Killing me, and it felt - wonderful. He touched the axe at his belt, with its gleaming, half-moon blade. Liandrin straightened with a grimace. I must rotate them; they grow stale after too long watching men swing picks and shovels.
The place he had chosen was a low, round hill, bare of trees. Ingtar's dark eyes never left the Fade's face; if the Shienaran felt the fear of that gaze, he gave no sign. Watch what your tongue touches, or you will lose it. Next came trumpeters, long, shining horns raised, still calling the flourish.
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