“Hunkapa—believe in Etjole.” The broad figure replied slowly and solemnly, his response tinged with uncertainty over what was to come.
“And you, Ahlitah? What about you?” The herdsman gazed affectionately at the big cat.
It yawned. “Do what you will. If you die, I go home. If you live, I continue with you. Only one thing I know for sure: I’m sick of the taste of marrow. So do something.”
“I will.” Turning back to the swordsman, the tall southerner smiled reassuringly. “No matter what happens, no matter what you see here, you must promise to continue the journey westward away from this place. Watch, friend Simna. Watch, and trust me.”
“Trust you? Trust you to do what? Etjole …”
The swordsman reached for his friend but was unable to restrain him. After placing the sky-metal sword in Hunkapa’s hand, a resigned Ehomba walked back to confront the expectant envoy. Halting before the skeletal warrior, the herdsman nodded once. “I am ready.”
“Simna, do you still believe I am a mighty sorcerer?”
“Yes—but you’ve always denied it. I know your way with words. What trick of sophistry are you playing now?” The swordsman eyed his friend warily.
The envoy made a gesture and started to raise his sword. Ehomba lifted a hand to forestall the first cut. “Hold! I will save you the trouble.”
Standing between the living and the dead, the herdsman parted his jaws to form a wide oval—an oval that grew large, and then larger still. It was impossible for any human mouth to open so wide. Even among the mounted skeletons there was a stirring at the sight. Among all the onlookers only Simna ibn Sind and the black litah were not shocked by the gape of the herdsman’s expanding maw, for they had seen Ehomba do something similar before.