Toll the Hounds

Howls rose like madness unleashed.



The Son of Darkness reached up and unsheathed Dragnipur.



Steam curled from the black blade, twisting into ephemeral chains that stretched out as he walked up the wide, empty street. Stretched out to drag behind him, and from each length others emerged and from these still more, a forest’s worth of iron roots, snaking out, whispering over the cobbles.



He had never invited such a manifestation before. Reining in that bleed of power had been an act of mercy, to all those who might witness it, who might comprehend its significance.



But on this night, Anomander Rake had other things on his mind.



Chains of smoke, chains and chains and chains, so many writhing in his wake that they filled the breadth of the street, that they snaked over and under and spilled out into side streets, alleys, beneath estate gates, beneath doors and through win-dows. They climbed walls.



Wooden barriers disintegrated-doors and sills and gates and window frames. Stones cracked, bricks spat mortar. Walls bowed. Buildings groaned.



He walked on as those chains grew taut.



No need yet to lean forward with each step. No need yet to reveal a single detail to betray the strength and the will demanded of him.



He walked on.



Throughout the besieged city, mages, witches, wizards and sorcerors clutched the sides of their heads, eyes squeezing shut as unbearable pressure closed in. Many fell to their knees. Others staggered. Still others curled up into tight foetal balls on the floor, as the world groaned.



Raging fires flinched, collapsed into themselves, died in silent gasps.



The howl of the Hounds thinned as if forced through tight valves.



In a slag-crusted pit twin sisters paused as one in their efforts to scratch each other’s eyes out. In the midst of voluminous clouds of noxious vapours, knee deep in magma that swirled like a lake of molten sewage, the sisters halted, and slowly lifted their heads.



As if scenting the air.



Dragnipur.



Dragnipur.



Down from the Estates, into that projecting wedge that was Daru, and hence through another gate and on to the main avenue in Lakefront, proceeding parallel to the shoreline. As soon as he reached the straight, level stretch of that avenue, the Son of Darkness paused.



Four streets distant on that same broad track, Hood, Lord of Death, fixed his gaze on the silver-haired figure who seemed to have hesitated, but only for a moment, before resuming its approach.



Hood felt his own unease, yet onward he strode.



The power of that sword was breathtaking, even for a god. Breathtaking.



Terrifying.



They drew closer, in measured steps, and closer still.



The Hounds had fallen silent. In the wake of crushed fires, smoke billowed low, barely lit by fitful blue gaslight. Piercing in and out of the black clouds, Great Ravens circled, advanced, and retreated; and moments before the two figures reached each other, the huge birds began landing on roof edges facing down into the street, in rows and clusters, scores and then hundreds.



They were here.



To witness.



To know. To believe.



And, perchance, to feed.



Only three strides between them now. Hood slowed his steps. ‘Son of Darkness,’ he said, ‘I have reconsidered-’



And the sword lashed out, a clean arc that took the Lord of Death in the neck, slicing clean through.



As Hood’s head pitched round inside its severed cloth sack, the body beneath it staggered back, dislodging what it had lost.



A heavy, solid crunch as the god’s head struck the cobbles, rolling on to one cheek, the eyes staring and lifeless.



Black blood welled up from the stump of neck. One more step back, before the legs buckled and the Lord of Death fell to his knees and then sat back.



Opposite the dead god, Anomander Rake, face stretching in agony, sought to remain standing.



Whatever weight descended upon him at this moment was invisible to the mortal eye, unseen even by the thousand Great Ravens perched and leaning far lot ward on all sides, but its horrendous toll was undeniable.



The Son of Darkness, Dragnipur in one hand, bowed and bent like an old man. The sword’s point grated and then caught in the join between four cobbles. And Anomander Rake began to lean on it, every muscle straining as his legs slowly gave way-no, he could not stand beneath this weight.



And so he sank down, the sword before him, both hands on the cross-hilt’s wings, head bowed against Dragnipur, and these details alone were all that dis-tinguished him from the god opposite.



They sat, on knees and haunches, as if mirrored images. One leaning on a sword, forehead pressed to the gleaming, smoke-wreathed blade. The other decapitated, hands resting palm up on the thighs.