Master Golan suddenly halted. He raised his face to the clear sky while exhaling mightily through clenched teeth. He raised the Rod of Execution, then regarded the surf restlessly surging up the steep strand. For a moment it appeared as if he were considering throwing the baton into the sea. He lowered it, however, and turned to study the bedraggled survivors of his army as they slumped down together to sit listless and exhausted, staring out at the vast unbroken horizon before them.
His gaze fell to Principal Scribe Thorn who watched him expectantly, quill poised. He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, blinking, then quickly turned his face out to sea. After a time he murmured, as if more to himself: ‘You are right, Thorn. Posterity will wonder at your perspicacity. You have assured my due place in history.’
The scribe swallowed, his bulging Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘It is my duty, Master Golan.’