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prayed to you—to all of you—and never received a sign. I know that I’m no great visionary—not like the oracle in Spern—”
    “That oracle is a madman and a liar.”
    “What?” He almost cried out “Heretic!” but caught himself. This was a god, a god of war no less. What was he thinking to challenge the god of war? Though his voice cracked, Slyur managed to say, “Is-is he? Well.”
    “Yes. But we tolerate him, knowing that he can’t help what he is. He believes that he speaks with us. As do you, Slyur.” He laughed, a sound to churn bowels. “Nonetheless, disbelieve anything that fool tells you.”
    “I will, yes,” replied the Hespet. But he was recalling how that oracle had foretold of a great and frightening power that was soon to cross Slyur’s path. That had been a matter of months before Chagri appeared to him, shortly after the plague of Trufege.
    “So, a child frightened you—ha, you mortals …”
    “She looked into my mind! She knew her sister would die.”
    “Of course she did. She’s the other’s twin. Or,” added the silvery figure, “is it witchcraft you suspect her of?”
    “Witchcraft? Preposterous.” He could not help himself from going on. “There are no witches! It’s all fabrication.”
    Chagri smiled blackly. “Come, come. We know better, you and I. We know what’s in your soul. You believe in witches like most people believe the sun will come up, so deeply is it carved in you that you don’t even have to think. How much of you is witch, do you know?”
    The priest had grown pale. His teeth drew blood on his lower lip.
    “Don’t worry, Slyur. What matter is it to me? I have more important business with you. The gods wish to act on your mortal plane once more, Slyur. Your king is dead, murdered—an act so detestable that even the gods loathe it and cannot sit still. You represent us. I’ve chosen you to act for us.”
    “Of course. What would you have me do?” He stiffened proudly, so overcome at the honor that he scarcely considered what the request might be.
    “It’s a simple thing. The priest you have placed in Trufege …”
    “The one you told me to dispatch there.”
    “I want you to send a message to him to gather the people of his town together and lead them to Ukobachia.”
    “To the … witches?”
    “Precisely. To the witches.”
    “Why, lord?”
    “Because the Kobachs slew your king.”
    It was a moment before the impact of this hit Slyur. Then he cried out, “But that’s not possible, they—”
    “You argue with me?!” A sizzling skeletal hand emerged from the glowing figure, reached across the coach and grabbed Slyur’s empty wrist. Pain shot through the priest and he shrieked and flailed his arm until he had jerked free. He closed his good hand over the heavily scarred stump.
    “I am Chagri, Slyur, and you would do well to reacquaint yourself with that. I speak for all the gods. And you will obey me.”
    Slyur bowed his head. “Of course. I didn’t mean—it was the surprise.”
    “Surprise … if you’d think for yourself you’d know the king’s death was no act of common assassins. It was unnatural.”
    Slyur tucked his throbbing wrist beneath his robe. “But how would I know that? The men sent by Cheybal haven’t returned with the body yet. There’s no way for me to know. I’ve heard the report from the survivor, no more than that —”
    “—who mentioned soldiers that couldn’t be killed.”
    “He was out of his head. Feverish.”
    “He was not!”   The god’s armor smoldered. The light it cast off intensified, and Slyur protectively averted his face and closed his eyes. His throat creaked.
    “He spoke the truth,” said the god. “Right at this moment, the body of Dekür is in Atlarma. Go look at it, see for yourself. You’ll send out your messenger. I know you’ll want to. I know what—as a favor to you, Slyur—tell one of your escorts to go back to that farm. Have the child brought to my temple and