Trull Sengar picked his way across the killing field. The rain was turning the churned ground into a swamp. The bones of the sorcery had vanished. He paused, hearing piteous cries from somewhere off to his right. A dozen paces in that direction, and he came upon a demon. Four heavy quarrels had pierced it. The creature was lying on its side, its bestial face twisted with pain. Trull crouched near the demon’s mud-smeared head. ‘Can you understand me?’ Small blue eyes flickered behind the lids, fixed on his own eyes. ‘Arbiter of life. Denier of mercy. I shall die here.’ The voice was thin,
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