Whichever, there was nothing left to say.
5
When he reached the Weaponshop, his leg hardly pained him. It was numb; it no
longer throbbed. It would heal flawlessly, as any wound he took always healed.
Tempus hated it.
Up to the Weaponshop’s door he strode, as the dawn spilled gore onto Sanctuary’s
alleys.
He kicked it; it opened wide. How he despised supernal battle, and himself when
his preternatural abilities came into play.
‘Hear me, Vashanka! I have had enough! Get this sidewalk stand out of here!’
There was no answer. Within, everything was dim as dusk, dim as the pit of
unknowingness which spawned day and night and endless striving.
There were no weapons here for him to see, no counter, no proprietor, no rack of
armaments pulsing and humming expectantly. But then, he already had his. One to
a customer was the rule: one body; one mind; one swing through life.
He trod mists tarnished like the grey horse’s coat. He trod a long corridor with
light at its ending, pink like new beginnings, pink like his iron sword when
Vashanka lifted it by Tempus’s hand. He shied away from his duality; a man does
not look closely at a curse of his own choosing. He was what he was, vessel of
his god. But he had his own body, and that particular body was aching; and he
had his own mind, and that particular mind was dank and dark like the dusk and
the dusty death he dealt.
‘Where are You, Vashanka, 0 Slaughter Lord?’
Right here, resounded the voice within his head. But Tempus was not going to
listen to any internal voice. Tempus wanted confrontation.