Acir finished reading his report aloud to the Grand Maistre and stood waiting for his response.

After several moments’ silence, Girim looked up.

‘I’m afraid I must disagree with you. I smell dissent. I want those men interrogated.’

Acir was still shaken after the morning’s events. He had spent all afternoon trying to find details of the whereabouts of the dead Sanctuaree’s family. No one seemed to know – or maybe to want to tell him. If his sources were correct, Gualtier Tomasin’s wife had fled the capital to her parents’ farm on the plain of Dniera. A messenger had been sent bearing the terse report of 137’s death. Acir had wanted to go himself but had been denied permission.

The whole business disgusted him.

‘I can’t see that interrogation – torture – will be of any use. Under extreme duress men will say anything.’

Girim rose from his desk and came over to him.

‘I know you are saying this for the very best of reasons, Acir. But these unbelievers are subtle. Can’t you see what they are doing to you? Take a firm line with them. Force is the only thing they understand.’

‘But why can we not co-exist with those who wish to follow their own beliefs? Why must we use force?’

‘These liberal ideas are the flowers lining the way to the pit of despair. Exotically beautiful, alluring – but to breathe their scent is to breathe a deadly poison. Why else did Mhir call the path of righteousness the “Path of Thorns”? It was never an easy path.’

For years Acir had followed Mhir’s banner, followed the Thorny Path, strong in the belief that it led to the realisation of a dream: Girim’s dream, the dream he had shared.

‘Look, Acir.’ Girim drew back the heavy curtains. ‘Look at the city.’

In the blue twilight, lights glimmered in windows, street lights illuminated squares and boulevards. An inky lake filled with a myriad reflected star-shards.

City of a Million Lights.

‘We have carried Mhir’s banner back to his city. We have set up his standard so that all may know this is his Holy city. Now we must ensure all is in readiness for His coming.’

Acir stared out unseeing at the starry lights of Bel’Esstar.

They had brought the banner back – but now it was tattered, battle-torn, soaked in the blood of innocents.

The Commanderie had lost its way. Led by Girim nel Ghislain, the Guerriors had taken the wrong road, they had followed the path of vanity and self-delusion. They were marching to damnation, dragging down the people they had sought to save, dragging them into the mire.

Couldn’t Girim see what he had done?

The city lights suddenly dimmed and blurred. Acir blinked – and felt wetness on his cheeks.

‘I see tears in your eyes, Acir. You know what I say to be true.’