Deadhouse Gates by Steven Erikson
"How old?" Duiker's voice was as parched as the Odhan that awaited them.
"Five. The T'lan Imass chose this place for him. The effort of killing him would have proved too costly, given that the rest of the family still awaited them. So they dragged the child here––shattered his bones, every one, as many times as they could on so small a frame––then pinned him beneath this rock."
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"But why?" The question ripped from Duiker's throat.
"Pogroms need no reason, sir, none that can weather challenge, in any case. Difference in kind is the first recognition, the only one needed, in fact. Land, domination, pre-emptive attacks––all just excuses, mundane justifications that do nothing but disguise the simple distinction. They are not us. We are not them."