trapped,"
replied the
Shaman. "I say
we go in with weapons
armed," said
Weasel-Fierce
from
behind them.
"If
we
find
foes,
we
burn
them."
"Suppose
they
think
the
same?
The
soot
and
filth
give
the
place
an
Orkish look."
said
Lame
Bear.
He
had
been scouting
further
along
the
crest.
"No
Ork
ever
put
stone on
stone
like
that." countered
Two Heads
Talking. "That
is
human
workmanship."
"It
is
not
the
work
of
the
People."
said
Cloud
Runner.
"Those
barracks
are a hundred
times the
size
of
a
lodgehouse
and
built
of
brick."
"There
is
only
one
way
to
find
out anything."
said
Two Heads
Talking. "One of us
must visit the
city."
* * *
The warriors nodded
assent.
Each tapped
a scar-tattoo
to
indicate
that
he
volunteered.
Two
Heads
Talking
shook
his head.
"I
must
go.
The
spirits
will
shield
me."
Cloud
Runner
saw
the
rest
of
the
warriors
look
at
him
to
see
what
his decision
would
be.
As
Captain.
he
could
overrule
the
Librarian.
He
looked
at
the
city,
then
at
the
Shaman standing quiet
and
proud
before him. A sensation
of emptiness,
of futility came over him. His people,
his village had
gone.
"As
you
wish. Lord Shaman. Speak to the
spirits
and
seek their aid." he said, giving the
ancient
ritual
answer.
"Bloody Moon's
squad
will
remain
here
to
watch
over
you.
The
rest
of
us
will
take
Deathwing
and
seek
out
any
surviving lodgetowns."
* * *
Night fell as
Two Heads
Talking completed his preparations.
He laid the
four rune etched
skulls of his predecessors
on the
ground about
him. Each faced
one
of
the
cardinal points
of
the
compass
and
watched
over
an
approach
from
the spirit realm.
He
lit
a
small
bonfire
in
the
deep
hollow,
cast
a
handful
of
herbs
on
the
fire
and
breathed
in
deeply.
He touched
the ceremonial
winged
skull
on
his
chest-piece
and
then
the death's
head
inlaid
on
his
belt.
Lastly,
he
prayed
to
the Emperor, tamer of thunderbirds
and
beacon
of
the
soul
path,
to
watch
over
him
as
he
made
magic.
Then
he
began
to chant.
The
fumes from
the
herbs
filled
his
lungs.
He
seemed
to
rise
above
his
body
and
look
down
upon
it.
The
other Terminators backed
away from the
spirit
circle.
A
chill
stole
over
him,
and
life
leeched
away
until
he
was
close
to
the edge
of death.
Great sobs
wracked his body.
but
he mastered
himself and continued
with the
ritual.
He stood
in a cold shadowy
place. He sensed
chill white
presences
at
the
edge
of
his
perception,
clammy
as
mist
and cold as
the
gravemound. Above
him he could
hear the
beating
of mighty pinions
from where Deathwing.
the
Emperor's steed
and
bearer of the souls
of the
slain, hovered.
The Shaman talked with the presences,
made pacts
that bound
them to his service
and
rewarded them with a portion
of his strength.
He sensed
the
hungry
spirits
surge
around
him.
ready
to
shield
him
from
sight,
to
cloud
the
eyes
of
any who might look upon
him, causing
them to see
only a friendly being.
He walked from the
circle, past
the
watching
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