How would you answer this . . .

They were thirty paces down the road when the Trell shouted. They halted, Gesler and Truth straightening to watch as Mappo jogged forward, rummaging in his pack as he did so.

Iskaral Pust padded down the rock-strewn, dusty path. He paused to scratch vigorously beneath his tattered robes, first one place, then another, then another. A moment later he shrieked and began tearing at his clothes.

Spiders. Hundreds of them, spinning away, falling to the ground, scattering into cracks and crevices as the High Priest thrashed about.

‘I knew it!’ Iskaral screamed. ‘I knew it! Show yourself! I dare you!’

The spiders reappeared, racing over the sun-baked ground.

Gasping, the High Priest staggered back, watching as the D’ivers sembled into human form. He found himself facing a wiry, black-haired woman. Though she was an inch shorter than him, her frame and features bore a startling resemblance to his own. Iskaral Pust scowled.

‘You thought you had me fooled? You thought I didn’t know you were lurking about!’

The woman sneered. ‘I did have you fooled! Oh, how you hunted! Thick-skulled idiot! Just like every Dal Honese man I’ve ever met! A thick-skulled idiot!’

‘Only a Dal Honese woman would say that—’

‘Aye, and who would know better!’

‘What is your name, D’ivers?’

‘Mogora, and I’ve been with you for months. Months! I saw you lay the false trail – I saw you painting those hand and paw marks on the rocks! I saw you move that stone to the forest’s edge! My kin may be idiots, but I am not!’

‘You’ll never get to the real gate!’ Iskaral Pust shrieked. ‘Never!’

‘I – don’t – want – to!’

His eyes narrowed on her sharp-featured face. He began circling her. ‘Indeed,’ he crooned, ‘and why is that?’

Twisting to keep him in front of her, she crossed her arms and regarded him down the length of her nose. ‘I escaped Dal Hon to be rid of idiots. Why would I become Ascendant just to rule over other idiots?’

‘You are a true Dal Honese hag, aren’t you? Spiteful, condescending, a sneering bitch in every way!’

‘And you are a Dal Honese oaf – conniving, untrustworthy, shifty—’

‘Those are all words for the same thing!’

‘And I’ve plenty more!’

‘Let’s hear them, then.’

They began down the trail, Mogora resuming her litany. ‘Lying, deceitful, thieving, shifty—’

‘You said that one already!’

‘So what? Shifty, slimy, slippery ...’

The enormous undead dragon rose silently from its perch on the mesa’s summit, wings spreading to glow with the sun’s light, even as the membrane dimmed the colour that reached through. Black, flat eyes glanced down at the two figures scrambling towards the cliff face.

The attention was momentary. Then an ancient warren opened before the soaring creature, swallowed it whole, then vanished.