Pilgrim saw Priest begin to writhe in his coverings, whimpering now as his features contorted. “Tell me, ” the shade urged, a sheen of frost appearing on Priest’s skin as it loomed closer. “Tell me and I will join with you. Tell me and carry me forth from this place… ”

A sudden upsurge of whispers drew Pilgrim’s gaze to the dunes where more dust was rising, the breeze outlining yet more figures, warriors all, shades drawn by the hunger of this long-forgotten axe wielder.

“Leave him be,” Pilgrim said.

The spectre ignored him, Priest’s face taking on a blue tinge as the air surrounding him grew ever more chill. His lips began to open, drawing back from his teeth in a reluctant grimace as he began to voice a word and Pilgrim had little doubt what it would be.

“Leave him!” He surged to his feet, the sword slipping free of the scabbard to slash at the spectre’s vague shadow. It didn’t try to evade him, apparently seeing little threat in mortal steel, and only realising its mistake as the blade’s touch cut into its soul as easily as it did living flesh.

A blast of cold air whipped at Pilgrim as the shade of Bulvar the Axe screamed and recoiled. The babble of the others ceased instantly, as did their progress across the dunes. He heard only one voice raised, hushed and riven with terror. “A demon-cursed blade .”

“These people are under my protection,” Pilgrim said, pointing the sword at the encircling shades as he revolved in a slow pirouette.

“We wish only release! ” the axe wielder cried. The wind rose once more, revealing him again, now huddled and shrunken on his knees. However mighty he had been in life, he was pathetic in death. “We came for glory and eternal misery is our only reward! ”

“You came for plunder,” Pilgrim said. “You came for havoc. You came for rape. You came for slaughter. Your fate is deserved. Bleat at me no more.” He levelled the blade at Bulvar. “Or feel the touch of this again.”

When the spectre failed to flee he lunged at it, the sword scything through the dust left in its wake as it streaked away. Pilgrim turned the blade on the other shades, laying about as he moved across the ash, the sword moving with unnatural swiftness to shatter their circle and transform their whispers into shrieks. Soon he and his slumbering companions were alone on the sands.

I did not enjoy that , the voice informed him in a curt tone, sending a pulse of hot anger through the handle as he slid it back into the scabbard. The taste of death cannot be savoured. Need I remind you…