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“Perish the thought” He levels his blade atiron from your boot, and we settle who’s the Heir of Arcos”

“Who is your favorite poet?” When he does not answer, I choose for him:

“Ye labour for your fall

With your own hands! Not by surprise

Nor yet by stealth, but with clear eyes,

Knowing the thing ye do”

He sneers at the gun “No honor”

“No time”

I shoot Alexandar in the head

THE LADY BEATRICE LIES in darkness except for the faint twinkling of lights through the s of her ing My Howlers land in force, Screwface taking a platoon through the top s, as I shoot a hole through the front door and thunder in with Thraxa and her warhammer

“Lune!” I shout

“Come out, coh a pillar “Come out and face the Wee Lass!”

There is no answer No sound except the sto froht casts white snowflakes on the stone floor as we rush into the ho

“Goryhell,” Thraxa mutters as we enter Glirastes’s museum

I feel a tremor inside