Raest grunted. “In this age there are none who can defeat me.”
The figure laughed, a low rumble. “You are a fool, Raest. In this age even a mortal can kill you. The tide of enslavement has reversed itself. It is now we gods who are the slaves, and the mortals our masters-though they know it not.”
“You are a god, then?” Raest's scowl deepened. “You are a child to me if so.”
“I was once a god,” the figure replied. “Worshipped as K'rul, and my aspect was the Obilisk. I am the Maker of Paths-do you find significance in that ancient title?”
Raest took a step back, raising his desiccated hands. “Impossible,” he breathed. “You passed into the Realms of Chaos-returned to the place of your birth-you are among us no more-”
“As I said, things have changed,” K'rul said quietly. “You have a choice, Raest. Onos T'oolan can destroy you. You have no understanding of what his title of Sword signifies-he is without equal in this world. You can fall ignobly beneath the blade of an Imass, or you can accompany me-for in one thing we are the same, you and I. Our time has passed, and the Gates of Chaos await us. What choice do you make?”
“I make neither, Eldering One.” With a soft, hollow laugh, Raest's battered, withered body collapsed.
K'rul cocked his head. “He's found another body.”
Kruppe pulled out his handkerchief. “Oh, my,” he said.
Kalam gestured sharply and Paran ducked down. The captain's mouth was dry. There was something very wrong with this garden. He wondered if it was simply the exhaustion he felt. The garden's air itself rubbed his senses raw. He thought he could see the darkness pulse, and the smell of decay had thickened to a stench.
Kalam reached for his knives. Paran tensed, unable to see anything beyond the assassin. Too many trees, not enough light. Somewhere ahead flickered gas-lamps, and people were gathered on the terrace. But civilization seemed a thousand leagues away. Here, the captain felt as if he was within a primordial presence, breathing slowly and heavily on all sides.
Kalam gestured that Paran remain where he was, then slipped into the shadows to their right. Crouching low, the captain edged forward to where the assassin had been standing moments earlier. There looked to be a glade, or clearing, just ahead. He couldn't be certain, however, nor could he see anything amiss. Yet his feeling of wrongness now ached in his skull. He took another step. Something occupied the glade's centre, blockish, like a dressed stone, or an altar, and before it stood a small woman, almost wraith-like in the darkness. Her back was to Paran.