They rode in no particular order, and they killed every fugitive they passed, deviating only to overrun farmhouses. Their methods were ungentle, and a line of burning barns and small holdings marked their progress.

“The body you have provided is not acceptable,” the monster said.

The priest stood as far away from the prisoner and his possessor as he could.

“I require access to his memories,” the priest said.

“The body you have provided is ruined. Why are you so foolish? I need a better body than this. This one is broken and cannot even walk, much less fight or procreate.” The voice was mellifluous, like a choir, as if different men sang a harmony out of Jules Kronmir’s former throat.

“His memories . . .”

“Are very difficult to find. Because he has been abused. You make me bathe in filth for a meal not worth eating. Truly, mortal, you tempt me to . . .” The voice slowed. “There are horses coming in great numbers.”

The priest raised his cross between himself and the thing on the table. “If I promise you a better body later . . .” he began. Then he got a hold of his loathing and began the spell, the exorcism, or so he hoped, that would allow him to make a safe bargain with the possessor. The Patriarch promised them that these methods were sanctioned, but lately the priest had begun to have doubts.

The possessor’s voice cut across his prayer like a song in a crowded tavern. “Your promises are all lies, mortal. Tell your fiery master that if the will is treated like this again, it will focus on him. Tell him that.”

A door opened above them in the house, and there was shouting in a language that the priest didn’t know. He turned, motioning to the two men-at-arms who attended him, and they drew their swords.

The door to the underhall opened, and a tall blond woman came through. She had a crossbow, and she shot one of his men-at-arms from so close that the bolt went through his front plate, his back plate, and into the doorjamb behind him.

Behind her, a man in green emerged even as the woman produced a sword. She made the man-at-arms parry, a strong cut, and the second green-clad man shot him under her arm. Carefully. In the abdomen.

Another man, older, pushed past the dying men-at-arms even as Carlos ran at him with a heavy sword. The older man drew across his body, passing back; his arming sword seemed to flicker in the air, and Carlos fell to his knees, both of his hands severed.

The woman continued walking down the hall. She looked at the thing on the table once.

The priest fumbled for his sword.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“A fury,” she said.

Favour put a hand on her shoulder. “We need to . . . kill him. Kronmir. I’m sorry, lady. But he knows . . . everything. If the worms get it . . .”