His sword cut clean, cleaving the old man's scrawny chest in a mortal blow. Dark flesh, cleaved by a black blade. There was a single agonized cry from Ngurra's wife, a collective whimper from the other Yarru. The old man went down without a sound, bleeding onto the desert floor as silently as he'd walked upon it. Turning away, Tanaros nodded to Speros and the four Gulnagel Fjel. "See it finished."
Meaty thuds filled the air as the Gulnagel went to work with their maces. There were cries of fear and pain; though not many, no. Hunting Fjel preferred to kill with one blow, and the Gulnagel were swift. Tanaros sat on an outcropping of rock, wiping Ngurra's blood from the black blade. He didn't glance up from his labors until he heard footsteps approaching. "Is it done?"
"Aye, Lord General." It was Speros, looking ill and abashed. "The Fjel have finished." He glanced at the ground, then blurted, "I'm sorry, sir, I couldn't do it. I've got a grandmam at home."
"A grandmam." Tanaros laid his sword across his knees and rubbed his aching temples, not sure whether to laugh or weep. He'd had a grandmother, once. She was long-dead bones, and had died cursing his name. "Ah, Speros of Haimhault! What are you doing here? Why in the name of the Seven Shapers did you come here?"
"Sir?" The Midlander gave him a quizzical look.
"Never mind." He rose to his feet, sheathing his sword. There was a taste of bile in his throat and he knew, with utter and horrible certitude, that he would never remember this day's work without cringing in his soul. "Gather the Fjel, we've got a lot of work to do."
USHAHIN DREAMSPINNER WAS IN ARDUAN when the Marasoumië was sealed.
He was grateful for Lord Satoris' warning. It had been unexpected; the reaching tendrils of Godslayer's power making his scar itch and burn, and suddenly Satoris was there, touching his mind, sifting through his thoughts. So it must feel to mortals when he used his Were-taught skills to walk in their dreams.
"I understand, my Lord," he said when the Shaper had finished, bowing to the empty air. A pair of Arduans strolling in the marketplace gave him a wide berth. "I will come as I may."
There was a banyan tree growing on the eastern side of the square. Ushahin found space amid its roots and sat cross-legged in its shade, waiting. He bowed his head, drawing the hood of a cloak he had stolen from a sleeping hunter down to hide his features. It was hot and humid here along the fringe of the Delta; still, better to be uncomfortable than to be recognized.
Arduans were a polite folk, their tiny nation founded on respect for individual rights, including that to privacy. No one would disturb him if he claimed it; no, not unless he showed his face. That, he suspected, would invoke the other great passion of Arduan. There was only one misshapen Ellyl half-breed in Urulat. Even Arduans would require no further justification than his face to nock an arrow and fire.
Ushahin waited.
A part of the world died.
It hurt. He felt the passing of each node-point as it flared and died. Little deaths, each and every one, a shock to his flesh where a shard of the Souma had branded it. He made himself breathe slowly, enduring it. He wondered if it took Vorax and Tanaros the same way. He thought about Malthus the Counselor trapped in the Ways, and smiled through his pain.
It was done.
"Are you all right, mister? Something funny happened just now."
A high voice; a child's voice. Ushahin opened his eyes to see a young girl stooping under the banyan tree to peer at him. She had a spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and a child's bow clutched in one grimy hand. The children who had set upon him so long ago in Pelmar, breaking his bones and rending his flesh, had been scarce older. Neither had he, then.
"Aye, lass," he said, slipping behind her eyes and into her thoughts without an effort, twisting them to his own ends. "I'm fine, and so are you. I need to purchase a boat; a skiff, such as fishermen use in the Delta. Surely a clever girl like you would know where I might find such a thing."
"Oh, aye, you need to see Caitlin's Da!" She beamed with pride, happy to have an answer. Whatever she had sensed of the death of the Marasoumië was forgotten. "He's a boatwright, mister. He'll sell you a skiff!"
"Well done, lass." Ushahin unfolded his legs, rising. He adjusted the hood of his cloak, then extended a hand, suppressing a smile as she took his crooked fingers into her trusting, grubby grip. "Take me to him."
SHE HAD NOT PRIVACY LEFT.
That was one of the worst aspects of the occupation of Beshtanag. It had been hard to watch when Gergon was led through the fortress in chains, shooting her an agonized glance of apology and regret. It had been painful to behold the gratitude with which her Beshtanagi people welcomed the intervention of Haomane's Allies, the alacrity with which they surrendered, eager for a handful of grain, a plate of mutton. Blaise Caveros, Aracus Altorus' second-in-command, took quiet control of the situation. Despite the injury he had sustained on the battlefield, he was calm and competent, seeing to the housing of their troops, ordering supply-trains into the fortress.