A fost sind gute gatburner
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People are always saying that to me. Different languages.
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But always that same phrase, like a ghost that a fost sind gute gatburner me wherever I go. In the Zhuban territories far to the north, a warrior poet everybody in Zhuban claims to be a warrior poet took it much more seriously.
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His brow furrowed with deep lines as he frowned at me. But he was really telling me to be wise, to be vigilant and, most of all, to be quiet. Quiet is the part they all agree on.
They could probably incinerate all of us with one big spell, but from what I saw, the mages were mostly teenagers. Shh… be a good girl now. Great plan, lady.
I feel like telling her that no Mahdek would ever tell an eleven-year-old to be quiet. Maybe our problem is that we just never learned to shut up. I hear the battle cry of one of our warriors outside. They say we use it to awaken infernal beings to slaughter our enemies. How I wish that were true.
I know our warrior has died when I hear the thunder crack of an ember greutate pierdere de 3 luni lighting up the air outside the cave. I can picture the shower of gold and blue sparks, followed by the scene of early morning after a storm.
I know I should hate it, but the colours, the lights, the way they move. Too late now. I wonder if the warrior who just died was the last of my clan.
And was my clan the last of all that remained of the once-great Mahdek tribes? Am I alone now? The one I hate the most is younger, maybe sixteen. His shoulders are broad and unlike the others he looks strong beneath his robes.
The others I can hate the way you hate a cold winter or a sharp stone that cuts your foot. But this one, he knows — some- where inside he knows— that this is wrong. Like me. But he does it anyway. More spells are starting to ignite the air outside the cave. Different ones this time.
Why is it so important to them that no trace of us be left behind? I can hear some of the mages complaining about the stink of flesh burning from the bones of the dead. A couple of them are vomiting, their spells collapsing from the break in their concentration. Then the older one, their leader, shouts at them and they begin the process all over again.
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To find a fost sind gute gatburner. Not one of my people, of course.
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One of the villagers who took us in must be pleading for his life. We never lied about who we were.
Never stay in one place too long. I still remember the looks on their faces, how scared they were. I should be terrified. I should be angry. Instead I feel almost.
Is that the right word? Maybe I really am a good girl? My bum slides over the dead and then scrapes the cold rocks and dirt.
We seem to be going deeper into the cave.