‘We should visit that monastery,’ Cutter said. ‘Make use of the well, and if there’s any foodstuffs—’ ‘They’re all dead,’ Heboric croaked. Cutter studied the old man, then grunted. ‘Explains the vultures. But we still need water.’ The Destriant of Treach gave him an unpleasant smile. Cutter understood the meaning of that smile. He was becoming heartless, inured to the myriad horrors of this world. A monastery filled with dead priests and priestesses was as … nothing. And the old man could see it, could see into him. His new god is the Tiger of Summer, Lord of War. Heboric Ghost Hands, the High
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