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he shook his head and backed away from Castor’s brothers as they entered the cell, but there was nowhere for him to go. As the robed figures reached out for him, Beuphalus began to whine and mewl like a puppy being gelded. All the pity Castor might have felt for the man suddenly vanished. This was a Highborn noble of House Westowe. Where was the dignity he had been taught to expect from such aristocrats? Besides that, this man was also a prominent member of Valac’s coterie. Where was the fearless edge, the arrogance in the face of the enemy? Castor knew for a fact that were the tables turned he would be sure to give a much more august account of himself.
    The acolytes deftly bound the Earl’s hands and secured a gag to his mouth. It served to muffle the pitiful grousing somewhat, but Beuphalus still managed to make an annoyingly loud racket. Castor led the way as they dragged their prisoner back along the corridor, through the tunnel of flickering light.
    When they reached the end, Castor could hear that the chanting had already started. Butterflies began to beat gossamer wings within his stomach as he mounted the stone stairs to the upper sanctum. Near the summit, the bright yellow light from the corridor’s torches mixed with that of a thousand crimson votive candles, throwing an odd titian hue against the walls. As he stepped out into the huge red-lit hall, a hundred hooded heads turned to greet him.
    Beuphalus was dragged up behind, and when he saw what awaited him he began to scream behind his gag. The sound was truly awful, and must have caused the Earl great pain, but the congregation gave no response.
    The sanctum rose high, a hundred feet, perhaps more, Castor could not really tell. It was bare but for the four-foot altar that rose in its centre and the pit of fire that stood to one side. Lining the walls, standing on racks reaching almost to the ceiling, were thousands of scarlet candles, giving off a baleful light. Even the glow of the fire pit seemed to burn an angry red.
    Castor stood, his brothers holding Beuphalus between them, waiting for the High Priest to appear. They did not have to wait long.
    From a dark alcove to the north of the hall strode a tall, thin figure. He was adorned in satin, just like the other brothers present, but the robes he wore were black as ebon and his face was not hidden by the shadow of his cowl. A burnished bronze mask adorned his head, at once beautiful and grotesque. Its edges were sharp, splaying outwards like a sunburst and wickedly pointed. There was no mouthpiece but the nostril and eyeholes were like slits; lacerations in a face of evil. From within the sharp eyeholes burned two blue orbs, intense and focused. Castor could see those eyes even from this distance, and it made him shiver.
    The High Priest paced slowly to the altar, and with one long arm, beckoned his acolytes to bow. This they did, humming as one as they stooped towards the altar, accompanied by the sighing sound of a hundred satin robes moving as one. Castor took this as his signal, and led his brothers as they dragged Beuphalus towards the altar.
    To his credit, the Earl seemed to realise that his end was near, and chose this moment to begin a valiant struggle. Alas, his resistance was for naught – the acolytes chosen to bear him forth were not selected for their weakness of arm. Strong hands held on tight to him, and the squeak of bare feet being dragged on the polished marble floor made Castor smile within the shadow of his hood.
    As the Earl was shackled tightly to the stone altar, the High Priest held out one of his arms in silent demand. A hooded acolyte shuffled forward, his head bowed, holding out a worn leather tome, which the High Priest grasped in a claw-like hand and held aloft for all to see.
    ‘Earl Beuphalus of House Westowe,’ the High Priest began. His voice was distorted behind his mask, but his words remained clear, echoing throughout the massive hall. ‘Heir to vast fortunes.