They drink. Haggart paces the room heavily and slowly, like a man who is imprisoned in a dungeon but does not want to escape.
“I feel sad,” he says, without looking at Khorre. Khorre, as though understanding, shakes his head in assent.
“Sad? I understand. Since then?”
“Ever since then.”
“Ever since we drowned those people? They cried so loudly.”
“I did not hear their cry. But this I heard—something snapped in my heart, Khorre. Always sadness, everywhere sadness! Let me drink!”
He drinks.
“He who cried—am I perhaps afraid of him, Khorre? That would be fine! Tears were trickling from his eyes; he wept like one who is unfortunate. Why did he do that? Perhaps he came from a land where the people had never heard of death—what do you think, sailor?”
“I don’t remember him, Noni. You speak so much about him, while I don’t remember him.”
“He was a fool,” says Haggart. “He spoilt his death for himself, and spoilt me my life. I curse him, Khorre. May he be cursed. But that doesn’t matter, Khorre—no!”