Speaking in his booming voice, and translated by Rialus’s thin one, Calrach carried on with his address to the Auldek. When they were exiled for their crimes, he said, they followed the banishment as the clans ordered. They did not falter. They did not hesitate. They marched—men, women, children—into the north and out of the realms of the Eight Clans. They wintered in the bitter regions where no plants grow, where white bears hunted them and were hunted by them. They learned to eat seal meat. At times they walked on ice and heard it crack beneath them.

At this claim, a collective gasp went through the Auldek host.

“Yes,” Calrach said, “this is all true. We lived years in lands no Numrek was made for, and yet we learned how to live there. We were brave. No one can deny it. We marched north, as you told us to. But we marched so far north that it was no longer north. It became south instead, and we marched down into another land, the land from which the divine children come. We found that place; and we made war there and killed many and took joy in slaughter.”

“Why have you returned?” Devoth cut in.

“To give you joy. These fools,” Calrach said, waving toward the league contingent, “brought us across the black water. They brought us home, and we came because we can bring you a new world. We can take you there.”

“Why should we go there?” another Auldek asked.

“Look, that boy is my son.” Dariel could not see the Numrek to whom Calrach pointed, but the effect on the Auldek was considerable. They stepped forward, seemingly awed, many of them talking at once so that Rialus lost the substance of it for a moment. Calrach’s voice rose above the din, declaring, “In Acacian lands our women are fertile again. In their lands the curse holds no sway.”

Sire Neen chose this moment to pipe up again. Calrach shouted him down furiously and then said, “The leaguemen have killed the Lothan Aklun. Like cowards, they poisoned them all! There cannot be another soul collection. The Aklun are no more.”

The grumbling grew. The mass of lanky, long-haired forms crowded forward, many of them yelling angry questions or stamping their feet.

Devoth turned and shouted them down. His voice erupted from his abdomen and shot out with force. Once there was silence, he pointed at Sire Neen. “This one killed the Aklun? I don’t believe it, but I don’t like him.”

“He is an ant.” Calrach turned, studied Neen, and then spat at his feet. “He is nothing. Squash him if you wish. His spirit will give you no strength, but if he offends you—” For a moment Rialus stopped translating, but then, as if more afraid of holding the words in than of releasing them, he spoke quickly. “Kill him. We no longer need his kind. Kill him, and we will lead you to a land ready to be reaped. We will have a great hunt.”