‘Remember my brothers, we are the gods own chosen soldiers,’ Preacher hollered, arms raised toward the cafeteria roof. ‘For we have been granted great gifts that we might use them for their glory—‘

‘Get off the Pit damn table.’ Four-Fingered Djan was not a fan of Preacher’s rousing oratory. He threw a stale bread roll at Preacher’s head from the end of the long table.

Preacher snatched the baked projectile out of the air, a snarl twisting ...