Sacrifice, a red sonja fanfic

SACRIFICE By Lomax

The boy was running for all he was worth, frequently looking back over his shoulder to check the progress of his pursuers; so the fact that he ended up colliding with someone was hardly a surprise. That someone was a tall, flame-haired woman with a cloak drawn closely about her. Annoyed, she grabbed hold of the boy with the intention of giving him a clip round the ear and a lecture about watching where he was going, but as she raised a gloved hand to strike a strident voice cut in.

"Hold him, woman - he's the one we're after." The woman looked round and saw a group of men who had seemingly been chasing the boy. They were about to advance and seize their prey when something in the woman's eyes made them stop where they were, shuffling their feet and panting from their exertions. There was an awkward pause before one of the men spoke.

"We want him; he stole a loaf of bread." The woman looked down and saw that the boy, who she still held by the scruff of his neck, was indeed holding a loaf. He looked up, grinned sheepishly and took a bite out of his prize. The woman turned back to the men.

"Three of you, to chase this little one? Not what I'd call a fair contest."

"He's a nuisance; he's always stealing, the fatherless brat. It's time someone taught him a lesson."

The woman looked at the boy again. He was eleven or twelve years old, and as scrawny as only street-urchins can be. He was chewing industriously. "It looks as though he could do with a square meal."

"What's that to you?"

"I was a fatherless brat once."

By this time a sizeable crowd had gathered, and were sniggering at the discomfiture of the indignant burghers. One of the three, a choleric, red-faced man, seemed to decide that things had gone on long enough. He took a purposeful step forward. "Now see here, Red-hair - that little gutter-rat has been warned often enough; now he's going to get what's coming to him. There are laws in Castria, you know; now hand him over."

He stepped forward to grab hold of the boy, but stopped suddenly as the woman twitched aside her cloak to reveal that she wore glittering armour underneath; though in truth it was not the armour that the spectators noticed most of all; nor was it the sword on whose hilt the woman laid her free hand. "Personally, I never appeal to the law," she said. "I prefer to settle my own disputes." A murmur went through the watching crowd.

"But this matter is easily dealt with." She took her hand off her sword and fished around in a leather purse that hung at her waist. From it she produced a silver coin, which she tossed at the feet of the red-faced man. "That should cover the cost of the bread - many times over, I should think. I hope it's good bread."

Red-face was about to say something indignant in reply when one of his companions whispered urgently in his ear. "Don't you know who that is? That's Red Sonja, the she-devil."

"I'm flattered that you've heard of me. Now, are you going to pick up that coin?" Slowly, the man did so. He opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it. Turning on his heel, he walked away. The crowd slowly dispersed, animatedly discussing the scene they had just witnessed.

"You know what they say about Red Sonja…." one awed voice told his fellows. The rest of his sentence was lost in the general hubbub, but the shocked response did reach the red-headed woman's ears.

"What - never?"

Red Sonja smiled to herself. She fished out another coin and pressed it into the boy's palm. "Here - feed yourself up a bit. Then you could try earning your keep honestly somewhere. Someone in this town must want to employ ….." She broke off. The boy, evidently in no mood to listen to a homily on respectable living, was running away.

"Hey, what's your name?" Sonja called after him, but he was already out of earshot. Sonja shrugged and walked off. Behind her, a man emerged from a doorway and stared after her thoughtfully.

An hour later four men stood on a flat rooftop which overlooked the bazaar.

"There she is. Now, does everyone know what to do? Pelk?"

"Why me?"

"Because you're the quickest on your feet, and the sneakiest son of a whore this side of tomorrow."

"Yes, but sneaking isn't part of the plan, is it? Quite the reverse, in fact." The one called Pelk was a short, sharp-featured individual with a perpetual sneer on his face.

"You've still got to get close enough to start with. God's teeth, I would've thought you'd've jumped at the chance."

"Yes, Barak, but suppose things go wrong and something unpleasant happens?"

"If it does, I can't think of anyone I'd rather it happened to. Now shut up and get moving. Look - she's heading for old Simonides' booth. You catch up with her there; we'll be waiting in the courtyard."

"You'd better be."

"We will; now move, curse you."

"I'm going, I'm going," grumbled Pelk as he descended the stairs to street level. "I just hope you're ready," he called back. "She'll be furious, remember; you know what women are like if you interrupt them whilst they're shopping."

III

Red Sonja was indeed shopping, or at least wandering through the bazaar, smelling the smells and listening to the chatter. Word of her had obviously spread, and it amused her to see how earnestly and how obsequiously the vendors craved her custom. But though her purse was heavy with silver (that fellow she'd caught playing with loaded dice the previous week had been most anxious to make amends), her needs were few. She'd bought some provisions which, she'd been promised most earnestly, would be delivered to the inn where she'd left her horse; but beyond food, drink, and a new pair of boots from time to time, what was there to spend money on? It was funny, she reflected as she sometimes did; her hands had run with silver and gold and jewels (most of which she'd risked her life to obtain, in one way or another), but the problem with wealth was that you needed a settled lifestyle to enjoy it. And that was most definitely not in her nature. And so she'd squandered it, or lost it, or given it away. What else could she do with it? She had no friends she could rely on to keep it for her, and she certainly didn't trust those - what were they called - bankers that you found in some cities these days. There were two or three caches she'd left buried in various places, but she'd never gone back to claim any of them. She'd probably not be able to find them if she tried.

She shrugged. Maybe one day she'd set herself up as a queen, and bedeck herself with jewels and finery. Maybe.

Pushing such idle thoughts aside, Sonja noticed that her feet had taken her to a stall that, amongst other things, sold cloaks. Why not, she thought - her current one was stained and worn, and becoming just a little bit rank. Idly she fingered a few of those on display, then became aware of an old man standing at her elbow, talking to her. She looked at him quizzically.

"…or perhaps this red one here. It is rich and fine and matches your hair. Come, try it…"

Sales talk, thought Sonja to herself - that's one thing that's the same from one end of the world to the other; but she obediently unfastened her tattered old cloak and laid it aside.

Ten feet away, Pelk was just a face in the crowd. He had been close to the woman for some moments now, but he hesitated. He was on the point of walking away - better to face Barak's scorn than the she-devil's fury - when he saw the Sonja remove her cloak. Pelk's breath caught in his throat; Sonja had her back to him, and the view was stunning. His eye was drawn in particular to a triangle of bright metal scales that covered the woman's rump without in any way concealing its form. Hades, thought Pelk; such an opportunity was worth the consequences. He walked briskly over to the woman, reached under the scales and gave a firm squeeze.

He was running for his life even as Red Sonja's scream of outrage pierced the air.

Pelk was thankful that he didn't have too far to run. He'd expected a spirited pursuit, but the sheer animal fury of the she-devil made his blood tremble. He didn't dare look behind him, but from the expressions on the faces of those he passed during his flight, he could tell that the red-headed warrior was gaining on him - and that she was brandishing a very sharp blade.

Pelk skidded round a corner, experiencing a moment of extreme terror when he thought his feet were slipping from under him. He raced down a narrow alleyway, across a seedy and rubbish-strewn square, and through the open gate of the courtyard of a house that had once been respectable but had since suffered years of neglect.

Intent on her quarry, Red Sonja ran into the trap. As she sprinted through the gate her legs were taken from under her. Even as she crashed onto the hard stone surface of the courtyard she realised what had happened. A rope had been stretched across the gateway and raised at the last second to trip her up; and now she was at the mercy of whatever ambush lay within. Stupid, stupid.

Sonja rolled with the fall but even so her sword flew from her grasp. She tried to scrabble towards it on her hands and knees, but a boot kicked it away; then another thudded into her ribs. Then they were on top of her - three of them, raining blows upon her. No weapons were used, and try as she might she couldn't manage to draw the dagger she wore strapped to her thigh. Nevertheless she struggled and fought with maniacal fury. She gouged and bit, and once drove her heel into something satisfyingly soft. For a moment she thought she would have the strength to deal with her attackers; but she became aware of a fourth person present - a large man who did not immediately join the struggle, but who closed the gate firmly before picking up some sort of cudgel and striding over to Sonja's writhing form. He looked down at her for a moment, then struck once.

The first thing Red Sonja realised as consciousness slowly returned was that her head was throbbing like fury; the second thing was that her mouth was as dry as dust, and that she had a raging thirst. Neither of these things came as a great surprise to her. Neither did the discovery, when she gently tried to move her arms, that her wrists were tied together behind her back. There was something round her left ankle, too - a chain, possibly.

She kept her eyes closed. It was important to gather her wits whilst her captors thought she was still out cold. Think. Her body ached in more places that she could count, but she had long practice in ignoring such distractions. Think. She'd never been to this town before - Castria, wasn't it? - so she couldn't have any enemies here. Not unless you counted those burghers she'd upset earlier, but surely no-one would take so much trouble over a loaf of bread. On the other hand, she had been recognised and there were many whose paths she'd crossed over the years who would pay handsomely to be revenged on her. Somebody wanted her alive, in any case.

Think. She strained her other senses. She was lying face-down on some straw that was far from clean. She was indoors. There was a lamp burning dimly, so it was probably dark outside. There was someone in the room watching her, so the chances were that the door wasn't locked.

"You're awake, I know you are." The voice was thin and reedy. Sonja gave no sign of having heard it.

"I know you can hear me. No? Please yourself. Lets freshen you up." Sonja heard someone get up and walk over to her. A stream of water was poured over her face. She sat up, sputtering. She also managed to swallow a mouthful which moistened her throat and made her feel a fraction more alive. It was a start. She opened her eyes. A small, ferret-faced man was leering at her with one eye. The other was closed by a purple swelling she assumed she'd given him.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Your worst nightmare."

"I doubt that. I mean, what's your name?"

"Pelk. Why?"

"Because I want to be able to find you later. You're the one I chased from the market."

"The one who groped your arse, you mean. Nice arse, by the way - very nice; I speak as a connoisseur. The others all wanted the job, of course, but I used my charm."

"You have all the charm of a diseased polecat."

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Funny man. Be sure that when I've finished with you even the crows won't want to peck at what's left." Sonja shifted her position slightly. The chain round her ankle clinked. It led away under the straw; she couldn't see what it was fastened to.

"You talk big, I'll say that for you. But you're the one who's lying in the straw, whereas I'm the man who - wait a moment. Yes, I'm the one who captured the mighty Red Sonja. Not entirely on my own, I admit; but I'm the one who ran the risk. Which, if the gossip is true, entitles me to a reward." Pelk paused to let his meaning sink in.

"Oho - I see that the gossip is true," Pelk continued as a look of horror spread across Sonja's face. "Well aren't I the lucky one?" he leered, staring hard at her. "I mean, your backside was fine enough; but those thighs - I reckon a fellow could find paradise between them."

Sonja backed away a little. "No, please…."

"Not so cocky now are you, you Hyrkanian bitch? Hey, I wonder if you're a natural red-head?"

"Please don't…I…'' Come on, you stupid runt - just a little closer.

Pelk was positively drooling as he crouched down by his victim and reached out a grubby hand. As he did so, however, Sonja jack-knifed her body violently. She had feared that the chain would prove restrictive, but there was just enough slack. Her legs arced through the air and wrapped themselves round Pelk's neck. Taken completely by surprise, he crashed to the floor. He clawed at the shapely limbs that were pressing against his windpipe, but Sonja locked her ankles together and squeezed.

"You're between my thighs now, you hideous worm; how do you like it?"

Fire. Smoke burning her eyes and making her choke. The smell of blood. Hands pawing at her. Waves of overwhelming terror. The sound of cloth being ripped….

Though Sonja was aware of Pelk's dying struggles, her spirit was far away, revisiting, as it frequently did when dealing with lustful men, that terrible day when she was a girl; when she'd screamed for her father though she knew he was dead; when she'd felt that terrible, indescribable pain; when she'd been left naked and weeping amidst the wreckage of her home and her life.

…an eldritch light; a voice calling her name…

Then she was brought shudderingly back to the present. There were voices about her, but they were strident and male. Hands were prising her ankles apart, and a purple-faced Pelk was being released from her tender attentions.

There were three other men in the room; lost in her thoughts, Sonja hadn't even heard them enter.

"What's been going on?" The questioner was a big man with an unkempt beard. Sonja recognised him as the one who'd laid her out - clearly he was the brains of the bunch. He addressed his enquiry to Pelk; but though, to Sonja's chagrin, the life hadn't quite been squeezed out of him, her admirer had not yet recovered the power of speech.

Sonja answered for him. "He expressed a desire to enter paradise. I was helping him on his way."

"What?" The big man span round. "Him? Paradise? There's more chance of …. Oh I see." He turned back to Pelk and kicked him viciously.

"Imbecile. What if she'd killed you? Not that anyone would be sorry to see the last of you, but if she'd got away because of your stupidity then you would've had to go a lot further than paradise to hide from me."

Pelk, whose face had faded from purple to puce, could only wheeze in reply.

"From now on keep your hands to yourself. And everything else."

Giving Pelk one last kick, Barak spoke to the other two members of his gang, who seemed to have neither names nor opinions, "Right, I've talked to the priest, and he's agreed our terms. But only if we deliver the woman intact - so that's what we're going to do. Tie her ankles, and find something to gag her with. And check that her arms are secure."

The two men said, "Yes, Barak," and obeyed.

VII

It was only a short distance to their destination, though since Sonja covered it wrapped in a blanket and hanging head-down over the back of a mangy donkey, it was not a journey she later looked back on with any fondness. As far as she could tell they'd left the confines of the town, and travelled a mile or two down some uneven track. Then, still enshrouded in the blanket, she was half-carried, half-dragged into a large, empty building where each footstep echoed up to a distant roof. She was deposited on the ground none too gently and the blanket was jerked away.

The building was indeed large and empty, and had clearly seen better days. One of the wooden walls bowed outwards alarmingly, and there were puddles here and there, which suggested that the roof no longer kept the rain out. What might once have been tapestries hung round the walls, but they were so stained and eaten with mildew that it was impossible to say what they had once depicted. A few lamps flickered and spat, but they were inadequate to the task, and much of the building remained in deep shadow. The smell of cheap incense was in air.

At one end of the room stood four figures in dirty brown robes. Priests, thought Sonja, which meant that this place was a temple of some sort. She wanted to spit, but the gag prevented her. Nothing good ever happened in a temple.

The priests approached. One of them - possibly the high priest, though he was dressed as shabbily as his fellows - regarded Sonja closely. "She is intact?"

"She is," replied Barak, removing the gag from Sonja's mouth. "Ask her."

The priest declined the invitation. "Bring her," he commanded. Sonja spat.

Barak and his companions picked their captive up again and followed the priest over to what appeared to be the temple's sole feature - a stone slab set on a wooden frame about three feet high. At each corner of the slab was fixed a rusty iron ring. There were dark stains on the stone, and on the floor about it.

Sonja swallowed; it didn't take any great effort of intellect to work out that she was looking at a sacrificial altar, or that she was about to play a key role in the forthcoming ceremony.

Sonja's eyes rolled in their sockets and her body went limp. Wait… It was clear that the priest required her spread-eagled on the altar, wrists and ankles lashed to the rings. In order to get her into that position, however, her current bonds would first have to be released. Wait… Barak seemed to consider the situation for a while before reaching the same conclusion. "Hold her," he ordered. He drew a small knife and cut the cord round her legs. There was no reaction from the woman, who seemed to have fainted. Wait… Letting out a sigh of relief, Barak freed her arms. As he did so Sonja lashed out with sudden and savage fury; kicking, punching and snarling. For a few moments it seemed that Barak's small group would not be enough to overpower her and Sonja felt a surge of triumph; but the high priest gestured to his acolytes and they joined the fray. Seven at once was too many even for the she-devil of the Hyrkanian steppes, though she continued to fight like a wild thing, determined to give her assailants something to remember her by.

"What's the matter?" Pelk sneered, a split lip added to his black eye. "Afraid to die?"

"If it means never having to meet the likes of you ever again," Sonja hissed, "then I'm quite looking forward to it. But in any case…" she broke off to sink her teeth into the wrist of one of the acolytes, tasting his blood, "…I'm not going to waste the chance to inflict a little pain on those who seek to misuse me."

Still struggling, Sonja was lifted onto the slab and ropes were threaded through the rings. In truth she was afraid. She had been afraid many times in her life, but there is a difference between being afraid and allowing it to show. Red Sonja had faced many perils in many lands; but always her pride had proved stronger than her fear. She'd always known that one day she would experience defeat and a bloody death; but was determined to meet that end defiantly, and to keep fighting to the very last.

At length she was secured on the altar, but one pair of hands - Pelk, they had to belong to Pelk - lingered unnecessarily on her body. The high priest slapped them away.

"Enough!"

"If you say so. You must admit that she looks tasty, though."

"Silence! She is the property of Anak now." Then, leaning over Sonja's prone form, he continued in a quieter tone, "You need have no fear; we are a celibate order. You will go on your journey - unsullied."

Sonja gave a snort of derision. "Nice of you to be so concerned, seeing that you're about to kill me."

"Death is but a journey. You are about to be accorded a great honour."

"You'll forgive me if I don't see it like that."

"You will, you will - for this night you will sit at the right hand of the Great God Anak."

"Never heard of him." It was meant as an insult, but the priest didn't seem to take offence.

"Perhaps not; the voice of Anak has been little heard in this land for many lives of men. Once his worship was clamorous and profound, and many temples - of which this was the least - were dedicated to his glory. But other gods - lesser gods - heard, and were jealous. They seduced Anak's people with their deceits and trickeries, and turned them away from the true faith. Anak was displeased, and fell silent.

"But he has not been forgotten. A few, a faithful few, have kept him in their hearts…"

The priest spoke at some length, but Sonja stopped listening. The man was clearly mad. Most priests are, but this one outdid all others as he worked himself into a frenzy. Within a few minutes has voice was raging, and his arms flailed in extravagant gestures. Spittle was flying from the corners of his mouth, and his eyes were burning with a fanatical ecstasy. Then he said something that made her pay attention again.

"…a virgin sacrifice - a mighty warrior…"

He stopped suddenly. The woman on the altar was laughing.

All eyes turned to her. "I'm sorry," she said, without sounding the least apologetic, "I didn't mean to interrupt. But you did say 'virgin' didn't you?"

"Anak demands a virgin sacrifice. We have sent him others, but they were small fare - slaves and runaways - and they did not please him greatly. But you, who have walked the paths of fame and renown; you will surely be welcomed by him; and he will reward his servants."

"Except for one thing. I don't qualify."

"Qualify?"

"I'm not a virgin."

VIII

Sonja's revelation was met with a moment of stunned silence, then everyone started talking at once. With an effort, Barak made his voice heard.

"Of course you're a virgin; you're famous for it. You walk the Earth half-naked, but if any man so much as winks at you, you spill his guts. 'No man may have me,' you say, 'unless he can first defeat me.' It's said you'll never give up your maidenhood."

"I didn't give it up," Sonja spat, "I had it taken from me. The day my home was burned to the ground. The day my family was murdered. The day I took up the sword and swore to dedicate the rest of my life to ridding the world of vermin like you."

There was another pause, then Pelk, who seemed to be the only one enjoying the situation, turned to the high priest. "Better luck next time, eh? But if she's no use to you, I'm sure the rest of us can find something to do with her." His suggestion was met with cold stares from everyone else present.

"No…." said the high priest who had clearly been pondering deeply, "I think this woman is still a fitting offering to Anak. The events of her girlhood were long ago; and by the strength of her vow she has made herself - qualified. Yes, I think she will serve very well." Pelk made a show of his disappointment.

"Now leave," the priest said to Barak and his fellows. "The ceremony is not for the eyes of the uninitiated."

"What about the money?" Barak asked.

The high priest regarded him distastefully, then produced a leather pouch which he tossed at Barak's feet. "There. Now be gone."

Barak picked up the pouch, juggled it in his hand a couple of times to gauge its weight, then led his gang away.

"But I wanted to see the fun."

"Shut up, Pelk. I need a drink."

"And I thought they always sacrificed virgins naked. That would've been worth seeing."

"Shut up, I said."

"Couldn't we just ask for the armour as a souvenir?"

"Pelk, if you don't shut your mouth this second, I'm going to rip your head off and use it for…" They were still bickering as the door closed behind them.

As it did so, the high priest began to chant in a strange tongue. The acolytes hummed some sort of harmony, and occasionally echoed their leader's words. There was much kneeling and grovelling and the raising of arms in suppliant gestures towards the gloomy eaves.

Then the high priest turned to the altar and produced a long knife which he raised on high.

"Call that a sacrificial dagger?" Sonja asked him. "I've seen more impressive things in a doss-house kitchen." Defiant to the last, she told herself; defiant to the last.

But the crucial point of the ceremony had evidently not yet been reached. The priest lowered his blade, and he and his fellows embarked on another round of chanting. It went on for some time.

The smoke from the incense grew thicker, irritating Sonja's throat. She coughed. No wait, that wasn't incense; it was fire - a big fire - a building on fire. Yes, her mind was back on the steppes again.

Good, she thought. What could be more fitting? She should've died with them years ago.

Sonja closed her eyes and sought to focus her thoughts inwards. She tried to reach beyond the destruction of her home to older and happier memories. Of watching her father sharpening his sword; of chasing her brothers round the farmyard; of the lullabies her mother used to sing to her.

But the memories wouldn't come; there was just the smoke, and the growing sound of the flames, and the shouts of panic and …

Sweet Mithra! This was no memory or vision; this was - she opened her eyes again - the here and now. The temple of Anak was ablaze! She twisted her head back and forth; there was fire all around. The ancient tapestries were going up one after another, and there was a burning pool of oil spreading across the floor. A red glow from up above suggested that sparks had reached the roof supports, and that the temple was doomed. Sonja saw the acolytes trying to stamp out the flames; then one of them shouted in alarm when he realised that the hem of his robe was alight. His devotion failed him and he ran panic-stricken for the door, closely followed by his two companions. The high priest called after them but they didn't heed him. The interior of the temple grew hotter and hotter.

The priest turned back to the altar, the light of the fire reflecting in his wild and bulging eyes, making him look like something from the pit. He grasped the dagger with both hands, raised it high over his head - then slowly lowered it again. He was torn, seemingly, between the need to send his gift to Anak, and his desire to finish the ritual first.

Sonja was surprised at how calm and lucid she felt. Far better, she thought, to die from a knife in her guts than to be roasted alive. She looked up at the priest. "Get on with it."

The priest gave Sonja an unearthly smile and raised the knife again. Then what looked like a baulk of timber fell from the roof above and struck the priest on the head. He fell senseless, the knife clattering away across the floor.

The flames burned higher, the pool of oil crept nearer; and now Red Sonja was alone, with no-one from whom she needed to hide her fear. She struggled and twisted, heaving at her bonds; but though everything else around her was crumbling and decayed, the ropes that secured her were new and strong. The heat was intense, and was absorbed by the metal scales of her armour, which began to burn the flesh beneath.

Sonja's struggles redoubled, but in vain. Her face bore an expression of genuine terror. No, Great Tarim; not like this. Afterwards, she was never sure whether she'd uttered that last thought aloud.

"Hold still, or I can't cut you free."

Totally dumbstruck, it was some moments before Sonja realised that she wasn't hallucinating and that there really was a figure sawing at the ropes round her ankles; it wasn't until he moved to free her arms that she recognised the boy from the market place.

"How did you get here?" she asked him, incredulous.

"I saw you chasing Pelk. I followed you. I can sneak in anywhere."

"And you started the fire?"

"There was a barrel of lamp oil back there. And this." He held up something that might once have been a

ceremonial staff. "I hit the priest with it."

So it hadn't been a falling roof timber. "Well, I have much to thank you for, it seems," Sonja said, rubbing at her wrists absently. "And you can be sure that I pay my debts… what are you doing?"

The boy was tugging at one of Sonja's arms. "Come on," he said urgently, "we need to get out of here."

Sonja forced her jumbled wits back into place. "Yes, you're right -"

She took a few steps towards the exit, but then there came a groan. Sonja looked behind her to see that the high priest was coming round. He rose unsteadily to his feet. Sonja turned back.

"Come on!" the boy shouted.

"You go - I've got something to finish here." The boy hesitated for a second, then sprinted off.

"Wait - what's your name?" Sonja shouted after him, but once again the boy was gone.

Alone in the middle of the burning temple, Sonja and the priest faced each other. A section of the wall collapsed, setting up a shower of sparks, but neither took any notice. The priest's eyes were wild; Sonja's were cold. The priest had retrieved his dagger, with which he gesticulated wildly.

"All glory to Anak," he screamed. Then he lunged.

Sonja's response was almost casual. She swayed her hips slightly so that the point went past her; she grabbed hold of the priest's wrist; she gave his arm a twist, brought up her knee - and the priest lay in a heap at her feet.

"You said something earlier about being a celibate order," Sonja remarked, "and that your God places a great value on virgins."

As she left the blazing temple, Sonja wondered if the Great God Anak had been pleased with his unconventional sacrifice.

Two days later the good people of Castria awoke to a grisly sight. Scattered in the courtyard of a run-down house near the market-place were five severed human heads. Two more were mounted prominently atop the gateposts. Their features were contorted and bloody, but still recognisable as having belonged to two well-known local rogues - Barak and Pelk.