Toll the Hounds

South of the western tail of the Gadrobi Hills, a lone chain-clad figure pauses in his journey, seeing at last the faint bluish glow that is the ever-beating heart of the great, legendary city.



Darujhistan.



Three leagues west of him, three more strangers gaze upon that selfsame glow, and in the eyes of one of them-unseen by the others-there is such dread, such an-guish, as would crush the soul of a lesser man. His gauntleted hand steals again and again to the leather-wrapped grip of his sword.



He tells himself that vengeance answered is peace won, but even he does not quite believe that. Beyond the city awaiting him, the future is a vast absence, a void he now believes he will never see, much less stride into.



Yet, for all the tumultuous, seething forces of will within these arrayed strangers, none among them is the cause for the night’s thick, palpable silence.



Less than a league north of the three strangers, seven Hounds are arrayed along a ridge, baleful eyes fixed upon the glow of the city.



The beasts possess the capacity to detect a rabbit’s rapid heartbeat half a league away, so they hear well the tolling of the twelfth hell, announcing the ar-rival of midnight in the city of Darujhistan.



And as one, the seven Hounds lift their massive heads, and give voice to a howl.



The stars are struck into blazing sparks overhead. The High King halts in mid-stride, and the ancient, stubborn blood in his veins and arteries suddenly floods cold as ice. For the first time in this journey, Kallor knows a moment of fear.



Havok’s long head snaps up and the beast skitters to one side. Astride the animal, Samar Dev makes a desperate grab for Karsa, lest she be thrown to the ground, and she can feel the sudden tautness of every muscle in the huge warrior.



Ahead of them, Traveller pauses, his shoulders hunching as if those all too close howls even now lash at his back. Then he shakes himself, and marches on.



Atop a cornice of a gate facing the south plain, a squat toad-like demon lifts its head, pointed ears suddenly alert.



Then, as the howls slowly fade, the demon settles once more.



Although now, at last, it can feel, rising up from the very earth, rising up to shiver along its bones, the rumble of heavy paws on distant ground.



Drawing closer, ever closer.



In the city behind Chillbais, the twelfth bell clangs its sonorous note. Another season’s grand fete is almost gone. One more day in the name of Gedderone. One more night to close the riot of senseless celebration.



Dance, and dance on.



Because, as everyone knows, all that you see about you will last, well, forever.



XX



My friend, this is not the place



The cut flowers lie scattered on the path



And the light of the moon glistens



In what the stems bleed



In the day just for ever lost



I watched a black wasp darting into the face



Of a web, and the spider she dropped



Only to be caught in midair



Footfalls leave no trace



In the wake of a hungry creature’s wrath



You can only lie in hope, dreaming



She lightly touched ground



And danced away like a breath



Hiding beneath leaves nodding in place



While the hunter circles and listens



But pray nothing is found



My friend, this is not your face



So pale and still never again to laugh



When the moon’s light fell and then stopped



Cold as silver in the glade



Look back on the day, it’s for ever lost



Stare into the night, where things confound



The web stretches empty, wind keening



In threads of absent songs



– (Song Of) Old Friend, Fisher Kel That



Voluminous in wonder, but, be assured, terse in grief. Consider the woodsman standing facing the forest, axe in hand. In a moment he will stride forward. Consider now the first line of trees, rooted, helpless against what comes.



The seep of trickling water round roots does not quicken, The sweet warmth of sunlight on leaves does not blaze into urgent Maine, The world and its pace can-not change. What is to he done? Why, there is nothing to be done. The woodsman swings his axe with blinding speed and splendid indifference, and he hears not the chorus of cries.



Is this fancy worthless? For some, perhaps many, it must be. But know this, empathy is no game.



Twist back time. Dusk still gathers, but it is early yet and so it is a weak gath-ering. A lone rider draws up on a ridge overlooking a mining camp. Up here the sun’s light remains. Dust streams gold and nothing wants to settle. In the shadowy pit below figures seethe back and forth.



He is finally seen. An old man works his way up the path. A runner hurries to the main building squatting atop a levelled heap of tailings.