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"Now!" cried Erasmoth, raising his hands, his fists
clenched in triumph. "In the name of the gods!"
Kassandry raised the knives, still staring at my face. I
was transfixed, unable to break that hypnotizing gaze. I
waited for the stabbing of that keen steel into my flesh.
Kassandry struck, slicing each blade through the neck,
severing the two arteries that carry blood to the brain. But,
as I live to write this, Excellency, it was not my flesh. Nay,
and I swear by the sanctity of my Historian's Oath, Your
Grace, she slashed her own neck as she stood before me!
The priestess took her own life!
Blood spurted from the two wounds, drenching me.
Kassandry remained standing, that same expression of
rapture etched into her features. Then she started to topple
forward and I - out of instinct - reached to catch her.
But Erasmoth knocked me out of the way.
Kassandry's blood sprayed, slicking the smooth floor.
"I must make haste!" shouted the priest.
With surprising strength, he lifted her into his arms,
turned toward the dark pit in the center of the circle, and
threw the still-bleeding corpse into that blackened hole.
The five pillars of fire surged upward, their light
illuminating the great cavern, washing across the
senseless, unknowing faces of the zombies and the smiling
visage of the triumphant priest.
0 wise Astinus, here, it seemed, my historian's instincts
took over, rescued me as I teetered at the brink of madness.
Shock welled within me and my legs grew weak, too feeble
to support me
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