* * *
It was night, and the battlefield of gouged, naked soil and blackened stubble was empty but for sniffing, hopeful jackals and the odd human scavenger searching for loot. A man in a mail coat under laced leathers stood motionless, his head lowered. His long black hair blew about his scarred dark face.
‘Greetings, Dessembrae,’ spoke a nearby gnawed skull, once buried but since dug up by scavengers. ‘And I say Dessembrae for I see you are here now in that aspect.’
The man let go a long breath, rolled his neck to ease its tension. ‘A long time, Hood.’
‘Indeed. Dare I say how just like those old times?’
The man's face twisted in loathing. ‘No, you may not.’
‘Yet here you are – why are you here?’
‘I am bearing witness to a death. A soldier's death.’
‘How … commonplace.’
‘He was no common soldier, though he knew it not. Had the Seti remained he would have out-generalled the Imperial forces, and had his bodyguard been a fraction of an instant faster, would have proven victorious over the Guard as well. He would have made High Fist and risen to become one of the greatest commanders ever thrown up by the Empire. But all that potential died here today, unrealized. Known to none.’
‘I know, Dessembrae. I took him.’
‘Yes. As you take everyone – eventually. And I will not ask what all others ask of you – why? Because what I have come to understand is that there is no why. To ask why is to impose expectations on mute existence – expectations it is in no way obliged to meet or even extend. And so I make no more, ask no more.’
The skull was silent for a time – as skulls are. ‘So that is the course of your thoughts,’ said Hood, and the man believed he detected a note of … surprise.
‘What of it?’
Silence.
We will speak again, I promise you.