9: THE CONTEST

Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Two days since the last day of Gadrith D’Lorus’s reign

Kihrin said nothing at first when Janel paused her story and motioned for Brother Qown to continue. He ch9ewed on his lip for a moment. “You know, I hate to say this, but I think … I think you’re right. I think Xaltorath was looking for you. Specifically, you. Just like I think he … she … was looking for me back in the Capital. It was intentional.”

“While it’s a distressing idea, I concur,” Brother Qown said.

Janel swallowed and then nodded. “I know now. I hate it. I hate it with everything in me, this idea—that people have died just because I exist. It’s so senseless. I do feel guilty.” She raised a hand. “I know it’s not my fault, but it doesn’t change my feelings.”

Kihrin met Janel’s eyes. “A good friend told me we volunteered for this. Four of us. From the Afterlife, we volunteered to return and help fight the war. I think you’re one of us.”

“Let me guess—my name was Elana.”

Kihrin blinked at her. “What? Why would you think—”

“When we met in the Afterlife, you called me Elana.” She paused. “Repeatedly.”

“Oh. Odd. I don’t know an Elana. Hell, the only time I’ve heard that name—” He frowned. “Huh.”

Janel raised both eyebrows and waited.

“I’ve been told that in my past life, a woman named Elana saved me from something, uh, terrible. In fact, I wouldn’t be sitting here without her.”

“Oh?” Janel rested her chin on her knuckles. “And however do you plan to say thank you?”

For a second, Kihrin thought she was talking about Atrine, but then he realized that no, she really wasn’t. He slowly smiled. “I have a few ideas.”

“I cannot wait to hear them.”

Qown cleared his throat.

Kihrin startled. He kept forgetting the priest was still sitting at the same table.

Janel looked vaguely embarrassed. “Anything else I should know?”

Kihrin gave her a sour smile. “There’s a prophecy.”

She rolled her eyes and laughed as she looked up toward the ceiling. “Gods.”

“Pretty much. So I think Xaltorath—as a demon—would have every reason to look for us. To track us down.”

“But then why hasn’t she killed us?” Janel questioned. “It makes no sense.”¹

“I think to understand whether or not it makes sense, we’d have to understand Xaltorath.”

“Good luck with that,” Janel said.

“The demons want to live,” Brother Qown said, speaking up at last. “What does anyone want? They want to survive. The question we must ask ourselves is: Can they only survive at our expense? Is this a Zaibur game where a single side wins, or is this ravens and doves?”

Kihrin and Janel looked at each other. “Uh…”

Kihrin said, “Ravens and doves? I don’t know that game.”

“Oh,” Brother Qown looked abashed. “I grew up with it in Eamithon. It’s a children’s game, where it’s possible to have multiple simultaneous victories, and in fact, the most prestigious victory involves all the players winning.”

Kihrin made a face. “Eamithon sounds nice. Doesn’t Eamithon sound nice? I was going to open a bar there for my father.” He sighed, stared into his glass, and motioned to the bartender for another refill.

Kihrin turned back to Qown. “It’s your turn.”

Qown’s Turn. The tournament grounds at Mereina, Barsine Banner, Jorat, Quur.

Plans were made, tasks allocated—which, in Brother Qown and Dorna’s case, meant finding seats at the tournament. That ended up being a more complicated endeavor than Qown ever expected. While the stands were underpopulated, attendees crowded toward the front. A great many spectators had huddled together to talk in hushed tones about the day’s strange events, who else might be killed, and just how upset they should be over the whole matter.

“How long do you think it will take Sir Baramon to break down his tent?” Brother Qown leaned over and whispered to Dorna. If, or rather when, things started to go wrong, time would be at a premium. Someone would need to retrieve Ninavis too—a danger-fraught endeavor—so Qown wanted everything else readied first.

Dorna examined an engraved leather purse in her hands. “What was that?” She tucked the purse away into her skirts.

“How long do you think it will take Sir Baramon to break down his tent?” he asked again.

“It’s called an azhock,” Dorna said.

“That’s not the point.”

“Well, if you’re going to learn our ways, priest, you’d best start with the important words, doncha think?” The old woman winked at him before turning back to the tournament.

Dorna leaned over to tug on the sleeve of a woman sitting in a box seat. She wore a merchant family’s square crest on her sleeves. An embroidery hoop rested on her lap. “Morning there, Mare,” Dorna said. “Who’s the knight in the blue and yellow?” She pointed to the field, where two new knights approached.

The woman eyed Dorna’s lack of team colors before answering. “Gozen. Works for the Sifen family.” She sniffed. “Farmers. They grow mangoes.”

“Ooooh,” Dorna said. “He any good?”

The woman snorted this time. She started to return to her embroidery. “Wait, my purse! What happened to my purse?”

Dorna ignored Brother Qown’s accusing look. “Did you drop it? When did you last see it? Did you buy something? Maybe it’s still there.”

The woman gave Dorna a panicked look, grabbed her embroidery bag, and bolted back between the stands. Dorna took the woman’s place and motioned for the Vishai priest to join her.

“Dorna!”

She pulled him over beside her. “Don’t make a fuss. People will notice.”

“But you … you…” Brother Qown all but pointed a finger at her. “That seat doesn’t belong to you. Neither does that purse.”

“We’re saving a spot for Her Highness, if she comes back. You agreed.” Dorna took a sip of the weak tea she’d bought from a vendor earlier, made a face, and traded up for the cider flagon the woman had left behind. “Much better. Now shush. Gozen’s up, and he’s my favorite.”

“A minute ago, you’d never heard of Gozen!”

“Don’t be silly, priest. Gozen works for the Sifen family. They grow mangoes.” She returned to watching the sport.

“You’re a terrible person,” Brother Qown muttered.

The old woman looked proud.

Two knights entered the grounds. The one in yellow and blue, Gozen, looked like he’d just purchased the basic knight starter kit. Too new or unsuccessful at the contests to have yet gained himself full armor and barding for his horse. He faced an older knight in full red regalia. The older knight’s colors and banners identified him as a Red Spear, a mercenary company who sold their skills to the highest bidder.

The two knights entered the yard and made their customary first circuit around the field, complete with hurled invectives. Brother Qown saw Count Janel, or rather, the Black Knight, enter the grounds.

No one noticed. No one had paid much attention to the Black Knight earlier in the day, and the new Black Knight still wore black armor and rode a flame-kissed ebony fireblood. The differences seemed obvious to Brother Qown. The knight rode a flame-kissed ebony fireblood, but since Talaras had not agreed to let Janel ride him, it wasn’t the same flame-kissed ebony fireblood. The tiger striping on his legs was an easy giveaway. The Black Knight’s armor suddenly appeared oversized, strapped down to a slimmer body.

Still no one paid any attention.

All energy focused on the two men, now before the warden and a table filled with eight different statues.² Gozen bent down from his saddle and picked up the small statue of a pregnant woman sitting cross-legged on a tortoise’s back: Galava, the Mother. Gozen held the statue aloft so the crowds in the stands might see his selection.

“Ah,” Dorna said. She chewed on a wrapped porie leaf, another item Brother Qown hadn’t seen her buy. “The Fourth Contest. Interesting choice.”

“What’s the Fourth Contest?”

“Shhh. It’s starting.”

The priest gritted his teeth and returned his attention to the combatants and their contest, whatever form it would take. The Red Spear rode up to the table as squires ran to them with ropes. They carried two kinds—small, thin ropes, such as one might use to tie bundles, and a single large rope thick as a strong man’s wrist. Since Gozen had picked the contest, the Red Spear now had the right to pick which sort of “weapon” they’d use.

The Red Spear reached down, put his hand on the smaller ropes, then paused. He changed his mind and picked up the thick rope.

The crowd cheered or booed, depending on preferences and where they’d bet their metal.

The count rode over to Gozen, just as he picked up the other end of the rope. A murmur swept over the crowd; the group surrounding them stood. Brother Qown found himself feeling both guilty and grateful Dorna had found them such a nice spot.

Then the Black Knight pulled the rope from Gozen’s hand and motioned for the young knight to move to the side. He wouldn’t be the one fighting this bout. She would.

“Can she do that?” Brother Qown whispered to Dorna.

“Aye,” Dorna replied. “There ain’t much a Black Knight can’t do, truth be told. Taking over one side of a contest is the least of it. If she wins, it’s her victory, but it’ll still count for the Sifen family.”

“And if she loses?”

Mare Dorna slapped his chest. “Shut your mouth, priest. My count don’t lose.”

The Black Knight rode to the field’s center. The Red Spear rode after her, holding the other end of the rope, just long enough to allow both riders to sit on their horses several lengths apart.

“Are they—?” Brother Qown frowned and leaned forward. “That’s a children’s game.”

“The rules are simple enough for that, aye. Each rider holds one end of the rope and don’t let go. The one who does, loses. If they’re pulled off their horse, they’ll let go.”

“But this single contest won’t decide anything, will it?”

Dorna glanced back at him. “I reckon it will decide how much the Sifen family charges for their mangoes.”

“What? But—” Brother Qown raised his chin in the direction of the prisoners’ cages. “I meant about that.”

Dorna studied the cages, her expression sullen. She looked around in case anyone eavesdropped. “Problem with that is—”

The crowd roared.

Dorna broke off whatever she’d been about to say and jumped to her feet. Brother Qown craned his neck to see what had happened in the ring while he’d been distracted.

The match had ended.

The Red Spear clambered to regain his footing after he’d fallen off his horse, who stood at the side pawing the ground and looking surprised. A referee ran over to talk to the warden, or rather, to the warden’s nurse, but the outcome seemed clear. The referees hoisted the Sifen family’s flag, a yellow-and-blue field affixed with a trade group’s square mark.

Winner.

Dorna slapped Qown on the shoulder. “Told you.”

Count Janel, or rather, the Black Knight, now had everyone’s attention.

Arasgon pranced back to the center, facing the box where the baron sat. Captain Dedreugh lounged in a chair a short distance from the box, enjoying a drink. He lingered there in case someone foolishly tried for a match.

As the baron raised his arm and leaned forward to give some command or judgment, a shout rang out in the distance. Several people began to point.

Qown looked around to spot the cause. Surprised and dismayed cries rang out from the crowd.

Finally, the priest realized people were pointing back at the castle, toward the thick black smoke snaking up from inside the walls.

Something inside Mereina Castle was burning.

Dorna and Brother Qown shared a look.

“You don’t think…?” Dorna worried at her lower lip.

“Ninavis,” he said.

Brother Qown didn’t know what could’ve happened, but he’d splinted and cast her leg. How much harm could she do …

No. It was she. Possibly she and Kalazan, but he knew in his bones she’d done something.

Baron Tamin ordered his soldiers back to the castle, his wild gesticulations communicating his anger as clearly as if Brother Qown stood right next to him.

It might have been the priest’s imagination, but he thought he heard the name Kalazan floating by on the breeze.

Tamin didn’t himself leave. Instead, the baron returned to his seat, casting angry scowls back to the fortress.

While the baron dealt with his new problem, Count Janel drew her sword and pointed it at Dedreugh. Arasgon screamed out something to call attention to the challenge.

Dorna whistled. “Oh, I wondered how she was going to do this without fighting her way through a dozen knights. This works much better.”

Baron Tamin walked to the edge of the box. Although Brother Qown couldn’t hear his words, his consternation and confusion were evident. Tamin must have realized this wasn’t his Black Knight, wasn’t Sir Baramon. He likely recognized the fireblood too—in which case, he had to realize Janel’s identity.

The crowd surged, wild and shouting. The tournament had turned into something unexpected; it excited their fancy. Tamin raised his hand until they subsided. He motioned for the Black Knight to leave the field.

Arasgon shifted his weight and strutted. Count Janel again pointed her sword at Dedreugh.

Brother Qown saw the baron bend down and listen to something the warden’s nurse had to say, saw him shake his head in refusal. The baron motioned for the soldiers who hadn’t left for the castle to remove the Black Knight from the field. As he did, the crowd in the stands began to stomp their feet and shout.

Black Knight! Black Knight! Black Knight!

The crowd came alive, chanting the title in unison.

Brother Qown realized he hadn’t actually understood what role the Black Knight played in these tournaments—in Joratese society.

Yes, a jester figure. A fool on horseback, providing entertainment to the crowds during breaks in the show. But if one looked at this figure and saw only the mountebank, then one missed the whole point.

The Black Knight might be a fool, but this fool served the gods. The Black Knight was a holy idiot, destiny’s joking hand, the mischievous herald of divine fate.

The people of Barsine Banner hated Dedreugh. And now the Black Knight was calling him out. Nothing would come of this. Surely, this was the baron’s attempt to defuse the morning atrocities. This couldn’t be the Eight’s judgment. It was a prank and a lark and nothing more.

But what if?

What if?

The baron gave the crowds a sour look and nodded to where his man Dedreugh sat. The guard captain drained his drink and stood. He called his horse over and vaulted into the saddle, directing the stallion around the ring.

“Who dares think they can take me?” he screamed out. “Do you think I fear the unknown? That I will quake at the dark? I am the dark! I am the unknown all men fear! I will tear this impostor limb from limb.” He pulled out his sword and waved it in the air. He continued in this vein for several more circles around the yard, each time elaborating on the many ways he’d grind into dust the poor fool stupid enough to challenge him.

Dedreugh’s bluster didn’t seem unusual. For reasons defying Brother Qown’s understanding, every knight at the tournament indulged in this cock’s parade of insults. Maybe they did it to intimidate their opponents, give the crowds a chance to place their bets, or impress their loyal fans. Some traditions start without anyone knowing why.

The Black Knight waited in the ring. She didn’t make a sound.

When the time came to ride to the contest table, Arasgon strolled over with head and tail held high.

Neither side moved to pick a statue.

Of course. The one with the least idorrá picked first in these contests, and neither side would make that admission.

“It’s my lord’s banner,” Dedreugh growled. “You pick first.”

Janel didn’t respond at first. Then she tilted her head—as close as she could come to a nod wearing that helmet—and reached out a black-gauntleted hand. She swept up a statue of an upright man with an eagle’s head and wings: Khored the Destroyer. Brother Qown wasn’t sure what the contest indicated, but given the god chosen, it seemed safe to assume it would be violent.

The count held the statue over her head for the crowd to see. Everyone roared their approval.

Instead of picking a variation, Dedreugh immediately attacked.³

Dedreugh launched himself from his horse and tackled Count Janel, which Brother Qown wouldn’t have thought possible had he not seen it. Dedreugh moved so quickly even Arasgon must have been taken by surprise; before the fireblood could take action, Count Janel hit the ground with a thud.

The crowds pressed behind Mare Dorna and Brother Qown until the priest found himself wedged against the fence. The audience seemed aware they were witnessing a singular moment, something they might never see again. The Black Knight existed as a faux knight, a paper knight: at best a symbol, and at worst a crass lampoon. The Black Knight didn’t behave this way.

Then again, if the Black Knight embodied divine mystery, perhaps this change fitted the role.

Baron Tamin stood still against the edge of his box. The warden’s white nurse had also come forward, leaning her hands against the wooden railing while she watched the match. Neither seemed happy.

The two knights rolled around in the dirt. Both stood as quickly. If their plate armor was supposed to make their movements clumsy or hampered, no one had bothered to tell them. They both shared an animal grace.

Dorna reached over and grabbed Brother Qown’s agolé, twisting the fabric into a ball in her fist. He felt the same nervous dread.

Dedreugh unsheathed his sword, while Arasgon rode up to Janel so she might draw the blade still attached to his saddle. She barely had time to pull the weapon in line before Dedreugh rained down blows. She stepped backward, even at risk of pinning herself against the stands.

Dedreugh swung at her; Janel ducked under the blow. As she did, Dedreugh swung his sword so hard he embedded it in the wooden fencing. He covered his arm with his shield to buy himself the seconds he needed to extricate his weapon. Janel used the opportunity to pierce the weaker mail at his hip, drawing blood.

Brother Qown had told himself this fight didn’t need to be to the death. She only needed to embarrass Dedreugh after all, force him to acknowledge her as superior, bow to her idorrá.

As Dedreugh roared with fury, Brother Qown realized he’d been naïve. Dedreugh tore his sword free and swung back again at his enemy. Janel blocked the attack with her own shield, darting in with her blade to take advantage of the opening.

Brother Qown thought Janel took quicker advantage of opportunities, not to mention moving faster on her feet. Dedreugh proved to be a hulking brute on the battlefield, all fury and no strategy. Against an enemy who equaled him in strength, it wasn’t enough.

Dedreugh came in with another massive, cleaving blow. Count Janel danced away, slamming up his shield with her own, pulling her sword down hard against his elbow. A strip of his mail came loose, little rings falling on the sand like a rich man emptying his purse into a beggar’s hands.

The Count of Tolamer laughed.

Dedreugh came in again, furious, and Janel danced back. Brother Qown realized with startled shock she was copying Ninavis’s strategy: goading her enemy into attack after attack, exploiting the openings as he weakened. Then she stumbled, and he roared his pleasure.

It was a trap.

Her sword slash found the weak spot again, the same place she’d cut his armor previously. The sword sank deep, shearing steel and leather this time, sending sparks down into the sands and the smell of burning metal into the air. Her blade bit true into skin, muscle, and bone.

Dedreugh’s sword fell to the churned earth, followed a second later by his arm.

The whole crowd erupted in a deafening roar.

Brother Qown felt instinct kick in, beyond his control or desire to rein in. He yanked his agolé from Dorna’s hands as he climbed over the yard’s low wooden railing. If he could reach Dedreugh fast enough, before the blood loss killed him, Brother Qown might be able to save his life.

But the crowd fell silent.

The crowd fell silent, and Dedreugh didn’t fall.

Instead, Dedreugh stood there and gazed fondly at Janel. Dedreugh began to laugh, a sound that made all the skin along Qown’s arms prickle. No human could make such a noise.

The blood dripping from Dedreugh’s severed arm wasn’t red. It was black—the thick black ooze of old clotted blood seeping from a corpse.

An old corpse.

Dedreugh hadn’t fallen because Dedreugh was already dead.

He’d been dead the whole time, animated by the diabolical spirit possessing him. Such a spirit wouldn’t care if it pushed the body it possessed past all normal endurance. Such a spirit wouldn’t care if the body it wore took further injury. Easy to mistake such carelessness for supernatural strength. Easy to mistake it for the same curse that gave the count her infernal strength.

They had made a terrible mistake.

**AH, I KNEW IT WAS TOO GOOD TO LAST.**

No noise issued from Dedreugh’s throat. He hadn’t used anything as prosaic as his voice.

Every single person in the crowd, Brother Qown included, felt the demon scream those words straight into their minds.

“Oh, Selanol,” Brother Qown said, not caring who might hear him. “He’s not Dedreugh. That’s not Dedreugh at all.” Brother Qown reached over the railing and grabbed Dorna by the shoulder. “Dedreugh isn’t tainted by demons. His body is being possessed. Do you hear me? He is a demon.”

Brother Qown didn’t think Dorna could hear him. The old woman shook off his arm and mumbled something under her breath, her attention focused on Janel and the demon.

**I ALMOST FORGOT. WHAT WAS IT YOU SAID YOU’D DO TO ME, LITTLE GIRL?**

Dedreugh grinned. He dropped his shield and put his remaining hand’s gauntleted fingers into his mouth.

He yanked downward. Bone and muscle broke away with a sickening crunch.

Dedreugh ripped his own jaw off.⁴

People screamed, fainted, fled.

**I WON’T NEED THAT ANYMORE.**

Popping sounds filled the air as the straps holding his armor in place broke under the stress of his expanding form. Thick black blood oozed down the cracks in his flesh. The severed arm began regenerating, tumorous warping flesh flowing from light to dark blue at his fingertips, which ended in wicked black claws.

“Kasmodeus, I presume? Did you think that would frighten me? Because the next thing I’m going to do is rip your entire head off and—”

**YOU KNOW ME?**

“Oh, I know the name. We haven’t met, but you know what gossips demons are.”

His tongue licked his cheekbones. **I WILL FEAST ON YOUR SOUL.**

“Aren’t you the flatterer.” The count laughed and raised her shield. “You’re going to have to use more than honeyed words if you want to impress me.”

He screamed and leapt at her. They rolled together. A terrible growling sound filled the air.

The crowd panicked. Half the audience didn’t know if they should run or nudge closer for a better look. No one was doing anything helpful.

Brother Qown began going over any possible action he might be able to take to help the count.

She’d given him the demon’s name. Brother Qown struggled to remember the names and qualities Father Zajhera had demanded he memorize.

Kasmodeus. A mid-level demon, associated with brutality and the desperation of those so starved by winter they turned to cannibalism. He preferred using a male form and liked sacrifices given to him as burnt offerings. His weaknesses included the first year’s snow melt and clean water blessed by holy men.

Clean water …

Nothing in the stands would be water. Plum wine or green tea or pepperleaf beer, but not pure water. Brother Qown reached inside the railing and grabbed Dorna’s stolen flagon and then sprinted for the horse troughs near the nobles’ box.

Behind him, Brother Qown heard screams. People ran, trying to escape the demon’s growling laughter. Qown dumped the cider as he ran.

Baron Tamin gestured to guards who seemed to have gone quite deaf. The old warden leaned forward and blinked in dumb shock, attention drawn to the tournament. The warden’s nurse, whom Janel had described as Yoran-like in coloring, leaned against the box’s rails. Her hands rested on the carved wood, all her attention focused on Dedreugh and Count Janel. As Brother Qown saw her, he knew why Count Janel had mistaken her race.

Not only wasn’t she from Jorat, but she wasn’t even Quuros. She was Doltari, a race from far south of the empire’s borders, usually only seen in Quur as slaves.

A shocked roar from the crowd made him stumble, and he turned back to the fight to see Janel’s family sword spinning in a lazy end-over-end arc through the air. The sword embedded itself a scant few feet away from the covered cages by the execution stakes.

The count was unarmed.

Dedreugh/Kasmodeus grinned and swung back to finish the job. Arasgon started to move forward, but Janel shouted for him to stay back.

She ducked Dedreugh’s swing and began running for the stakes.

Brother Qown forced himself to focus on the task at hand. In any other imperial dominion, he wouldn’t trust the water in a horse trough, but the Joratese elevated horse care to religion. The horses were given cleaner water than the people.

He pulled a copper sun medallion from under his robes and began praying over the trough water. As he did, Qown saw the Doltari slave withdraw a smooth stone slab from under her bodice, where it must have nestled against her bosom. Then she removed a small blue-gray glass bottle from her basket and a hair stick from her white hair.

No, Brother Qown thought, not a hair stick. A calligraphy brush with a barrel sharpened to a point.

Another roar. Brother Qown tried to ignore it, but keeping his focus proved difficult when he felt the blast of heat.

He blinked. Heat?

He finished his blessing and looked over. Count Janel had ripped a post from the ground, using the thing like a mallet. The demon was …

Kasmodeus was on fire.

Demons were great fans of fire. They set fires whenever possible, basking in the glow, absorbing the heat. They fed on fire.

Setting fire around a demon who had been summoned by a wizard was a terrible idea, but this was something else: a demon possessing a corpse. Kasmodeus needed Dedreugh’s corpse. He needed that link to the physical world. Destroying his body might well sever the demon’s ties to the physical world and send him back to Hell.

But what had set him on fire?

A mystery for later. Qown scooped his flagon full of the now blessed water and started to run.

“There you are.”⁵

Brother Qown turned. The Doltari nurse pulled her attention away from the fight for long enough to jab the sharpened point of her calligraphy brush into the back of her hand. Then she flipped the brush over to load the bristles with her own blood.

She drew a single glyph on her forehead. That same glyph immediately appeared on the foreheads of every guard.

A terrible foreboding came over Brother Qown.

He possessed a different definition of witchcraft from the Joratese, but he knew a spell being cast when he saw one.

“What are you doing?” Brother Qown yelled. “Stop her! Stop her. Baron! You must stop her!”

The white-skinned woman looked at him and smiled.

All of winter couldn’t have been as cold.

She tipped the glass bottle over. It tumbled off the railing’s edge and shattered against the ground, a tiny tinkling overlooked in the tumult raging in the tournament grounds.

Thick blue smoke poured from the shattered bottle. The smoke curled around the Doltari woman’s face without touching it. The old warden, however, was less fortunate. The smoke poured up his nostrils and pushed into his mouth. He began screaming, choking. The warden dislodged the dhole puppy, who whimpered and snapped at the curling smoke.

The Doltari woman picked up the puppy, drew the same mark on its forehead too, and turned to leave.⁶

“Senera, what have you done?” Tamin demanded.

“My job,” she snapped. “Follow me, boys. We’re finished here.”

The soldiers, who in theory worked for the baron, obeyed her command.

The baron started to protest, but the smoke hadn’t stopped its spread. It snaked tendrils up his nose, down into his mouth. The smoke billowed out.

Another roar sounded behind Brother Qown. The priest turned to see Janel standing. Dedreugh’s body lay on the ground, burning to ash. The count had raised an arm to hold Dedreugh’s head by his hair, black blood dripping down from the neck and spine. It looked for all the world as if she’d ripped the corpse’s dead head from its body.

Probably, she had.

The flesh burned fast, even without fuel. Brother Qown had no doubt nothing would be left behind for Kasmodeus to animate.

But they’d run out of time.

The blue smoke flowed over Brother Qown as well.