Anger stirred in Skragdal’s belly, and his voice rose to a roar as he answered. “You would carry the Water of Life into Darkhaven and you ask why?”

The small one flinched, clutching his flask, but his gaze remained steady on Skragdal’s face. “Why did you protect Satoris?”

Skragdal gave a harsh laugh, a sound like boulders rolling down a mountainside. “Does it matter to you, Arahila’s Child? Ah, no.” He shook his head. “Haomane gave you the Gift of thought, not us. You have come too far to ask that question. Better you should have asked it before you began. Perhaps you would not be dying here today. Perhaps your people would not have been slain for your actions.”

“What?” Blood drained from the small one’s face, turning his skin the color of cold ashes. He stared at Skragdal with stricken eyes. The bigger one made a choked sound and dropped to his knees. “Uru-Alat, no! No!”

“Aye, lad. Did you not expect his Lordship to strike against his enemies?” It was hard not to pity the boy; no more than a pup, truly. How could he have understood the choices he’d made? Skragdal signaled to the others. The Kaldjager moved in close behind the smallfolk. Thorun and the nearest Nåltannen slipped axes from their belts, nodding readiness. “It will be swift, I promise you.” Skragdal held out his hand for the flask. Lord Vorax had told him to spill it on barren ground. “Give me the Water, and we’ll be done with it.”

The boy closed his eyes, whispering feverishly under his breath. It was no language Skragdal knew; not the common tongue, but something else, filled with rolling sounds. He was clutching the flask so hard that the lines on his knuckles whitened. Skragdal sighed, beckoning with his talons.

“Now, lad,” he said.

With trembling hands, the boy removed the cord from about his neck. His eyes, when he opened them, glistened with tears. They were as dark and deep as Skragdal thought the Well of the World must be. The boy cupped the flask in both hands, then held it out, his skinny arm shaking. It was a simple object to have caused so much trouble; dun-colored clay, smoky from its firing. A cork carved from soft desert wood made a crude stopper, and the braided vine lashed around its neck looked worn and mended. It couldn’t possibly hold much water; no more than a Fjel mouthful.

“Here,” the boy whispered, letting go.

Skragdal closed his hand on the clay vial.

It was heavy; impossibly heavy. Skragdal grunted. A bone in his wrist broke with an audible snap as the weight bore him to the ground. The back of his hand hit the earth of Neherinach with shuddering force.

There, the flask held him pinned.