Everything was becoming clearer to Callis as the days passed. He had not eaten for days, nor taken much water from the small store remaining in the kitchen vats. He had spoken to no-one since the remnant of starving monks that were all his followers now had taken to hiding from him. He spent his days and nights in the room where Mal-Den had ruled before him as Jar-Den. It seemed fitting, since Callis himself was now the voice of Jaren, that he should remain here in communion with his lord, speaking his thoughts and prayers and visions aloud to the statue in the corner of the room. The holiest places of the temple were abandoned, and even the rats had mostly slunk away to seek food elsewhere, now that there were no more sacrifices left to be made.
‘Soon, my lord,’ Callis told the statue, ‘I shall have completed my work, the work you set me. The temple and the city shall be scoured free of apostasy, and your holy will written across the very stones of the buildings for all to see.’ The statue made no reply, but Callis was sure that a gleam of pleasure was in its carven eye. He nodded, chuckled, and went on; ‘Yes, lord, the prophesy of the holy Krassk is nearly accomplished; we have taken this heathen land and made it yours, we have struck down the unclean, and soon we shall bring destruction to the desert race.’