The faces arrayed before him were sober, but he could see the gleam in their eyes. They were with him. ‘This night shall stain our souls black, my brothers, but we will spend the rest of our lives cleansing them. Now, go!’
Onos Toolan sat beside the dying fire. The camp was quiet, as his words of truth now sank into hearts like the flames, flaring and winking out.
The stretch of ages could humble the greatest of peoples, once all the self-delusions were stripped away. Pride had its place, but not at the expense of sober truth. Even back on Genabackis, the White Faces had strutted about as if unaware that their culture was drawing to an end; that they had been pushed into inhospitable lands; that farms and then cities rose upon ground they once held to be sacred, or rightly theirs as hunting grounds or pasture lands. All around them, the future showed faces ghastlier and more deadly than anything white paint could achieve-when Humbrall Taur had led them here, to this continent, he had done so in fullest comprehension of the extinction awaiting his Barghast should they remain on Genabackis, besieged by progress.
Prophecies never touched on such matters. By nature, they were proclamations of egotism, rife with pride and bold fates. Humbrall Taur had, however, managed a clever twist or two in making use of them.
Too bad he is gone-I would rather have stood at his side than in his place. I would rather-
Tool’s breath caught and he lifted his head. He reached out and settled one hand down on the packed earth, and then slowly closed his eyes. Ah, Hetan… my children… forgive me.
The Imass rose, turned to the nearest other fire. ‘Bakal.’
The warrior looked over. ‘Warleader?’
‘Draw your dagger, Bakal, and come to me.’
The warrior did not move for a moment, and then he rose, sliding the gutting knife from its scabbard. He walked over, cautious, uncertain.
My warriors… enough blood has been shed. ‘Drive the knife deep, directly under my heart. When I fall, begin shouting these words-as loud as you can. Shout “ Tool is dead! Onos Toolan lies slain! Our Warleader lies dead! ” Do you understand me, Bakal?’
The warrior, eyes wide, slowly backed away. Others had caught the words and were now rising, converging.
Tool closed on Bakal once again. ‘Be quick, Bakal-if you value your life and the lives of every one of your kin here. You must slay me-now!’
‘Warleader! I will not-’
Tool’s hands snapped out, closed on Bakal’s right hand and wrist.
The warrior gasped, struggled to tug free, but against Tool’s strength, he was helpless. The Imass pulled him close. ‘Remember-shout out my death, it is your only hope-’
Bakal sought to loosen his grip on his knife, but Tool’s huge, spatulate hand wrapped his own as would an adult’s a child’s. The other, closed round his wrist, dragged him inexorably forward.