“Come on, come on, what are you waiting for — your friends won’t be coming to help you.” Nenshe laughed and motioned to the two cultists lying on the ground near the altar in the center of the chamber.

The last cultist stood in front of him and had a knife in hand like he meant to do something with it — but neither man did more than eye the other as they slowly circled the room. Each waited for the other to make the first move.

“Which is faster?” asked Nenshe, as he swung his club and struck the other man hard in the arm. “The knife or the club?” The cultist cradled his injured arm but looked otherwise unswayed, the knife in his good hand.

“This isn’t about you and me,” said Nenshe, “it’s about our weapons, and what guides them.” The cultist sneered at Nenshe. “And when I say it’s about what guides them,” he continued, “I don’t mean our hands.”

The two men paced slowly around the room and eyed each other. Nenshe hazarded a glance at the cultists that were now at his feet — one looked dead and gone, a sling bullet lodged in his chest. The other looked not too far behind the first.

The knife-wielding cultist must have thought Nenshe was distracted, because he lunged just as Nenshe looked up. He was ready, though, and deftly moved aside so as to dodge the man’s attack. He brought his club down on the cultist’s hip, hard enough to send the man sprawling to the floor.

Nenshe gestured with his club. “Get up,” he said. “What are you waiting for? Come on…”