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withdrawal she cut the other horn-mask’s bloated belly open, splashing his guts all over the floor. She danced back-to-back with Gap Tooth Tims, glad he was still alive, and put one rapier point through a horn-masked spearman’s eye even as she drove her point dagger into another’s groin. The horn-mask screamed at her for his ruined manhood, and she kicked him full in the face, sending him flying back through the air.
    Bodies were dropping left and right, and Guilford could hear that terrible chanting, but he could also hear a voice in the back of his head: you’re going to make it . Smitt went down trying to hold his guts in somewhere on his left, but Guilford could see the Stick still fighting to his right, and he caught flashes of Erim and Gap Tooth fighting back to back, and he marveled for a moment. We’re going to make it. He smashed the rim of his shield into one of the devil-worshipper’s faces, feeling skull and flesh crumple underneath the blow, and brought his broadsword down in a long arc onto another man’s shoulder, almost cutting him lengthwise in two.
    Then he saw her. A woman emerging in the dark from behind the last of the swarm, a giant vulture-head mask on her face; she was topless, a black feathered cloak about her, a shimmering black metal dress around her legs as she swayed in a ritual trance, in a full-throated chant, and now Guilford could just about make out the words, though he didn’t understand them: “ Sseniss huthadde, Bharabazzhi. Venai. Venai. Festa hus gobblin gaspa, Bharabazzhi. Venai. Venai! ”
    Guilford smashed a horn-masked cultist aside, and dropped his broadsword. He reached down for a barbed spear lying on the floor, picked it up, and hefted it once. “King of Heaven, guide my throw!” he whispered, and then he hurled the barbed spear across the room at the priestess, catching her full in the chest. Her chant ended abruptly as she went flying backwards with a wet thud.
    It was suddenly quiet again, except for the heavy breathing of tired men and the moans of the dying.
    Guilford looked around. Gap Tooth and Erim were all that were left standing, and Gap Tooth was wobbling, blood soaking the breeches of his right leg; they looked at each other, then at the carnage around them, panting, weapons streaked in blood. Well, not all that were left standing; Guilford glanced over to where he’d last seen the Stick, and for a moment he was confused by what he saw until he realized that the tall man had been decapitated, his head nowhere to be seen, the body still standing upright and swaying.
    And then the Stick’s body fell over.
    Guilford knelt down and picked up his broadsword. He picked his way through the bodies, some still and silent, others quivering and moaning, over to where the priestess of the Nameless Cults lay. Her body was shaking; she was still alive, despite the barbed spear springing upright from her chest. He looked down dispassionately and noted that her body was beautiful, with pale alabaster skin, a flat stomach, curved hips, and firm full breasts with pierced nipples; now ruined by the spear plunged through her center. He’d probably missed her heart by an inch or two, but there was no doubt she’d be dead soon. He could hear her trying to say something, whispering to herself in a strained gurgle. He used the point of his sword to tip her vulture-headed mask off and grimaced. Her body might have been beautiful, but it was a hideous, almost deformed face that looked up at him with hate-filled eyes, hate-filled eyes that had an oddly insane look of triumph about them. She grinned and bared her filed and sharpened teeth, and then coughed blood, still trying to say something. He thought for a second she was laughing at him, though he had no idea what she would have thought funny about a spear through the chest.
    â€œFucking hill people,” he muttered to no one in particular, then raised his voice to a shout.