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himself struck most by something that was less than overwhelming but just as
distinctive. Throughout all that had happened, his friend Ehomba had never
lost his poise. His expression had been the same when first he had attacked
Hymneth, when he had lain before the swordsman in death, and now when he
was what was he? Simna did not know. He was a man of the blade and not of the
mind. As always, struggling with the latter caused him far more pain than any
edge, no matter how sharp.
Ehomba s advance was deliberate and relentless. No matter what Hymneth threw
at him, no matter how awesome the energy or irresistible the might, the
herdsman continued to approach. Green and white lightning flooded the great
chamber and obscured much of what was happening at its far end.
Until a burst of verdant ball lightning taller and wider than Hunkapa Aub
smashed the shell of protective white energy that surrounded Ehomba. Exhausted
but triumphant, perspiring heavily within his armor, Hymneth the Possessed
prepared to raise his tired, trembling right hand one last time.
Now, whatever you are become, we ll make an end to this, and to the secret
master who has manipulated you all along!
Like his expression, the herdsman s voice never changed. I am Etjole Ehomba,
of the Naumkib, and no one manipulates me. Parting his jaws and before
Hymneth could bring his arm up and forward, he spat forcefully at the supreme
sovereign of the central coast. Two dark, wet, black blobs flew from his lips,
to strike the looming, armored figure right in the eye slit that creased the
upper part of his helmet.
Hymneth s arm continued to rise only to halt, quivering, halfway from the
ground. The imposing figure stumbled once, shook itself, then staggered
sideways. There came a metallic cracking sound as deep fissures appeared in
his armor, running from magnificent helmet to mailed foot. The Visioness
Themaryl screamed as the ruler of Ehl-Larimar collapsed sideways onto the
floor. Struck by the half-
digested essence of not one but two eromakadi, he lay in his useless armor,
unmoving where he had fallen.
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A Triumph of Souls: Journeys of the Catechist, Book 3
Reaching for his sword, Peregriff started forward, only to be intercepted by a
still uncertain but increasingly confident Simna. Holding his blade out in
front of him, the swordsman ventured a strained smile.
No, my venerable friend! By Gequed, we ll see this thing done with by those
who matter. You and I are insignificant components of any final rendering.
An awkward pause ensued while Hymneth s general glared down at the itinerant
swordsman. Then he nodded, once, and dropped his hand from the hilt of his
weapon. Together, both men turned to look.
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Rushing forward, Themaryl had knelt beside the supine figure of her monarch.
Concern wracked her countenance, but there were no tears. Fearful, she looked
up at the rangy, solemn-visaged herdsman.
Is is he dead?
No. Ehomba studied the motionless figure somberly. Bits and pieces of
fractured armor were starting to slough away from the body. Only paralyzed,
and that I think just from the shoulders down.
Eventually, he should recover all movement.
She started to smile gratefully, then thought better of it, and instead turned
her attention back to the recumbent torso.
Breathing hard, Simna ibn Sind joined his tall friend in gazing down at the
motionless form. Hoy, only paralyzed? Why leave the job half finished? He
aimed the point of his blade.
No, my friend. Reaching out, Ehomba forestalled the swordsman s fatal
intent. That is not what I
came for.
Simna eyed him imploringly. By Gulvent, bruther, he tried to kill you! He did
kill you! Speaking of which ... The swordsman turned to look at the
indefatigable hulk that was Hunkapa Aub. Through his fur, the biggest member
of their little party was smiling.
I get it! Simna blurted in sudden realization. You weren t really dead! You
were faking it all along.
Ehomba shook his head slowly. No, my friend. I was dead. Well and truly dead.
I know, because I
spent time in the place where the dead go.
Tell me, asked Hunkapa Aub seriously, what is it like, the place where the
dead go?
Slow, the herdsman told him. Reaching out, he put a firm hand on the
swordsman s shoulder and smiled reassuringly. I knew that I was going to die,
Simna. It had been foretold. Not once, but three
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A Triumph of Souls: Journeys of the Catechist, Book 3
times. Once by a seductive seeress the memory of whose beauty and wisdom I
will always treasure, once by a dog witch whose insight and affection I will
always remember, and once even by a fog whose persistence I will never forget.
Continue on and die, they said and so it had to be before we could triumph.
Turning, he gazed gravely at the still unmoving body of Hymneth the Possessed:
warlock, sorcerer, eminent ruler of illustrious Ehl-Larimar.
But that was as far as their predictions went. Nothing was said about what
might happen after
I died.
Raising his eyes, he smiled gratefully at the imposing, attentive, fraternal
figure of Hunkapa Aub.
Nothing was said that would preclude my being resurrected.
Simna gaped at him, struggling to digest the import of his friend s serene
words. Then he grinned. The grin widened until it seemed to encompass the
majority of his sweat-streaked face. And then he began to chuckle softly to
himself. It never grew loud or boisterous like before, but it did not go away,
either.
Two sorcerers. All this time I ve been traveling in the company of two
sorcerers. Turning, he confronted Hunkapa Aub, whose eyes had become suddenly
wise as well as blue. As many days and nights as I have spent in your
company, as many evils and dangers as we fought side by side, and I never
suspected. I never would have suspected.
Hunkapa Aub s smile widened slightly. Not all wizards look alike, good
swordsman. Not everything in life appears as one imagines it to be. And it is
not required that one be human to be a master of the thaumaturgic arts.
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Simna could only stare and shake his head in lingering disbelief. Why? Why
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