Because, in this place, with no one liking you, there didn’t seem much point in going on.
Lying on his stomach, fresh into another year of life, Harllo felt no ripples reach him from the outside world. Instead, he felt alone. Maybe he’d lost a friend for ever and that felt bad, too. Maybe his only friend was a giant skeleton in the depths of the mines who with new legs might have walked away, disappeared into the dark, and all Harllo had to remember him by was a handful of tools hid shy;den beneath his cot.
For a child, thinking of the future was a difficult thing, since most thoughts of the future built on memories of the past, whether in continuation or serving as contrast, and a child held few memories of his or her past. The world was trun shy;cated forward and back. Measure it from his toes to the top of his head, tousle the mop of hair in passing, and when nothing else is possible, hope for the best.
In the faint phosphor glow streaking the rock, a T’lan Imass climbed to his feet and stood like someone who had forgotten how to walk. The thick, curved fe shy;murs of the emlava forced him into a half-lean, as if he was about to launch him shy;self forward, and the ridged ball of the long bones, where it rested in the socket of each hip, made grinding sounds as he fought for balance.
Unfamiliar sorcery, this. He had observed how connecting tissue had re-knitted, poorly at first, to these alien bones, and he had come to understand that such de shy;tails were a kind of conceit. The Ritual forced animation with scant subtlety, and whatever physical adjustments occurred proceeded at a snail’s pace, although their present incompleteness seemed to have no effect on his ability to settle his weight on these new legs, even to move them into his first lurching step, then his second.
The grinding sounds would fade in time, he suspected, as ball and socket were worn into a match, although he suspected he would never stand as erect as he once had.
No matter. Dev’ad Anan Tol was mobile once more. And as he stood, a flood of memories rose within him in a dark tide.
Leading to that last moment, with the Jaghut Tyrant, Raest, standing before him, blood-smeared mace in one hand, as Dev’ad writhed on the stone floor, legs forever shattered.
No, he had not been flung from a ledge. Sometimes, it was necessary to lie.
He wondered if the weapons he had forged, so long ago now, still remained hid shy;den in their secret place. Not far. After a moment, the T’lan Imass set out. Feet scraping, his entire body pitching from side to side.
Raest’s unhuman face twisted indignant. Outraged. Slaves were ever slaves. None could rise to challenge the master. None could dare plot the master’s downfall, none could get as close as Dev’ad had done. Yes, an outrage, a crime against the laws of nature itself.
‘I break you, T’lan. I leave you here, in this pit of eternal darkness. To die. To rot. None shall know a word of your mad ambition. All knowledge of you shall fade, shall vanish. Nothing of you shall remain. Know this, could I keep you alive down here for ever, I would — and even that torture would not suffice. In my enforced indifference, T’lan, lies mercy.’
He came to the secret place, a deep crack in the wall, into which he reached. His hand closed about a heavy, rippled blade, and Dev’ad dragged the weapon out.
The T’lan knew stone, stone that was water and water that was stone. Iron be shy;longed to the Jaghut.
He held up the sword he had made countless thousands of years ago. Yes, it had the form of flint, the ridges encircling every flake struck from the edge, the undulating modulations of parallel flaking and the twin flutes running the length to either side of a wavy dorsal spine. The antler base that formed the grip was now mineralized, a most comforting and pleasing weight.
The form of flint indeed. And yet this sword was made of iron, tempered in the holy fires of Tellann. Impervious to rust, to decay, the huge weapon was the hue of first night, the deep blue sky once the final light of the drowned sun had faded. In the moment of the stars’ birth, yes, that was the colour of this blade.
He leaned it point down against the wall and reached into the crack again, drawing out a matching knife — hefty as a shortsword. The hide sheaths had long since rotted to dust, but he would make new ones soon.
The Tyrant of old was gone. Somewhere close, then, waited an empty throne.
Waiting for Dev’ad Anan Tol. Who had once been crippled but was crippled no longer.
He raised both weapons high, the dagger in his right hand, the sword in his left. Slashes of first night, in the moment of the stars’ birth. Iron in the guise of stone, iron in the guise of stone that is water and water that is stone and stone that is iron. Jaghut tyranny in the hands of a T’lan Imass.
