A pair of dragons- real ones . The one on the left was the hue of bone, eyes blazing bright red, and though larger than its companion, it was gaunter, perhaps older. The other dragon was a stunning white deepening to gold along its shoulders and serrated back. Wings snapping, sailing in a curving descent, the two landed directly in their path, halfway between them and the tower. The earth trembled at the twin impacts.
Torrent glanced at Olar Ethil. She was standing still as a statue. I thought you knew everything, witch, and now I think you thought the same. Look at you, still as a hare under the cat’s eyes.
He looked back in time to see both dragons shimmer, and then blur, as if nothing more than mirages. A moment later, two men stood in place of the giant creatures. Neither moved.
Even at this distance, Torrent could see how the dragons had so perfectly expressed the essences of these two figures. The one on the left was tall, gaunt, his skin the shade of bleached bone; the other was younger by far, thickly muscled yet nearing his companion’s height. His hair, hanging loose, was gold and bronze, his skin burnished by the sun, and he stood with the ease of the innocent.
Saying nothing, Olar Ethil set out to meet them, and to Torrent’s eyes she was suddenly diminished, the raw primitiveness of her form looking clumsy and rough. The scaled hide of her cloak now looked to be a faintly sordid affectation.
Tugging his skittish horse along behind him, he followed. There was no escaping these warriors, should they desire him harm. If Olar Ethil was prepared to brave it out, then he would follow her lead. But this day I have seen true power. And now I will look it in the eye.
I have travelled far from my village. The small world of my people gets smaller still.
As he drew closer, he was surprised to see that the two swords belted to the gaunt, older warrior were both Letherii in design. Blue steel. I remember seeing a knife once, traded into the chief’s hands, and how it sang when struck. The younger one bore weapons of flaked stone. He was dressed in strange, rough hides.
‘You are not welcome, Silchas,’ said Olar Ethil. And then she stabbed a gnarled finger at the younger man. ‘And this one, who so mocks my own people. This is not his world. Silchas Ruin, have you bargained open the Gate to Starvald Demelain?’
‘He is Menandore’s son,’ replied the white-skinned warrior. ‘You know the payment for such a bargain, Olar Ethil. Do you think I am prepared to pay it?’
‘I do not know what you are prepared to do, Silchas. I never did.’