an open vessel. Then they had baited the trap. Bennifren had hoped to use the Godslayer’s seed, but other humours served just as well, especially blood.
And scent was scent.
All that remained was to discover if their prey had been woken enough, stirred enough. Their brethren had been slaughtered, twelve in all, screaming in agony. Surely those on high had stopped their ageless dreaming long enough to turn their faces down toward Myrillia. Surely they would send one of their own, drawn by the scent of the murderer.
Bennifren found it amusing that the Cabal sought to pit man against man or god against god. For the Wyr’s goal, though, a larger game needed to be played, one with levels of intrigue that stretched across ages, on all sides of the field. It had required a manipulation of both shadowknight and Cabal, of ravening rogue and calculating god. Even the lives of many of the Wyr had been spent to hide the design, buried under bodies and blood, a carefully crafted game of lies and false trails-all for one reason.
To slay a god. And not just one god.
The Godslayer had proven his name so well.
A dozen rogues. A dozen deaths.
All to wake the sleepers above.
Surely those blessed with Bright Grace, undisturbed for so long, noted their brethren flickering out, torn from their midst, torn from the aether.
But had it been enough? Had they come? Had they accepted the Wyr’s hollowed vessel?
The witch stepped away from the tent, holding back the flap.
A naked figure stumbled out, bronze-skinned, black-haired, and long of limb. The hinter-king. His torso had been split down the middle, from groin to collar, and burnt back together, sealing what had been captured within, a trap of flesh.
Bennifren urged his milk mare forward. He waited in the sun as the hinter-king stepped out of the shadows and into the light. The king’s face lifted skyward, perhaps searching from whence he had come, perhaps merely enjoying the last rays of the sun on his face.
“Welcome to Myrillia,” Bennifren said. “Do you know what you must do?”
Sky blue eyes lowered to him, shining with an azure Grace. The words issued from on high, dreadful with certainty.
“LET THEM ALL BURN…”
