Tanaros gritted his teeth. "That's not good enough, old one."
"Isn't it?" Ngurra's eyes shone with sympathy in his wrinkled face. "And yet here you are at the choosing-place." With a grunt he straightened his legs and rose, turning back toward the camp. "Think on it, Slayer," he said over his shoulder. "We are ready. We have been waiting for you. You have a choice to make."
He watched the old man's steady progress across the sand. At the encampment, the Yarru elders hailed his return under the benign gaze of the Gulnagel Fjel on guard. He could hear white-haired Warabi, the old man's wife, scolding him for his folly.
We have been expecting you.
If Ngurra had not greeted him with those words, he might have ordered them slain. Why not? It was true, they were the ones who had sent forth the Bearer to extinguish the marrow-fire. But instead, he had stayed his hand out of curiosity. He had ordered Speros and the Fjel to accept the Yarru's hospitality. And a good thing, too. They would be half dead of thirst if the Yarru hadn't shown them how to find water-holes in the Unknown Desert, how to catch basking lizards, how chewing gamal heightened the senses and moistened parched tissues. The Yarru had shown them kindness. Whatever they were, whatever strange beliefs they held, these Charred Ones were not foes.
Old men. Old women.
"I don't want to kill them," Tanaros whispered. Unaccountable tears stung his eyes, and he covered his face with both hands. "Oh, my Lord! Must it be so?"
Distant power flickered as if in answer, and pain seared his scarred breast, so acute it was almost unbearable. So. It had begun as his Lordship had said it would. In the west, in Darkhaven, Satoris was wielding Godslayer with the full might of a Shaper's power, a thing he had not dared since Darkhaven was raised. Tanaros felt his teeth begin to chatter. He dropped to his knees in the sand and pressed his fingertips hard against his temples, willing his flesh to obedience. All across the world, it was as though a thousand doors had been slammed at once. Everywhere, light flared and died, a vast network of connections turning to ash.
The Marasoumië was closed.
That was that, then. The thing was done. His Lordship had no intention of changing his orders. Tanaros waited for his pounding heartbeat to subside, then climbed heavily to his feet and brushed the sand off his knees.
You have a choice to make.
There was no point in waiting. The task was onerous; the journey afterward would be grueling. Trudging across the desert toward the encampment, he drew his sword. It glinted dully in the sun, a length of black steel laying a black bar of shadow on the desert floor. Where would he go if he disobeyed Satoris' orders? What would he do? He was General Tanaros Blacksword, one of the Three, and he had made his choice a long, long time ago.
Speros sprang alert at his approach, whistling for the attention of the Gulnagel. "Lord General! What was that happened just now? Is it time to—" He stopped, eyeing the drawn sword. "What are you doing?"
"They know." Tanaros gestured wearily at the Yarru, who had gathered in a circle. Old men and old women, linked by age-knotted hands clasped tight together. There were tears in the creases of Warabi's dark cheeks as she clung to Ngurra's hand.
"You mean to kill them all?" Speros swallowed, turning pale. "Ah, but Lord General, they're harmless. They're—"
"—old," Tanaros finished for him. "I know." He rubbed his brow with his free hand. "Listen, lads. Beshtanag has fallen, and Lord Satoris has closed the Ways. We're going home the hard way. But we've got business to attend to here first. We're going to bury that cursed well, that no one else may find it. And…" he drew a deep breath, pointing his sword at the Yarru, "… we leave no survivors to tell of it."
With stoic shrugs, the Gulnagel took up positions around the ring of Yarru elders, who shrank closer together, murmuring in their tongue. Ngurra gently freed his hand from his wife's and stepped forward. There was fear in his face; and courage, too.
"Slayer," he said. "You do not have to choose this."
"Give me a reason, Ngurra." Rage and bleak despair stirred in Tanaros' heart, and he tightened his grip on his sword-hilt, raising it with both hands to strike. "Give me a reason! Tell me you're wrong, tell me you're sorry, tell me the Bearer made a bad choice! Send a delegation to bring him back! Can you do that, old man? Is that so much to ask? I didn't ask for this choice! Give me a reason not to make it!"
The Yarru elder shook his head, profound regret in his eyes. "I can give you only the choice, Slayer," he said sadly. "Choose."
"So be it," Tanaros whispered. Sick at heart, he swung the blade.