Chapter 13.3

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As I hung, the feeling in my wrists and arms faded, and with it went the outer world. I now stood on a black path in a dark world, one without music. It was made of black shale, blade-thin slices set on end, sharp knives marking a desperate trail.

Demons crouched on either side, their forked tongues licking fire-redden chops. Their scarlet eyes watched me, waited for my command. I could send with a word, through the paths of the spirit world, to catch a lord, a Bard, or a faithless lady with razor-sharp teeth. After that they would be mine, devoted servants all, to reclaim the Bardlands from their Christians Slavers. They would die in agony to befit their god, every lord and lady, every pious priest, every Silent Monk...

No – I would not set the demons upon the Silent Monks, those who had comforted me to no gain of their own. In their debt as I was, I could not repay them with hate. But they would think it no honor to be spared from the destruction of their fellows, so if I spared them, I would have to spare all Christians. Even the faithless lords. Then, how could I hunt a Heathen if I spared the much more deserving Christians?

With just their meekness, the Silent Monks had bought my anger.

My feet were poised to step onto that black, poisonous path, the path of hatred. I pulled back. I would not be seduced into setting the demons free. I turned and left the path, the one that makes slaves of those it calls its masters.

My death would not come easy, but at least I would stand before the gods without the stain of the black path on my feet, or the betrayal of my power as a Bard in my heart.