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People are always saying that to me. Different languages. But always that same phrase, like a ghost that follows me wherever I go.
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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. 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 giant rush fat burner. 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 spell 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.
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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 giant rush fat burner 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 me. Not one of my people, of course. 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. I look up in the darkness and I can just barely make out two figures. Like demons. Maybe my people really are demon worshippers.
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Something heavy scratches the cave floor, shifting as the bigger demon shoves it with his shoulder. The two of them bend down even lower as they haul me into a narrow tunnel. This man speaks it awkwardly though, like he learned it only recently.
His voice is deep, his tone gruff in a way that warns me not to argue with him. The voice that answers belongs to a woman. No more trudging through deserts under the hot sun or icy forests in the frozen winter. An important one.
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And we are. After a second the man mumbles something to her and she nods. Yes, we are warriors-of-honour. Do you understand me? I feel bad for the man and the woman who came here thinking they could save me.
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The light I saw was the sun in the sky above, not magic. Soon I find myself being gently rocked to sleep as four fine horses pull us along, first down a dirt path and then onto a road. She was nice.
Она судорожно ловила ртом воздух, извиваясь в руках Хейла. Он хотел было отпустить ее и броситься к лифту Стратмора, но это было бы чистым безумием: все равно он не знает кода.
So was her husband. They took me to a lovely home just as big and beautiful as they promised. I buried their bodies in the garden six months later. Nicht die einfachen, plausiblen Dinge, von denen man seinen Freunden erzählt, sondern den Traum, den man tief im Herzen bewahrt, den man selbst als Kind niemals laut in Worte fassen würde.
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Man fühlt also den Greatcoat, den schweren Ledermantel, das Symbol des Amtes, auf den Schultern, das täuschend geringe Gewicht der eingenähten Knochenplatten, die einen wie eine Rüstung schützen, und die Dutzenden verborgenen Taschen, inhalatoare de miros pentru pierderea în greutate mit den nötigen Werkzeugen und Schlichen, esoterischen Tränken und Pillen gefüllt sind. Man greift nach dem Schwert an der Seite, von dem Wissen beflügelt, dass einem als Greatcoat beigebracht wurde, falls nötig, zu kämpfen.
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