Humanity could not be so ignorant. Tarlain's memory was full of motionless statue-like individuals, or a low shuffling gait through corridors and outside the burrows. He chewed at his bottom lip. Or perhaps these creatures were just much, much smarter than they seemed.
There had to be some way to reason with them.
"What do you mean there are two sorts?"
This time the reaction was instantaneous. The vast head swiveled to face him. Two sets of eyes fixed him with a gaze that pinned him to the spot. "You saw the others," the Kallathik hissed and clacked. "You saw us joined together, here."
Tarlain frowned. The Atavists. It had to be referring to the Atavists. Whatever they had planned, they had planned together. Sudden intuition dawned. The Atavists had every reason to want to see the structure of the Guilds tumble around them. And now it appeared the Kallathik had reason as well. He wondered how long they had been planning together, how long they had been holding these discussions, and more, he wondered how much the Atavists knew. The Kallathik had been waiting over five centuries, over one-hundred-and-fifty full seasons. He closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. All of this had been happening beneath their very gaze, beneath the gaze of everyone in the Principate and the Guilds, and it had gone unnoticed, or had it? What a fool he'd been. What a fool to think that he, small insignificant Tarlain, could have done anything.
A deep grinding sound came from the Kallathik beside him and one by one, was caught by the others in the chamber. The vast hollow space filled with sound echoing from the walls, issuing from hundreds of Kallathik throats and chests. It bounced from the flat metal surfaces, growing and deepening in intensity. Wincing at this new assault, Tarlain covered his ears with his hands, but the sound poured over him and through him, pulsing in vast waves through his body and being and deep within his mind's lower reaches. One by one, the files of Kallathik started leaving the chamber, shuffling up the side corridors with an unhurried gait. The low animal rumble was now joined by the sound of hundred of thickly plated hides scraping along metal-clad walls. Tarlain clamped his jaw tight shut, watching as the chamber slowly emptied, the sound pounding at him, till eventually it faded, leaving him standing there alone, unsure of what he was going to do next, the echoes of the cacophony still ringing within him. Slowly, he lowered his hands from his ears, staring at the empty chamber.
There was nothing he could do to halt what the Kallathik planned. He could try and warn the Guilds, but that wouldn't achieve anything. It was unlikely they'd even listen to him. He'd already seen what happened when he'd tried to discuss the Kallathik. It was, after all, why he had ended up here in the first place.
He closed his eyes. "Prophet guide me," he said silently. Slowly he opened his eyes and looked around the empty chamber. He turned for the tunnel leading to his own burrow and headed out of the chamber, reaching automatically to find his mark on the tunnel entrance. There were a few things he needed before he left. And he was leaving, he was sure, of that much if nothing else. Perhaps there would still be time.
Twenty-Four
Sandon struggled forward. The darkness had teeth, but they were teeth made of air and ice. The wind tore at the air around him, billowing under his hood and pressing his beard flat against his chin. He squinted through the rushing gale, his eyes tearing, blinking with each new blast, trying in vain to pierce the all-encompassing gloom.
"Principal Men Darnak!" he called, knowing it was useless. Even if they were close enough to hear, the wind tore the words from his mouth and scattered them across the barren slopes. Daggered shards of cold chilled through his robes, helping the ice touch creep into his body and bones. Sandon worked to pull the robe tighter about him, trying to find some way to guard the coarse open-weave holes from the wind's probing fingers. The Atavists couldn't live like this. He shivered, and then suddenly remembered the weatherproof coat the he had gotten from Milana and Benjo. He turned in the saddle, reaching behind to fumble in the pack. After several struggling attempts with fingers made numb and aching with the cold, he managed to pull the coat free and then pull it on over his head. It snapped about him with the wind, but at least it offered a little more protection.
"Principal Men Darnak!" he called again. "Witness Kovaar!"
