‘She is no longer our problem,’ he replied, one finger probing the empty socket of his stolen eye. ‘Her sister will have to deal with her. Or someone else.’
‘And on this our fate rests – that someone else cleans up the mess we make. I dare say our children will not appreciate the burden.’
‘They’ll not live long enough to appreciate much of anything,’ Errastas said.
I truly see our problem, friends. We don’t want the future, we want the past. With a new name. But it’s still the past, that invented realm of nostalgia, all the jagged edges smoothed away. Paradise … for the drinkers of blood .
‘Draconus seeks to do me harm,’ said Kilmandaros. ‘He waits for me.’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ snapped Errastas. ‘He will join with T’iam in slaying the Otataral Dragon. He may have vowed eternal war against chaos, but even he would not welcome its end. Besides, a battle with you risks too much – you might kill him. He’s been imprisoned in a sword for how long? You think he’d risk his freedom so soon? Perhaps indeed he has old scores to settle with you, Kilmandaros, but he is about to discover far more immediate threats.’
‘Unless he gleans our purpose.’
Sechul Lath glanced back at her. ‘Mother, I assure you, he has done that. But I think Errastas judges rightly. Draconus will see the threat posed by the release of the Otataral Dragon, and her presence will be his lodestone. Hopefully a fatal one.’
‘Many have tried to kill her,’ Errastas agreed, ‘and all have failed. Even the imprisonment demanded an elaborate trap – one that took centuries for Rake to devise.’
‘He wasn’t alone,’ rumbled Kilmandaros.
‘And what was made you have now unmade,’ Errastas said, nodding. ‘And Anomander Rake is dead, and there remains no one to match his insane obsessions—’
Kilmandaros had drawn close during the conversation, and her hand was a sudden blur in the corner of Sechul’s vision, but the blow she struck Errastas was impossible to miss, as ribs snapped and he was thrown from his feet. He struck the ground, rolled once, and then curled up around the damage to his chest.
She moved to stand over him. ‘You will cease speaking ill of him,’ she said in a low voice. ‘We did not always agree. Often we quarrelled. But the Son of Darkness was a man of integrity and honour. No longer will I permit you to spit on his name. He is dead, and your voice lives on like the cry of a cowardly crow, Errastas. You were never his match, and even in death he stands taller than you in all your guises. Do you think I do not hear your resentment? Your envy? It disgusts me.’