and I. Killing, whether with natural or supernatural weapons, is still killing.
You are no better than I.’
‘Assuredly not, except that I will outlive you. And I will make sure you do not
get your requisite burial ritual.’
‘You would not!’
‘Like you said, I yet bear my grudge – against every one of you.’
With a curse that made the ranks clap their hands to their helmeted ears, the
archmage swished into the street, across it, and through the door marked ‘Men’
without another word. It was his motioned command which made the troops follow.
A waitress Tempus knew came out when the gibbous moon was high, to ask him if he
was hungry. She brought him fish and he ate it, watching the doors.
When he had just about finished, a terrible rumble crawled up the street,
tremors following in its wake. He slid from his horse and held its muzzle, and
the reins up under its bit. The doors of Vashanka’s Weaponshop grew shimmery,
began taking colour. Above, the moon went behind a cloud. The little dome on
the” shop rocked, grew cracks, crazed, steamed. The doors were ruby red, and
melting. Awful wails and screams and the smell of sulphur and ozone filled the
night.
Patrons began streaming out of the Vulgar Unicorn, drinks in hand. They stayed
well back from the rocking building, which howled as it stressed larger, growing
turgid, effluescing spectrums which sheeted and snapped and snarled. The doors
went molten white, then they were gone. A figure was limned in the left-hand
doorway, and it was trying to climb empty air. It flamed and screeched, dancing,