Then he went
on, "Kadrug--giants!--they fell on us from all sides!"
He stopped suddenly, his lungs gasping audibly for air as he stood
sniggering like a whipped boy in a torment of anguish, fear, and
remorse at what he had seen.
"Master Rababull," he moaned, "and all--of the rest of us..."
He fell silent, staring into emptiness as if at the terrifying aspect
of unseen demons.
"Talk!" demanded Old Maskron finally, shaking the other again and
infuriated at the runner's balking manner.
"A trap!!" the slave wailed. "They are all--g-gug--dead!!
Maskron!--what shall we do for I alone have escaped to tell you?!"
"Do?" croaked his interrogator. Old Maskron shook the weeping runner as
he gripped him, staring him down for a long moment while his eyes took
on a maddened look.
"Do?! You tell me this, and dare to ask of me, 'What shall we do?!'"
He shook the hapless runner again, a human god damning the dishonored
vessel of calamitous news to all the imaginary hells of the soul, and
violently cast him backwards as if the man had himself brought this
dire fate upon the House of Rababull.
The runner fell backwards and hit the hard, hewn stones of the stairs
full stretch against the back of his head, and lay sprawled backwards,
head-downwards and facing sightlessly into the heavens on the
unforgiving stone steps.
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