Instruments of War (Iron Kingdoms Chronicles) by Larry Correia

meditating upon the deeds of the deceased.
    However, Makeda needed to focus on the problems of the present, not dwell on the past.
    Her stomach growled. Quite some time had passed since she had last eaten, but warriors were used to fasting. Makeda simply ignored it and went back to her vigil. She spotted a hunched form entering the beast area a short time later. A small glow came from under the hood, a sure sign of the extoller’s crystal gaze. Haradum had arrived. Makeda had known that she would come, for it had been the elder Haradum that had taught her about the traditions of their people since Makeda had been but a small child.
    The extoller caste was supposed to be separate and distinct from the politics of the houses. They were the isolated guardians of Exaltation and the only ones who could communicate with the deceased. Haradum was utterly devoted to the Extoller’s path, and Makeda had no doubt that she could be trusted to be honest, but even then, Makeda watched for a time for any sign of a trap. When she was confident that Haradum was alone, Makeda rose.
    Aptimus Haradum approached immediately. Of course she had seen Makeda hiding in the darkness. The crystal eye could discern the essence which was inside all living things. She was an ancient, alive for at least six generations, her face a mass of wrinkles and folds dangling loose over a skull. The only smooth part of Haradum was the crystal that had replaced her right eye.
    “Second Born Makeda. It pleases me to no end to discover that you are still among us,” the extoller wheezed. “I rejoice at this good fortune.”
    “Time is short, elder.” Makeda kept her voice low. Nobody would be able to hear them over the heavy breathing of the nearby titans. “I must know. Why was the spirit of Telkesh not preserved?”
    Haradum did not seem moved by Makeda’s intensity. “A difficult decision. It was not mine to make. Shuruppak was the extoller present at Telkesh’s deathbed. I did not hear until afterward. I was busy working on my research. Did you know that beetles have a spiritual essence as well?”
    Shuruppak had been raised as a warrior, and been a companion of Akkad’s before deciding to pluck out his eye in order join the extoller caste.
    “Tiny, tiny, little things …” Haradum put her bony hands together at the wrist and quickly wiggled her fingers back and forth, like scurrying legs. “Yes. But their essence does not go to the Void, no. Are there beetle gods then, I wonder?”
    Had Haradum’s mind finally broken? It happened occasionally to the few among their people who managed to die of old age. “Telkesh has killed hundreds in battle. Like Vaactash before him, Telkesh was all that it means to be skorne. My father lived by the code. That cannot all be washed away by one day of fevered madness. Why would Shuruppak choose not to save him?”
    The ancient extoller’s mortal eye narrowed and she leaned in conspiratorially. “When a spirit is pulled, screaming, into the Void, it can tell no stories. So much knowledge is lost that way.”
    “Answer me, Haradum.”
    Haradum smiled. She had no teeth. “I just did. What stories would Telkesh have been able to tell, I wonder? Would he be able to tell of plots and lies? Would he be able to tell of conspiracies between houses? Perhaps of allegiances between castes which are supposed to remain neutral?”
    “Tell me these stories, elder.”
    “I would not know. I am nothing. I wish only to be left alone to continue my research. Yet, an extoller hears things … Yes, yes we do. It is easy sometimes to forget we are there, always watching, always judging. Telkesh judged too. He judged wisely. When presented with two paths by his advisors, he always chose the warrior’s path, never the plotter’s path. Perhaps those advisors tired of being denied? Maybe they decided they needed a new archdominar, someone willing to listen to their strange new ideas, one not so bound up in the traditions of old?