Toll the Hounds

The horse’s hoofs echoed like a cracked temple bell.



Ignoring the rider, the Hounds of Shadow set out in the direction of the two women. The five enormous beasts moved warily, heads held low.



At this moment, High Alchemist Baruk stood beside his carriage in the estate compound. It might have seemed to the servants and guards watching that he was studying the crazed night sky, but none of these worthies was positioned to see anything of his face.



The man was weeping.



He did not see the shattered moon. Nor the wreaths of low smoke drifting past. In truth, he saw nothing that anyone else could possibly see, for his vision was turned inward, upon memories of friendship, upon burdens since accepted, and, through it all, there was a rising flood of something- he could not be certain, but he believed it was humility.



In the course of a life, sacrifices are made, dire legacies accepted. Burdens are borne upon a humble back, or they ride the shoulders of bitter martyrs. These are the choices available to the spirit. There was no doubt, none at all, as to which one had been chosen by the Son of Darkness.



A great man was dead. So much, cruelly taken away on this sour night.



And he had lost a friend.



It availed him nothing that he understood, that he accepted that so many other choices were made, and that he had his own role still to play out in this tragic end.



No, he simply felt broken inside.



Everything seemed thin, fragile. All that he felt in his heart, all that he saw with his eyes. So very fragile.



Yes, the moon died, but a rebirth was coming.



Could he hold to that?



He would try.



For now, however, all he could manage was these tears.



Baruk turned to his carriage, stepped inside. The door was shut behind him as he settled on the cushioned bench. He looked across to his guest, but could say nothing. Not to this one, who had lost so much more than he had. So much more.



The gates were opened and the carriage set out, its corner lanterns swinging.



Cutter dismounted, leaving the horse to wander where it would. He walked for-ward, indifferent to the presence of the Hounds-they seemed intent on something else in any case-and indifferent as well to the Great Ravens as they drove onlookers away with beaks eager to stab and slash. His eyes were on the body lying on the cobbles.



He walked past a woman who stood beside a towering warrior who was draw-ing loose a two-handed flint sword as he stared at something in the direction from whence Cutter had just come.



None of these details could drag Cutter’s attention from the body, and that gleaming black sword so brutally driven into the head and face. He walked until he stood over it.



The woman moved up beside him. ‘That weapon in your hands-it’s not-’



‘We are in trouble,’ Cutter said.



‘What?’



He could not believe what he was seeing. Could not accept that the Lord of Moon’s Spawn was lying here, one eye closed, the other open and staring sight-lessly. Killed by his own sword. Killed… taken. By Dragnipur. ‘How did this happen? Who could have…’



‘Dassem Ultor.’



He finally looked at her. She was Seven Cities, that much he could see at once. Older than Cutter by a decade, maybe more. ‘The name’s familiar, but…’ He shrugged.



She pointed to one side and Cutter turned.



A man was crouched, slumped against a wall, a sword propped up beside him. He had buried his face in his arms. Cutter’s eyes went back to that sword. I’ve seen that thing before… but where? When?



‘He was known to us,’ said the woman, ’as Traveller.’



Memories rushed through Cutter, leaving in their wake something cold, lifeless. ‘It’s not the same,’ he whispered. ‘Vengeance. Or grief. Your choice.’ He drew an uneven breath. ‘That sword-it was forged by Anomander Rake. It was his weapon. Before Dragnipur. He left it with his brother, Andarist. And then I… I… Beru fend…’



The giant warrior now twisted round. ‘If you would protect that body,’ he said in a growl, ‘then ready that spear.’



The two women had halted a street away, their path blocked by a half-circle of Hounds, with less than twenty paces separating the parties.



Seeing those women, Cutter frowned. ‘Spite,’ he muttered. ‘Did you guess? Or was it just some damned itch?’



‘Samar Dev,’ snapped the giant. ‘Witch! Get Traveller on his feet! I will need him!’



‘Damn you!’ screamed the woman beside Cutter. “What is it?’



But there was no need for an answer. For she saw now, as did Cutter.