At an intersection ahead waited Jalan, Grasp and Hanas, the youngest three of the pack, hackles high and eyes flashing with vicious excitement.
Gait and then Ghennan were the last to arrive, the lord and the lady of the pack, more silver than white, with scarred muzzles misshapen by centuries of dread battle. These two wore thick collars of black leather scattered with pearls and opals-although far fewer than had once adorned these proud bands.
Ten in number. Each one a match for any Hound of Shadow.
Of whom there were, ah, but five.
No one stepped into the path of these beasts. They were coming to claim a prize for their master.
Dragnipur. A sword of perfect justice.
Such perfect justice.
High in the sky above the city, tilting, sliding and dipping to avoid each shaft of infernal light, an undead dragon tracked the Hounds of Light.
Tulas Shorn was not pleased, even as something flowed sweet as a stream through its mind. A kind of blessing, alighting with faint, lilting notes of wonder.
Tulas Shorn had never known that Hood, Lord of the Slain, could prove so… generous.
Or perhaps it was nothing more than Shorn’s damned cousin’s talent for antic-ipating the worst.
As an Elder might observe, there is nothing worse than a suspicious dragon.
Do not grieve. Hold close such propensities for a while longer. The time will come.
Some gifts are evil. Others are not, but what they are remains to be discovered.
Rest easy for the next few moments, for there is more to tell.
Iskaral Pust rode like a madman. Unfortunately, the mule beneath him had decided that a plodding walk would suffice, making the two of them a most incongruous pair. The High Priest flung himself back and forth, pitched from side to side. His feet kicked high, toes skyward, then lashed back down. Heels pounded insensate flanks in a thumping drumroll entirely devoid of rhythm. Reins flailed about but the mule had chewed through the bit and so the reins were attached to nothing but two mangled stumps that seemed determined to batter Pust senseless.
He tossed about as if riding a goaded bull. Spraying sweat, lips pulled back in a savage grimace, the whites visible round his bugged-out eyes.
The mule, why, the mule walked. Clump clump (pause) clump (pause) clump clump. And so on.
Swirling just above Iskaral Pust’s head, and acrobatically avoiding the bit-ends, flapped the squall of bhokarala. Like oversized gnats, and how that mule’s tail whipped back and forth! She sought to swat them away, but in the spirit of gnat-hood the bhokarala did not relent, so eager were they to claim the very next plop of dung wending its way out beneath that tail. Over which they’d fight tooth, talon and claw.
Swarming in mule and rider’s wake was a river of spiders, flowing glittering black over the cobbles.
At one point three white Hounds tramped across the street not twenty paces distant. A trio of immensely ugly heads swung to regard mule and rider. And to show that it meant business, the mule propped up its ears. Clump clump (pause) clump clump clump.
The Hounds moved on.
It does no good to molest a mule.
Alas, as Iskaral Pust and his placid mount were moments from discovering, there were indeed forces in the world that could confound both.
And here then, at last, arrives the shining, blazing, astonishing nexus, the penulti-mate pinnacle of this profound night, as bold Kruppe nudges his ferocious war-mule into the path of one Iskaral Pust, mule, and sundry spiders and bhokarala.
Mule sees mule. Both halt with a bare fifteen paces between them, ears at bris-tling attention.
Rider sees rider. Magus grows dangerously still, eyes hooded. Kruppe waves one plump hand in greeting.
Bhokarala launch a midair conference that results in one beast landing awkwardly on the cobbles to the left of the High Priest, whilst the others find windowsills, projections, and the heads of handsome gargoyles on which to perch, chests heaving and tongues lolling.
The spiders run away.
Thus, the tableau is set.
‘Out of my way!’ screeched Iskaral Pust. ‘Who is this fool and how dare he fool with me? I’ll gnash him! I’ll crush him down. I’ll feint right and dodge left and we’ll be by in a flash! Look at that pathetic mule-he’ll never catch us! I got a sword to claim. Mine, yes’, mine! And then won’t Shadowthrone grovel and simper! Iskaral Pust, High Priest of Dragnipur! Most feared swordsman in ten thousand worlds! And if you think you’ve seen justice as its most fickle, you just wait!’ He then leaned forward and smiled. ‘Kind sir, could you kindly move yourself and yon beast to one side? I must keep an appointment, you understand. Hastily, in fact.’ Then he hissed, ‘Go climb up your own arse, you red-vested ball of lard that someone rolled across a forest floor! Go! Scat!’