By Ann Maxwell
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Oh, we eat today, and drink. But soon, soon. We still bring souls into squalling life, yet for every baby ten adults die with no chance to be reborn. ” Kaffi closed her eyes suddenly. When they opened again they had lost their fire. “But speak with a slow tongue, Lhar of the Forgotten Lands. Not all who wear blue robes like to hear the dry truth. ” Lhar lifted his fingers to his forehead again, but this time it was more a gesture of respect than apology. ” And indeed he would. Such a warning from such a woman was not to be dismissed.
Just before her nightmare slinked beneath her rising consciousness he sensed a pale apology and the knowledge that the nightmare was not new; it lived in her, oozing out when she was too tired to cage it any longer. He wondered how she had found the strength to live with the nightmare so long. And how much longer she had before she broke. ” she whispered in vague surprise. “No,” he said quietly. “You were ... dreaming. Ready to walk now? Kaffi’s waiting for you by the fire. ” “She called me ...
Lhar’s taman was running its fastest without encouragement. Its golden hide flashed over bunching muscles and its mouth opened around gleaming teeth. Lhar judged the distances. Too far. The berserk taman had knocked Tokor’s taman down. Syza cut in to protect Tokor, but her taman was no match for the crazed animal. Nor could Lhar reach its mind. Lhar pulled his clothes over his head and threw them aside. A flintknife appeared in his hand, curved and deadly. Three quick slashes and all harness fell away from the golden taman.
A Dead God Dancing by Ann Maxwell