Snarling, Culaehra lunged at the old man—but even seated, somehow Illbane leaned aside, and Culaehra blundered past, tripped, and fell. He rolled over to shove himself up—and found that blasted staff pointed between his eyes again. “If you truly believe that for the one who strikes the blow it is never too often, then Ulahane's spirit is not fully dead!” With sudden elation, Culaehra realized how he could strike back at this magically invulnerable dotard. What matter blows, if he knew he had hurt Illbane with his words? “There never was an Ulahane—nor a Lomallin, nor a Rahani! They are nothing but tales the slaves make up to give themselves enough hope to slog their way through the next day, through all their days to their graves, where there is no afterlife nor any thought nor virtue, but only dirt and worms!” He trembled within at his own audacity, his blasphemy, but stood crouched and ready for the blows of Illbane's rage. But the sage only frowned, turning grave—and the probing of his eyes spoke of an understanding so deep that Culaehra shrieked again, “Dirt and worms!
