Not his senses, though. He still knew something insane when he heard it.
“Now,” Mahalar said bluntly, “you kill Ulbecetonth.”
“What?” Kataria turned a scowl upon Lenk. “You were gone for a quarter of an hour. How the hell did you come to this conclusion?”
“We didn’t!” Lenk protested, turning on Mahalar. “And I’m not! We came here for the tome. The Tome of the Undergates. The thing that’s going to get us paid so I can move away from islands full of freaky dust-lizards and go live on a patch of dirt somewhere. Remember?” He turned to Gariath. “Remember?”
“Barely,” Gariath grunted.
“And you didn’t think to mention this to them, what with all the time you’ve been spending with them?”
“I didn’t come here for that,” the dragonman replied. “I came here for them.” He gestured to Shalake. “They stood with the Rhega against the demons. They know the Rhega. They have told me stories.”
“Great, fine, good,” Lenk grumbled. “Stay here with them, then. Scratch each others’ scales, play tug-the-tail or whatever it is people with more than four appendages do. I came for the tome.” He swept a hand out over the assembled Shen. “You’re obviously not too fond of me. Just give me the stupid book and we’ll leave.”
“We killed thousands to see our duty done,” Shalake snarled, stepping forward. “We will kill one more to do it.”
“We cannot give you the tome,” Mahalar said, nodding. “It was too precious to be penned in the first place. It has knowledge that no one should have. It was designed only for woe.” He fixed those scrutinizing eyes upon Lenk. “But it can be used for good.”
“No,” Lenk said.
“You have the power,” Mahalar insisted.
“No.”
“There are stories,” Shalake said, “stories of those who came and cut the demons down.”
“No.”
“Listen to them, Lenk,” Gariath said, “I’ve heard them, too. People with hair like yours, eyes like yours, who cut like you can. You’re the only one who’s been able to hurt the demons.”
“NO.”
“We can kill her,” Mahalar said, “before she breaks out. We can summon her, on our terms, with an army of Shen to assist you.” His eyes lit like the barest flicker of a candle. “Forgive me for my selfishness, but think of it. My people can be free, Lenk. Our duty can be fulfilled. We will no longer have to live with the burden, the agony, the screaming, if only you can-”
“He can’t.”
The voice came from Kataria. Not with great volume, or great joy. But everyone turned and looked to her, all the same. She did not look up to meet their stares.
“He can’t do that anymore.”
When she did look up, she looked only at Lenk.
“I followed you earlier. I overheard you. Talking to the dead girl. You didn’t want me to know, so I pretended I hadn’t. But. .” She swallowed something back, then looked to Mahalar. “Whatever was in him is gone now. He sent it away. He can’t kill her. He can’t do anything for you.”
She hadn’t spoken loudly. Somehow, everyone heard. The same despair settled over every scaly face present. Lenk looked to her, an apology carved across his face in his frown.
“I really didn’t want you to know,” he said.
“Yeah,” she replied. “Well.”
He smiled sadly. “If you were dumber, we wouldn’t have this problem.”
“I sincerely hope you don’t think you were particularly clever about it,” Kataria snapped. “I knew something was wrong with you from the day I met you. It’s just now I know exactly what is wrong with you.”
He laughed. No one else did.
Mahalar merely settled back and breathed a cloud of dust.
“That,” he said, “is a problem.”
“One that gets worse, Mahalar,” someone said.
He-or at least, it looked and sounded like a “he,” it was hard to tell with lizardmen. . or lizardwomen-came stalking out of the forest, tall and scaly and bearing a long, carved bow on his back. Many more emerged behind him, Shen armed and glowering as they slithered out of the coral and onto the great sandy field.
“Leaving a warwatcher’s post is a grave offense, Jenaji,” Shalake said in a gravel-voiced snarl.
“There are few things you don’t consider grave offenses, Shalake,” the tall and lanky newcomer replied, his voice smooth and heavy like a polished stone. “And there are fewer things I consider worth answering to you over.” He turned his eyes, bright and sharp as the arrows in his quiver, to Mahalar. “We have an issue, Mahalar.”
“An issue?” Lenk muttered. “Just one?”
“We have many problems, Jenaji,” Mahalar replied. “Or have you not been listening?”
“I have only just arrived,” Jenaji said. “And I did not come alone.”
The Shen parted to expose pink, familiar shapes amidst their greenery, trudging wearily up to join the congregation. There were no smiles on their faces as they approached, no relief at seeing their companions again. Only weariness, wariness and, in Denaos’s case, just a pinch of resentment.
Lenk looked them over. Dreadaeleon’s clothes were soiled with soot and worse. Asper’s eyes betrayed a drained weariness that went beyond the flesh. Denaos stood bandaged, bloodied, battered.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
“Longfaces,” Denaos replied. “You?”
“Shen, shicts, snakes,” Lenk said.
The rogue sniffed. “It’s not a contest.”
“It is bold of you to bring outsiders here,” Shalake said, narrowing his eyes. “These ones at least fought their way here.”
“Ah, so you are more honorable because you failed to stop them?” Jenaji said with a sneer. “I didn’t come to compare tails. They have cause to be here.”
“They say that?”
“They do not.” Jenaji stepped aside. “She does.”
Weapons immediately were drawn by the companions at the sight of Greenhair standing amidst them, like a pale white flower amidst endless green stalks. Hatchets and machetes came out in response as the Shen closed in protectively about the siren. Lenk flashed an accusatory glare at Denaos as the rogue stood with his daggers hanging at his belt.
Denaos merely shrugged. “Yeah, I was like that at first, too. But she helped us and she has something to say.”
“Something you need to hear, Mahalar,” the siren spoke in her liquid voice. “I bring dark words to you. I bring doom. I bring disaster.”
Mahalar looked up. Mahalar smiled a dusty smile.
“Maka-wa,” he said, “we have plenty to share with you, too.”
Doom, as it turned out, needed only half an hour to summarize.
The companions, Shen, and siren exchanged their stories, their experiences, all-or at least all that was pertinent and didn’t involve parts without pants, Lenk noted-that had happened since they had set out.
They spoke of netherling armies fueled by the dying Gonwa. They spoke of demons stirring beneath the earth. They spoke of Mahalar’s plan to draw out Ulbecetonth, to use Lenk to kill her, and its subsequent and tragic failure.
And there they had fallen silent. An hour after death had been summarized, they sat on the edge of disaster, waiting for someone to put it to words and dreading it, too.
If Mahalar held that dread, though, it showed in neither gleam of eye nor sigh of voice.
“How many?”
Would that everyone could boast such calmness at the question; as it was, every face went to wincing.
“Many,” Greenhair replied. “Three males, with all their power. Boats full of females, with all their swords. Great, savage beasts, teeth brimming with-”
“Did anyone bother to count?” Kataria piped up impatiently.
“They clustered in groups of thirty-three,” Dreadaeleon said. “Each one to a boat. There were at least ten boats.” He scratched his head. “Maybe more.”