The animal's muzzle was speckled with grey, and its eyes glowed amber.
The Hound, marked Seventh among Shadowthrone's servants and called Gear, hunted. The quarry was elusive, cunning, and swift in its flight. Yet Gear felt close. He knew that it was no human he tracked-no mortal man or woman could have escaped his jaws for so long. Even more astonishing, Gear had yet to catch a glimpse of the quarry. But it had trespassed, with impunity it had entered the Shadow Realm, trailing Shadowthrone himself and strumming all the webs Gear's lord had spun.
The only answer to such an affront was death.
Soon, the Hound knew, he would be the hunted one, and if those hunters came in numbers and in strength Gear would be hard pressed to continue his search. There were those within the city who had felt the savage partings of the fabric. And less than a minute after passing through the Warren's gate Gear's hackles had stiffened, telling him of nearby magic's burgeoning. Thus far the Hound had eluded detection, but that would not last.
He moved silent and cautiously through the maze of shanties and lean-tos crouching against the city wall, ignoring the occasional denizen come out to taste the dawn's rain-cleansed air. He stepped over the beggars sprawled in his path. Local dogs and ratters gave him one glance then slunk away, ears flattened and tail sweeping the muddy ground.
As Gear rounded the corner of a sunken stone house the morning breeze brought his head round. He paused, eyes searching down the street opposite him. Mist drifted here and there, and the first carts of the lesser merchants were being pulled out by figures wrapped warm against the chill-the Hound was running out of time.
Gear's eyes travelled down the length of the street, focusing on a large, walled estate at the far end. Four soldiers lounged before its gate, watching passers-by with little interest and talking among themselves. Gear's head lifted, his study finding a shuttered window on the estate's second floor.
Anticipation and pleasure surged through the Hound. He had found the trail's end. Lowering his head again, he moved, his gaze unwavering on the four guards.
The shift had ended. As the new marines approached they both noticed that the gate was unlocked, ajar.
“What's this?” one asked, eyeing the two drawn faces of the soldiers who stood against the wall.
“It's been that kind of night,” the elder responded. “The kind where you don't ask questions.”
The two new men exchanged glances, then the one who had spoken gave the older man a nod and a grin. “I know the kind. Well, get on, then. Your cots are waiting.”
The older man shifted his pike and seemed to sag. His gaze flicked to his partner, but the young man had his attention on something up the street. “I'd guess it's too late now,” the older man said to the newcomers, meaning it won't happen and so it don't matter, but if a woman shows up, a Bridgeburner, you let her through and keep your eyes on the walls.”
“Look at that dog,” the younger soldier said.
“We hear you,” said the new man. “Life in the Second-”
“Look at that dog,” the young marine repeated.
The others turned to look up the street. The old guard stared, his eyes widening, then he hissed a curse and fumbled with his pike. None of the others managed even that much before the Hound was upon them.
Sleepless, Tattersail lay flat on her back on the bed in the outer room.
Her exhaustion had reached a point where even sleep eluded her so she stared at the ceiling, her thoughts wandering in a disordered review of the past seven days. Despite her initial anger at being embroiled in the Bridgeburners” schemes, she had to acknowledge the excitement she felt.
The desire to collect her possessions and open a Warren, away from the Empire, away from Hairlock's madness and hunger, away from the field of an endless war, now seemed an ancient one, born of a desperation she no longer felt.
But it was more than just a renewed sense of humanity that compelled her to stay to see it through-the Bridgeburners, after all, had shown again and again that they could take care of their own affairs. No, she wanted to see Tayschrenn pulled down. It was a truth that frightened her.
Hunger for vengeance poisoned the soul. And it was likely that she would have to wait a long time to see Tayschrenn's just demise. She wondered if, having fed on that poison for so long, she might not end up viewing the world with Hairlock's shining bright mad eyes.
“Too much,” she muttered. “Too much all at once.”
A sound at the door startled her. She sat up. “Oh,” she said, scowling, “you've returned.”