Again Haral froze.
But they, too, passed, unheeding.
Now louder sounds drifted to him. There was a whispering of hairy feet on sand; a slither of insectile bodies.
And, through it, a silvery voice rose, singing.
The main body of the coleoptera appeared. Kyla pocketed among them.
Her hair was mud-caked now, and streaked and straggling. Her garments, too, were torn, and bruises and cuts showed through the rents.
Yet still she sang her Shamon song, head high and back unbending. And if she reeled and stumbled as she walked, it was weariness and not defeat that caused it.
It came to Haral in that moment that even madness had its glory ... that even death could be worthwhile.
He leaned forward, lance poised and focused on the coleoptera that shoved and buffeted her along.
But the time was not yet. Savagely, he fought down the rage that seethed within him, waiting while the beetles and their captive moved on past the spur that hid him and the hwalon.