enough to bear a man skyward. ‘How?’ Sageous gargled blood now, spilling it down his chin with the word. The sword withdrew and a head unbowed, rising above the heathen, a face as proud and inhuman as those wrought in marble upon statues of Greek gods or Roman emperors. ‘He is of the light.’ And in a flash the blade took the heathen’s head, shearing through his neck as a scythe takes grass.
