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which he could apply it! And there was something about his eyes. . . . Naevros had to admit that Aloê’s choice was not completely ridiculous.
    Naevros watched with impartial interest as the crooked vocate slashed a dark, dripping wound in the sagging, leathery stomach of one of the Khnauronts. It healed visibly . . . but much slower than his enemy’s had. The second Khnauront fed off the first, extending his claw-faced tube toward the healing wound. But the second Khnauront had already been wounded in the eye, Naevros saw, and the first Khnauront was feeding off that. . . .
    Why had Morlock not finished them off? Naevros wondered. Naevros felt a natural pride in his own abilities, but he knew those of his sparring partner equally well; surely Morlock could have finished off at least one of them by now.
    As he watched Morlock watching them, he guessed that . . . that Morlock was curious . Yes, that was it. He was wounding them, watching them, waiting to see what would happen.
    Naevros realized that here, at last, he had a chance to be free of his rival once and for all. He could, for instance, trip Morlock and walk away while the Khnauronts finished him off. No one could blame him: there were always casualties in war. And he would bring a secret that would help defeat the Khnauronts completely. Aloê would grieve, of course, and Naevros would have to wait. But he knew he could wait as long as he had to. This was his chance indeed.
    He didn’t take it. He raised the claw-faced tube in his hand and drained the wounded Khnauronts. The torment and the ecstasy swept over him as before, but it was less distracting. There was a sense of satiation, almost of bloat.
    Did the Khnauronts cultivate their starved, stringy frames to be more receptive to the stolen tal from their victims? Was the constant quest for this ecstasy what had gnawed away at their intelligence—their souls? For the first time, Naevros understood the Khnauronts: what they were, and why they did what they did. It wasn’t the hunger for food. It was the hunger for that : the burst of life that came from someone’s death. And now he knew that hunger himself.
    The Khnauronts fell sprawling, losing grip on their weapons. Morlock advanced cautiously and severed the hands holding their tubes. He impaled the hands each through the wrist with his sword, like chunks of meat on a skewer. Then he carried the skewered hands, still gripping the claw-faced tubes, over to Naevros.
    â€œLet’s go,” he whispered. His throat was dry; his face was wet; his stance was weary. Naevros felt for him the smug pity that the well-fed rich feel for the hungry poor.
    â€œWhat are those?” Naevros said, gesturing at the hands. “Souvenirs?”
    â€œThe wise should see these things and learn from them,” Morlock said. “Noreê, Illion, the seers of New Moorhope.”
    â€œBut you don’t want to touch them.”
    â€œNo. You,” Morlock said, nodding at the tube in Naevros’ hand, “are a braver man than I am.”
    Naevros remembered the cold, gray gaze as Morlock watched the Khnauronts feed on each other while he fought both for his life.
    â€œYou’ll do,” he told his friend and enemy.
    They fled westward then, bearing their trophies and the news that would restore the Guard, at least for a little while.

C HAPTER S IX
    The Hill of Storms
    War was not a business at which the Graith of Guardians excelled. The Guard was supposed to keep enemies outside the borders, and the Wardlands did not indulge in wars of conquest.
    An army needs a command structure, and the Graith was designed to provide nothing of the sort. All the vocates were free agents who could disregard direct orders even from the summoners, and the summoners were coequal in authority and reputation, at least in theory. Thains were bound to follow orders of senior Guardians, but even they were known to disobey. In