts to escape, twisting and battering with his tail, but the talons were locked in a death-grip.

They hit the ground and rolled over and over. He heard the snap as the Nightmare's wing broke. Eventually, they came to rest, with him on top.

"Why?!" He gasped. "You didn't-"

The darker dragon roared, using its uninjured wing to flip them over. Its head darted forwards, closing around his throat.

He tried to roar, but no air reached his maw. He thrashed beneath the Nightmare, lashing out with his hind legs, tearing it's underbelly to ribbons.

The jaws around his throat didn't so much as twitch.

As his vision began to fade, he heard a rising whistle.

Are the stories true? His air-starved mind wondered. Had Yilbegän come to lead him from this world?

There was a moment of blinding light and heat, and the pressure on his throat vanished.

The smoke-filled air he inhaled tasted as sweet as a field of dragongrass.

He was still alive. Which meant...

He shoved the burnt, broken body off him and got to his feet as a black blur swished overhead.

"Thank you, my Alpha!"

"Graaah!" Tursas roared. "You-, you-, utter fireless fools!"

"What d-did you-" The Nightmare, Flametongue, whimpered, cowering against the snow.

"Two thousand seasons of oppression, and within minutes of gaining your freedom, you pledge yourselves to another tyrant?! Idiots!"

He bellowed his fury, swiping at the ground, sending pawfuls of snow flying, only stopping when his claws scraped against solid ice.

"I don't understand," Flametongue whined. "Why are you angry? The Night Furies saved us, they protect us from the Alphas' abuse - Stormfly said: 'To guide and protect...'"

"'... never to rule'." Tursas sneered. "Lies. The Furies claim to be champions of the common dragon, but behind their self-righteous facade they are tyrants, like all Alphas.

"For tens of thousands of seasons they sat atop their mountain nests, the self-appointed paragons of draconic culture and learning, hoarding their secrets and dictating the path of our race.

"What is a guide, but another word for a leader?"

"But-, I-," Flametongue bowed his head. "I'm sorry I offended you, Elder."

Tursas took a deep breath and exhaled slowly; he didn't survive the Tyrant's conquest by letting emotion dictate his actions. The situation had changed drastically, and ignorance would kill him as surely as tooth or claw. This Nightmare represented a perfect opportunity, then; a block of base material for him to transmute to serve his needs.

"Peace, hatchling. You didn't know better, but we can fix that. First, tell me everything you know about the Night Furies."

"Of course, Elder." He paused for a moment, thinking. "Well..."

Tursas sat back on his haunches as Flametongue finished speaking. The young Nightmare looked up at him with a mix of curiosity and fear.

"It seems things aren't as bad as I feared," he began.

"How so, Elder?"

"This 'Hiccup' - the human savage transformed into a Night Fury - is disturbing, yes, but we can deal with that abomination later, the important things are that he's not trained, and that the two of them aren't bonded."

"Bonded?"

"A tool of the Furies to ensure their domination over the other Alphas. They called them 'Soul Bonds' - by joining together the minds of two of their own, they created a new entity that was exponentially harder for another Alpha to overcome."

"Why is this a good thing?"

"Because it makes them vulnerable." Tursas began to pace back and forth. "If we can separate them from their flock, then a pair of isolated, inexperienced Furies will be no match for me; we could end the tyranny of the Alphas once and for all!"

"'We', Elder?"

Before Tursas could answer there was a thunk and an explosion of snow as a quivering ballista bolt embedded itself in the ice less than a tail-length away.

"Come on!" Growled Dagur the Deranged, heir to the chieftaincy of the Berserkers, brandishing his crossbow at an infuriatingly empty sky. "Gimme something to shoot at! Gimme something to shoot at!"

"Sir, we haven't seen any dragons since we left port."

"I know!" He whirled, drawing a knife with his right hand. "It's almost as if they've all gone somewhere, like Berk!" The sailor who spoke ducked as the knife embedded itself in the mast above his head.

"It's almost as if this whole mission was an excuse for my coward father to get rid of me!" The man jumped as a second blade sprouted from the deck between his legs.

"Sir, I-"

"Dragon sighted!"

Dagur spun. "Where?!"

"Ahead, starboard, up high!"

Dagur shouldered his crossbow, following the lookout's directions. The dragon was a dark speck, barely larger than a bird; well out of range.

As he glared at the distant dragon, it turned sharply, cutting across their path and heading north.

"What's it doing?" one of his men wondered aloud.

"Who cares!?" Dagur roared, bounding to the front of the ship and leaping up onto the figurehead. "Man the oars! Ready the ballista!" He drew his sword - clutching the wooden dragon head with his other hand. "Follow that dragon!"

Dagur paced the length of the ship as the northern Ice shelf grew larger ahead of them. It wouldn't be long now; the lookout had reported the Nightmare descending to land on the ice some time ago.

"I'm going to kill you, Dragon," he seethed."I'm going to cut out your heart and take it to my father; prove that I am the real Viking!"

"Ballista ready!" barked one of his crew.

Dagur sprang forwards, shoving the man out of the way and swinging the weapon around. "I AM A VIKING!" He bellowed, pulling the trigger.

A moment passed. A distant roar thundered. Two shapes leapt into the air.

One fled straight up; the Nightmare they'd followed. The second barrelled towards them. At first Dagur thought it was the Skrill that adorned his sail, but, no, the wing-shape was wrong...

The beast roared again; it's body flaring with unearthly blue light.

"Reverse course!" Shouted the ship's captain, Úlfr. "Get us out of here!"

"What?! No!" Dagur yelled. "After the glowing one! I want its head!"

The captain stepped in front of him. "That's the Flightmare, idiot boy! I've put up with your treatment of my men, but I won't let you ki-oof!"

The older man crumpled as Dagur's knee drove into his groin.

"Dagur the Deranged does not retreat!" he screeched, brandishing his sword at the stunned crew. "Ready your bows! Here it comes!"

The threat of the oncoming dragon kicked the crew into action, and they scrambled to clear the deck and load their crossbows.

The Flightmare roared again, and tipped into a shallow arcing dive, aiming to strafe the boat with its fire.

Dagur's face split into a twisted grin. Perfect.

"Hold!" he barked, eying the distance between the boat and his prey. "Now! Let him have it!"

A dozen bolts leapt from Berserker crossbows, buzzing like demented insects. The Flightmare folded its wings and dropped, the volley passing harmlessly above it. Moments later it reopened its wings, glow flaring as thick grey mist seemed to erupt from its scales.

Dagur raised his own crossbow, firing blindly as the beast sped overhead, its trailing cloud engulfing the ship.

"Reload, you fools!" Dagur barked. "Oarsmen, get us out of this mist!"

There was a sudden scream. Blue light lit the mist. Then silence.

"Oarsmen!" Dagur bellowed. "What are you doing!?" He grabbed the first shape he saw in the mist and shoved them towards the benches. "If you don't start rowing now, I'll..."

He trailed off as the man teetered and fell like a toppled skittle, landing awkwardly against the rowing bench.

Dagur ducked as something wooshed overhead, followed by another flash of light, illuminating the terrified eyes of the fallen oarsmen. The mist was getting thicker; he could barely see the far railing.

"Crossbows!" he ordered. "Fire! Bring that thing down!"

The sporadic twangs of a few crossbow shots sounded through the mist, but they were quickly followed by screams and flashes of light.

Dagur crouched beside the frozen man, frantically trying to reload his crossbow, but he fumbled and the bolt slipped from his grasp.

"Bowmen, Report!" he screamed. "Oarsmen! Captain! Somebody!"

No response came. The ship lurched, sending Dagur sprawling onto his front, and his crossbow skittering away into the mist.

Behind him he heard the splintering of claws on wood. He crawled up the sloping deck, If he could just reach his weapon...

Icy light bathed the planks before him. Dagur scrambled forwards a few paces before a clawed foot struck him in the side, flipping him over, and he saw the face of death.

Wreathed in mist, and glowing with unearthly light, it looked like an ethereal horror from the depths of Niflhel. An inarticulate noise of terror escaped his lips and he shuffled back as fast as his limbs could move.

The Flightmare pursued slowly, prowling towards him, unconcerned with the prospect of his escape.

All too soon, Dagur's back was up against the ship's railing, and he could do naught but whimper softly as the Flightmare pressed a forepaw to his chest, and pushed him to the deck, cutting off his rapid, ineffective, breaths.

The dragon's head swung closer. Dagur squeezed himself against the unyielding planks. He closed his eyes, waiting for the final blow to come.

Instead, the young Viking found his will cast aside, as a vast, alien presence invaded his consciousness, memories rising unbidden into his mind.

Dagur pushed open the door to the chieftain's hut to find his father sat beside the fire, polishing the head of an ornate spear.

"Ah, the Ceremonial Spear. So, the time has finally come?"

Oswald the Agreeable, chief of the Berserkers, looked up, concern carving deep furrows into his features. "The time for what, my son?"

"Why, the time to invade Berk of course! If we attack now, we could have the emerald of the Archipelago in our grasp by winter!"

Oswald sighed, putting down the cleaning cloth. "No, Dagur. After the spring thaw, I intend to travel to Berk for the annual renewal of our treaty with the Hooligans."

"Oh, Ha ha! Good one, dad!" Dagur chuckled. "Now, tell me. When do we sail?"

"I'm serious, Dagur. I will not sanction an unprovoked attack on our allies."

"B-but!" Dagur spluttered. "The lookouts saw their entire fleet sail off towards the nest, and only one ship - one! - made it back; this is the perfect opportunity!"

Oswald sighed again. "It seems I have failed in your education, my son." He leavered himself to his feet, leaning heavily on the spear. "You have learnt well the glory of our ancestors, but I have neglected to teach you humility." He took a deep breath.

"The days of Norsemen going a-viking are coming to an end; Cnut the Great controls the realms of the Norse, the Danes and the English; and the lands to the south are no longer the easy targets they once were; either the people have learnt our tactics and fortified against us, or else the lands have been settled by our brethren.

"In the coming days, the worth of a Chieftain will be measured by his alliances, not by his loot and plunder."

"What about the strength of his enemies?" Dagur replied. "There haven't been any dragon attacks for weeks, and the fishermen reported dragons headed towards Berk. They're building a dragon army to conquer the archipelago, I know it!"

Oswald's face grew stern. "One moment you're telling me Berk is a soft target, ripe for the taking, and the next they're building an army to attack us? Which is it, Dagur?"

"We don't know, so that's why we have to attack now, before-"

"Enough, Dagur! I will not launch an invasion based on tavern stories and idle speculation!"

"Oh, I see now!" Dagur retorted. "You've grown old, and fat, and weak. You've forgotten what it means to be a Viking, a Berserker! You're scared-"

"SILENCE!" Despite his name, and his shorter stature, in that moment Oswald towered over his son. "I will not be called a coward in my own home by my unblooded son!" He took a breath, rage leaking out of his voice, replaced by cold steel.

"In fact, since you're so worried about the dragon threat, and obviously know what it means to be a true Viking, then you should have no problem killing one. You'll be joining Úlfr's crew for his winter hunting expedition."

"B-"

"I wasn't asking, boy. If you're not on that ship when the tide turns tomorrow you can say goodbye to your inheritance."

Tursas looked down at the sniveling creature beneath his paw, whimpering desperate calls for aid to it's human gods.

It was a boy.

"What savages are you, that you send your children to war?" he wondered aloud.

Of course, the boy couldn't comprehend his speech, but with his mind laid open before him, Tursas could make him understand. He leaned in close to the child - Dagur, his sire had called him - and projected his words into his mind.

"Cease your whining, human; you are more useful to me alive than dead."

To be continued
in:
'Echoes of the Night'
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