Very well, Kalyth of the Elan.
The K’ell Hunter watched his beloved carry the human away.
Battered armour rustled and clanked as the Jaghut warriors readied themselves, fanning out along the crest of the hill. As they did so, the frigid air crackled around them.
Sag’Churok spoke: Proud soldiers, do not fear they will pass you by. They pass by nothing they believe they can slay, or destroy.
‘We have observed your folly countless times,’ replied the swordswoman. ‘Nothing of what we are about to face will catch us unawares.’ She turned to her companions. ‘Is not Iskar Jarak a worthy leader?’
‘He is,’ answered a chorus of rough voices.
‘And what did he say to us, before he sent us here?’
And thirteen Jaghut voices answered: “ ‘Pretend they are T’lan Imass.’ ”
The last survivors of the only army of the Jaghut, who had not survived at all, then laughed once more. And that laughter clattered on, to greet the Caste, and on, through the entire vicious, stunning battle that followed.
Sag’Churok, watching from a hundred paces away, felt the oil sheathing his hide thicken in the bitter gusts of Omtose Phellack, as the ancient Hold of Ice trembled to the impacts of Kep’rah, as it in turn lashed out-bursting flesh, sending frozen pieces and fragments flying.
In the midst of the conflagration, iron spoke with iron in that oldest of tongues.
Sag’Churok watched. And listened. And when he had seen and heard enough, he did as the Destriant commanded. He left the battle behind. Knowing the outcome, knowing a yet deeper, still sharper bite of humility.
Jaghut. Though we shared your world, we never saw you as our foe. Jaghut, the T’lan Imass never understood-some people are simply too noble to be rivals. But then, perhaps it was that very nobility they so despised.
Iskar Jarak, you who commanded them… what manner of thing are you? And how did you know? I wish you could answer me that one question. How did you know precisely what to say to your soldiers?
Sag’Churok would never forget that laughter. The sound was carved into his very hide; it rode the swirls of his soul, danced light on the heady flavours of his relief and wonder. Such knowing amusement, both wry and sweet, such a cruel, breathtaking sound.
I have heard the dead laugh.
He knew he would ride that laughter through the course of his life. It would hold him up. Give him strength.
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Very well, Kalyth of the Elan.
The K’ell Hunter watched his beloved carry the human away.
Battered armour rustled and clanked as the Jaghut warriors readied themselves, fanning out along the crest of the hill. As they did so, the frigid air crackled around them.
Sag’Churok spoke: Proud soldiers, do not fear they will pass you by. They pass by nothing they believe they can slay, or destroy.
‘We have observed your folly countless times,’ replied the swordswoman. ‘Nothing of what we are about to face will catch us unawares.’ She turned to her companions. ‘Is not Iskar Jarak a worthy leader?’
‘He is,’ answered a chorus of rough voices.
‘And what did he say to us, before he sent us here?’
And thirteen Jaghut voices answered: “ ‘Pretend they are T’lan Imass.’ ”
The last survivors of the only army of the Jaghut, who had not survived at all, then laughed once more. And that laughter clattered on, to greet the Caste, and on, through the entire vicious, stunning battle that followed.
Sag’Churok, watching from a hundred paces away, felt the oil sheathing his hide thicken in the bitter gusts of Omtose Phellack, as the ancient Hold of Ice trembled to the impacts of Kep’rah, as it in turn lashed out-bursting flesh, sending frozen pieces and fragments flying.
In the midst of the conflagration, iron spoke with iron in that oldest of tongues.
Sag’Churok watched. And listened. And when he had seen and heard enough, he did as the Destriant commanded. He left the battle behind. Knowing the outcome, knowing a yet deeper, still sharper bite of humility.
Jaghut. Though we shared your world, we never saw you as our foe. Jaghut, the T’lan Imass never understood-some people are simply too noble to be rivals. But then, perhaps it was that very nobility they so despised.
Iskar Jarak, you who commanded them… what manner of thing are you? And how did you know? I wish you could answer me that one question. How did you know precisely what to say to your soldiers?
Sag’Churok would never forget that laughter. The sound was carved into his very hide; it rode the swirls of his soul, danced light on the heady flavours of his relief and wonder. Such knowing amusement, both wry and sweet, such a cruel, breathtaking sound.
I have heard the dead laugh.
He knew he would ride that laughter through the course of his life. It would hold him up. Give him strength.
Now I understand, Kalyth of the Elan, what made your eyes so bright on this day.
Behind him, the earth shook. And the song of laughter went on and on.
The swollen trunks of segmented trees rose from the shallows of the swamp, so bloated that Grub thought they might split open at any moment, disgorging… what? He had no idea, but considering the horrific creatures they had seen thus far-mercifully from a distance-it was likely to be so ghastly it would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life. He swatted at a gnat chewing on his knee and crouched further down behind the bushes.
The buzz and whine of insects, the slow lap of water on the sodden shoreline, and the deep, even breathing of something massive, each exhalation a sharp whistle that went on… and on.
Grub licked sweat from his lips. ‘It’s big,’ he whispered.
Kneeling at his side, Sinn had found a black leech and let each of its two suckers fasten on to the tip of a finger. She spread the fingers and watched how the slimy thing stretched. But it was getting fatter. ‘It’s a lizard,’ she said.
‘A dragon.’
‘Dragons don’t breathe, not like we do, anyway. That’s why they can travel between worlds. No, it’s a lizard.’
‘We lost the path-’
‘There never was a path, Grub,’ Sinn replied. ‘There was a trail, and we’re still on it.’
‘I preferred the desert.’
‘Times change,’ she said, and then grinned. ‘That’s a joke, by the way.’
‘I don’t get it.’
She made a face. ‘Time doesn’t change, Grub, just the things in it.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘This trail, of course. It’s as if we’re walking the track of someone’s life, and it was a long life.’ She waved with her free hand. ‘All this, it’s what’s given shape to the mess at the far end-which was where we started from.’
‘Then we’re going back in time?’
‘No. That would be the wrong direction, wouldn’t it?’
‘Get that thing off your fingers before it sucks you dry.’
She held it out and he tugged it loose, which wasn’t as easy as he would have liked. The puckered wounds at the ends of Sinn’s fingers bled freely. Grub tossed the creature away.