The stench of daemons was strongest at a fissure barely twenty paces from the monument. The jagged tear in the ground was no more than a few yards deep, and stained by their corrupt touch. He stood over the rent, unmindful of the distant shrieks that shuddered up through the ground. It took one as strong as He to notice them at all; no mortal would ever be so attuned to the Land, not even the strongest of witches.

He did not speak. He had no words for the dead, or the deed – it was done now, and He was all too aware of the damage done by revenge. Instead He reached out His bone-white arms out into the night. In His left was a double-headed spear studded with glinting gems; the right was empty. The air seemed to contract and reel around Him, though His robe was barely ruffled by the assault, and when the spear cut an arc through the air the darkness was beaten back.

He grabbed with His free hand, which closed about a spitting thread of light. The night boiled off the thread like black smoke, but He ignored it, and twice more grabbed at thin air, each time capturing a new thread, a slightly different tint, in His fist. The empty black cowl regarded the three threads for a while as He stared intently at His catch.

Then, with shocking speed, He spun about and swung with the flat of the spear at the darkness behind. A momentary burst of light tore through the gloom and a fourth thread appeared. This too was scrutinised, but no further violence was required. He jerked the threads closer, and as he tugged, almost carelessly, four figures from the empty night air appeared to cower and stagger before Him.

A hump-backed wolf cringed from His presence, squirming on its belly over the blood-soaked ground until it reached His side. The others came less easily, but by the force of His will He dragged them close and wrapped the threads around the spear shaft. He ran a long, bony finger over each, and the newcomers flinched as though they had been struck, then stood still, finally resigned to their fates.