"Anasurimbor Kellhus, the Aspect-Emperor."
Instead of glimpsing Esmenet, the old Wizard saw Mimara in his soul's eye, pregnant and derelict, a prisoner of the Captain. If he failed here… If he stumbled…
"Enough!" he cried. "You have your truth!"
Mucus snapping like bowstrings.
"Yes, bu-"
The great bulk stamped forward one step, fissuring stone…
The iron-horned chin dropped, as a wolf…
Fire wicked from carcass nostrils…
The pillared landscape hummed with reverberations. Sulphur and rot settled as a mist through the black. The old Wizard fairly cried out for sudden weight of Cleric's hand on his shoulder.
"He plays you," the Nonman said, his face white and serene. "There is no separating him from his hoard. He is too wicked, and he has slumbered here too long…"
The Last Nonman King turned back toward the scaled abomination.
"He?" Achamian asked witless.
"Wutteat."
Like some beast in nocturnal seas, the Wracu shrank into the darkness. Laughter like sloughing cliffsides crashed through the ancient hollows.
"He dies from the outside," Cleric said, "because Hell sustains him from within."
"CUNNING…" the Wracu groaned out from the black.