Tattersail stood by the bed, hesitating. Wood shattered below and the building shook. Men shrieked, weapons clanged. The sorceress pushed herself upright, terror seeping into her limbs like molten lead. Destroy a Hound of Shadow? Heavy thumps rattled the window, as of bodies being flung aside on the floor below, then the thumps reached the foot of the stairs, and the screaming stopped. From the compound she heard soldiers shouting.
Tattersail drew on her Thyr Warren. Power swept into her and pushed aside the paralysing fear. She straightened, all exhaustion gone, and swung her gaze on the door. Wood creaked, then the timber panel exploded inwards, as if flung from a catapult, and was instantly buffeted aside by Tattersail's magical shield. The twin impacts shattered it, flinging shards and splinters against the ceiling and walls. Glass broke behind her, the window's shutters springing open. An icy wind roiled into the room.
The Hound appeared, its eyes yellow flames, the muscles of its high shoulders taut, rippling under its skin. The creature's power swept like a wave over Tattersail and she drew a sharp breath. The Hound was old, older than anything she had ever encountered. It paused in the doorway, sniffing the air, blood dripping from its black lips. Then its gaze fixed on the iron-bound box against the wall to Tattersail's left. The beast stepped forward.
«No,» she said.
The Hound froze. Its massive head swung slow and measured to her, as if it was noticing her for the first time. Its lips peeled back to reveal the luminescent gleam of canines the length of a man's thumb.
Damn you, Hairlock! I need your help! Please!
A white strip flashed above the Hound's eyes as the lids snapped back.
It charged.
The attack was so swift that Tattersail was unable to raise her hands before the beast was upon her, surging through her outer magic as if it was no more than a brisk wind. Her closest defences, a layering of High Wards, met the Hound's charge like a stone wall. She felt cracks streak outwards, deep fissures reaching through to her arms and chest with a snapping sound immediately replaced by spurting blood. This, and the Hound's momentum, flung her back through the air. The wards at her back cushioned the blow as she hit the wall beside the window. Mortar puffed into the air around her, and fragments of crushed brick scattered across the floor.
The Hound had fallen to its knees. Shaking its head, it regained its feet, snorted, then attacked again.
Tattersail, her wits rocked by the first charge, weakly lifted one bloodstreaked arm before her face, unable to do anything else.
As the Hound sprang into the air, jaws open and reaching for her head, a wave of grey light struck the beast in the side, throwing it into the bed to Tattersail's right. Wood crunched. With a grunt the Hound was up again, wheeling this time to face Hairlock, who stood perched atop his box, glistening with sweat and arms raised. «Oh, yes, Gear,» he shrilled. «I'm your quarry!»
Tattersail slumped, then leaned to one side and vomited on the floor.
A chaotic Warren swirled in the room, a miasma that churned into her like riotous pestilence. It radiated from Hairlock in visible pulses of grainy grey shot through with black.
The Hound eyed Hairlock, its sides heaving. It was as if it was trying to dispel the waves of power from its brain. A low growl rumbled in its chest-its first sound. The wide head sagged.
Tattersail stared, then understanding struck a hammer blow to her chest. «Hound!» she screamed. «He's reaching for your soul! Escape! Get out of here!»
The beast's growl deepened, but it did not move.
None of the three noticed the door to the inner bedroom opening off to the left, or the halting appearance of Captain Paran, wrapped in the colourless woollen blanket that covered him down to his ankles. Pale and drawn, the man moved forward, a blank cast to his eyes, which were fixed on the Hound. As the invisible battle of wills continued between Gear and Hairlock, Paran stepped closer.
The movement caught Tattersail's eye. She opened her mouth to shout a warning, but Paran moved first. The blanket parted to reveal a longsword, point flashing outward as he extended into a full lunge. The sword sank into Gear's chest, even as the man leaped back, withdrawing the lunge, twisting the weapon as he pulled it clear. A bellow thundered from Gear's throat. The Hound staggered back into the ruins of the bed, biting at the wound gushing blood from its side.
Hairlock screamed in rage and jumped forward, closing in on Gear.
Tattersail scythed one foot into the puppet's path, flinging him against the far wall.
Gear howled. A dark rift opened around him with the sound of tearing burlap. He whirled and plunged into the deepening shadow. The rent closed and was gone, leaving in its wake a rippling of cold air.
Astonished beyond her pain, Tattersail swung her attention to Captain Paran and the bloodied sword in his hands. «How?» she gasped. «How could you have pierced the Hound's magic? Your sword-»
The captain looked down at it. «Just lucky, I suppose.»
«Oponn!» Hairlock hissed, as he regained his feet, and glared at Tattersail. «Hood's Curse on the Fools! And you, woman, this I'll not forget. You will pay-I swear it!» Tattersail looked away and sighed. A smile touched her lips as words uttered earlier now returned with new, grim meaning. «You'll be too busy staying alive, Hairlock, to start on me. You've given Shadowthrone something to think about. And you'll live to regret his attention, puppet. Deny that if you dare.»
«I'm returning to my box,» Hairlock said, scrambling. «Expect Tayschrenn here in minutes. You'll say nothing, Sorceress.» He clambered inside. «Nothing.» The lid slammed shut.
Tattersail's smile broadened, the taste of blood in her mouth like an omen, a silent, visible warning to Hairlock of things to come-a warning she knew he couldn't see. That made the taste almost sweet.
She tried to move, but it seemed that a chill had come to her limbs.
Within her mind visions floated, but walls of darkness closed in around them before they could register. She felt herself fading.
A man's voice spoke close by, urgent. «What do you hear?»
She frowned, trying to concentrate. Then she smiled. «A spinning coin. I hear a spinning coin.»
BOOK TWO DARUJHISTAN
What windfall has brushed our senses?
This rocking thunderhead that scraped the lake's placid waters and spun a single day's shadows like a wheel that rolled us from dawn to dusk, while we tottered our tender ways:
What windlass crackles dire warnings?
There in the gentle swells that tossed a bobbing cork our way with its fine magenta scent wafting like a panoply of petals that might be ashes in twilight's crimson smear:
Rumour Born Fisher (b.?)
CHAPTER FIVE
And if this man sees you in his dreams while you rock in the season's brooding night «neath a tree's stout branch, and your shadow is hooded above the knotted rope, so will the winds of his passing twitch your stiffened limbs into some semblance of running 907th Year in e Third Millennill Rumour Born Fisher (b.?)
The Season of Fanderay in the year of the Five Tusks Two thousand years since the birth of Darujbistan, the city
In his dream the small round man found himself leaving the city of Darujhistan through Two Ox Gate as he headed towards the setting sun. The tattered tails of his faded red waistcoat flapped in his haste.
He had no idea how far he would have to walk. Already his feet ached.
There were miseries in the world, and then there was misery. In times of conscience he held the world's concerns above his own. Fortunately, he reflected, such times were few, and this, he told himself, was not one of them.