Gardens of the Moon

The beast walked alongside him-they were ever moving forward, the wagon unceasing in its roll. Paran bent close, running his hands on the collar, seeking a join. There was none. Where the chain attached, the link and the collar seemed of one solid piece. Though he knew little of smithing, he believed this attachment would prove the weakest element and should already show signs of strain. But his fingertips told him otherwise. The iron was not even scratched.



Paran ran his hand along the chain, leaving the Hound's side. He paused noticing the other beast watching his every move, then continued on. From the animal to the wagon, over seventy armspans of length, he ran his hands from link to link, seeking a change in the feel of the iron, seeking heat, gouges. Nothing. He arrived alongside the wagon. The wheel he walked behind was solid wood, a span in width, nicked and gouged but otherwise featureless. The wall of the bed was twenty or more feet high. The slatted sideboards of withered, bone-grey wood showed spaces a finger's width between. Paran flinched back on seeing skeletal fingers crowding the cracks, wriggling helplessly.



The wagon's frame beneath the sideboards drew his attention.



Here the wood was black, glistening with pitch. Chain-ends entered it, countless in number, sinking seamlessly into the wood. Under his touch the frame seemed solid, yet it was as if the chain links passed through it-whatever held them, then, was beyond the wagon's frame.



Paran drew a deep breath of the cool, stale air, then ducked under the bed.



The frame's beam was a dozen spans thick, condensation dripping down from its pitched underside in endless rain. At the inside edge Paran found once again the chains, continuing on further under the wagon., Grasping one, he followed it inward. The links grew colder as did the air around him. Before long he was forced to release the chain, his hands burned by the cold. The rain from the underside of the wagon came down as slivers of ice. Two paces ahead, the chains converged, swallowed by a suspended pool of absolute darkness. Cold poured from it in pulsing waves. Paran could get no closer.



He hissed in frustration as he scrambled along opposite the dark hole, wondering what to do next. Even if he managed to break a chain, he had no idea which ones belonged to the Hounds. As for the others:



Anomander Rake seemed a creature of clear-if cold-justice. To break a chain could unleash ancient horrors upon the realms of the living. Even the stranger he'd spoken with could once have been a Tyrant, a horrible dominator.



Paran unsheathed Chance. As the blade leaped free of the scabbard it bucked wildly in his hands. The captain grinned even as tremors of terror reached through his hands from the sword. “Oponn! Dear Twins, I call on you! Now!”



The air groaned. Paran stumbled over someone, who loosed a stream of curses. Sheathing his sword, he reached down, hand closing on brocaded cloth. He pulled the god to his feet. “Why you?” Paran demanded. “I wanted your sister.”



“Madness, mortal!” the male Twin snapped. “To call me here! So close to the Queen of Darkness-here, within a god-slaying sword!”



Paran shook him. Filled with a mindless, bestial rage, the captain shook the god. He heard the Hounds howl, and fought back a sudden desire to join his voice to their cries.



The Twin, terror in his bright eyes, clawed at Paran. “What-what are you doing?”



Paran stopped, his attention drawn to two chains that had gone slack.



“They're coming.”



The wagon seemed to leap upward, rocked as it had never been before. The thunder of the impact filled the air, wood and ice cascading down.



“They have your scent, Twin.”



The god shrieked, battered his fists into Paran's face, scratching, kicking, but the captain held on. “Not the luck that pulls.” He spat blood.



“The luck: that pushes-”



The wagon was hammered again, its wheels bucking into the air to come down with a splintering, echoing concussion. Paran had no time to wonder at the savage strength that coursed through him, a strength sufficient to hold down a god gripped in panic. He simply held on.



“Please!” the Twin begged. “Anything! just ask it! Anything within my powers.”



“The Hounds” chains,” Paran said. “Break them.”



“I–I cannot!”



The wagon shuddered sickeningly, distant wood splintering. Paran dragged the Twin a pace as it rolled forward again. “Think of a way,” he said. “Or the Hounds will have you.”



“I–I cannot be sure, Paran.”



“What? You can't be sure of what?”



The Twin gestured towards the blackness. “In there. The chains are held in place within it-within the Warren of Darkness, within Kurald Galain. Should they enter: I do not know-I cannot be certain, but the chains may disappear.”