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Keeper of slaves. Dweller in towers.’ The gathered mass of acolytes tittered at the joke. ‘Your plans are known to us. Your intentions clear. As self-professed Guardian of the Codex of Valac you would presume to leech us of power. To use us, our entire order, as a sacrifice to your weak master.’
    The congregation muttered disapprovingly. It was as though they sat in judgement of the Earl as he lay trussed to the altar, a jury of a hundred robed acolytes, baying only for blood. Castor doubted there would be any clemency.
    ‘How could you ever presume to overcome us in the service of such an inferior eidolon as President Valac? How could you hope to defeat us, when you are but few, and we are Legion!’
    At his words the hooded mass began to chant louder, a buzz of forbidden words, both mundane and demonic. It was all Castor could do not to join in, but his own task was more important. The Earl had to be held steady. Despite the chains that shackled him he was still able to struggle, and the High Priest’s aim must be true. With his two brothers, Castor pressed the Earl down on the hard stone.
    ‘This foul tome must be consigned to the flames,’ said the High Priest, his voice growing feverish and harsh. With that he flung the heavy book into the fire pit. The flames leapt up, hungry to consume the leather cover and ancient leaves, flickering higher in a frenzy of carmine light.
    The High Priest stepped towards the altar, reaching within one gaping sleeve and producing a wickedly curved dagger. At the sight of the blade the Earl’s eyes widened and he began to scream anew, but his words were lost behind the gag, now moist with his spittle. His body writhed, straining against the chains that bound him, but it was little use. Castor pressed down, feeling the Earl’s thin ribs beneath his taught flesh. Beuphalus had little strength left and his final attempt at resistance subsided into muffled sobs.
    Echoing chants resounded around the hall, and it became almost deafening. The acolytes brayed as one, their resounding voices seeming as a single call. But then, that was the point.
    With a deft stroke, the High Priest brought the dagger down, its point easily piercing the Earl’s sternum. Castor could hear the crack of bone as the High Priest deftly twisted the blade, splitting the flesh and cracking the rib cage apart.
    Beuphalus went limp.
    Expertly, the High Priest wielded the curved dagger, drawing the flesh apart and prising open the Earl’s chest. Long, deft fingers searched keenly within the cavity as the razor sharp blade cut away sinew and cartilage, until finally his hand reappeared, holding the Earl of Westowe’s moist, red heart.
    Castor could see a stream of blood beginning to flow from the body, now still beneath his hands. It pooled in gutters carved into the stone, its flow guided to small holes that would channel the still warm lifeblood from the altar. His eye followed the trail as it led between his legs, running fast to gather within a pattern carved in the marble floor. As the blood began to pool within the carved sigil it became clearer. The red stood in contrast to the light grey marble, marking out the sign of Legion, his score of limbs spreading wide, his thousand eyes staring, seeing all.
    Looking back to his High Priest, Castor saw that the figurehead of the Cult of Legion was standing in triumph, holding aloft his enemy’s heart, allowing the blood to run down his arm in streams.
    With a flick of his wrist, the High Priest sent the heart spinning into the fire pit. This time the flames grew even higher than when they had consumed the infernal codex. It was like oil had been flung on the flames, giving them an almost lifelike vigour. All at once the chanting stopped and silence fell over the hall.
    ‘Legion!’ cried the High Priest. ‘We offer the heart of your enemy, and we ask for your boon that we may better effectuate your needs. We await our benefaction that your glory might once more