inward, slipping beneath the creaking bed with its incessant rain of brown water, blood and the wastes that came of rotting but still living flesh. Dragging the chain behind her she had worked her way on to a shelf of the undercarriage, just above the front axle, wedging herself in tight, legs drawn up, her back against slimy wood.
Fire had been the gift, the stolen gift, but there could be no flame in this sodden underworld. Failing that, there was… friction. She had begun working one length of chain across another.
How many years had it been? She had no idea. There was no hunger, no thirst. The chain sawed back and forth. There was a hint of heat, climbing link by link and into her hands. Had the iron softened? Was the metal worn with new, silvery grooves? She had long since stopped checking. The effort was enough. For so long, it had been enough.
Until those damned Hounds.
That, and the inescapable truth that the wagon had slowed, that now there were as many lying on its bed as there were still out in the gloom beyond, heaving desperate on their chains. She could hear the piteous groans, seeping down from the bed directly above her, of those trapped beneath the weight of countless others.
The Hounds had thundered against the sides of the wagon. The Hounds had plunged into the maw of darkness at the very centre.
There had been a stranger, an unchained stranger. Taunting the Hounds-the Hounds! She remembered his face, oh yes, his face. Even after he had vanished…
In the wake of all that, Apsal’ara had attempted to follow the beasts, only to be driven back by the immense cold of that portal-cold so fierce it destroyed flesh, colder even than Omtose Phellack. The cold of negation. Denial.
No greater curse than hope. A lesser creature would have wept then, would have surrendered, throwing herself beneath one of the wheels to be left dragging in the wagon’s wake, nothing more than one more piece of wreckage, of crushed bone and mangled flesh, scraping and tumbling in the stony mud. Instead, she had returned to her private perch, resumed working the chains.
She had stolen the moon once.
She had stolen fire.
She had padded the silent arching halls of the city within Moon’s Spawn.
She was the Lady of Thieves.
And a sword had stolen her life
This will not do, This will not do.
Lying in its usual place on the flat rock beside the stream, the mangy dog lifted its head, the motion stirring insects into buzzing flight. A moment later, the beast rose. Scars covered its back, some deep enough to twist the muscles beneath. The dog lived in the village but was not of it. Nor was the animal one among the village’s pack. It did not sleep outside the entrance to any hut; it allowed no one to Come close. Even the tribe’s horses would not draw near it.
There was, it was agreed, a deep bitterness in its eyes, and an even deeper sorrow. God-touched, the Uryd elders said, and this claim ensured that the dog would never starve and would never be driven away. It would be tolerated, in the manner of all things god-touched.
Surprisingly lithe despite its mangled hip, the dog now trotted through the village, down the length of the main avenue. When it came to the south end, it kept on going, downslope, wending through the moss-backed boulders and the bone-piles that marked the refuse of the Uryd.
Its departure was noted by two girls still a year or more from their nights of passage into adulthood. There was a similarity to their features, and in their ages they were a close match, the times of their births mere days apart. Neither could be said to be loquacious. They shared the silent language common among twins, although they were not twins, and it seemed that, for them, this language was enough. And so, upon seeing the three-legged dog leave the village, they exchanged a glance, set about gathering what supplies and weapons were near at hand, and then set out, on the dog’s trail.
Their departure was noted, but that was all.
South, down from the great mountains of home, where condors wheeled between the peaks and wolves howled when the winter winds came.
South, towards the lands of the hated children of the Nathii, where dwelt the bringers of war and pestilence, the slayers and enslavers of the Teblor. Where the Nathii bred like lemmings until it seemed there would be no place left in the world for anyone or anything but them.
Like the dog, the two girls were fearless and resolute. Though they did not know it, such traits came from their father, whom they had never met.
The dog did not look back, and when the girls caught up to it the beast maintained its indifference. It was, as the elders had said, god-touched.
Back in the village, a mother and daughter were told of the flight of their children. The daughter wept. The mother did not. Instead, there was heat in a low place of her body, and, for a time, she was lost in remembrances.
‘Oh frail city, where strangers arrive…’
An empty plain beneath an empty night sky. A lone fire, so weak as to be nearly swallowed by the blackened, cracked stones encircling it. Seated on one of the two flat stones close to the hearth, a short, round man with sparse, greasy hair. Faded red waistcoat, over a linen shirt with stained once-white blousy cuffs erupting around the pudgy hands. The round face was flushed, reflecting the flickering flames. From the small knuckled chin dangled long black hairs-not enough to braid, alas-a new affectation he had taken to twirling and stroking when deep in thought, or even shallowly so. Indeed, when not thinking at all, but wishing to convey an impression of serious cogitation, should anyone regard him thoughtfully.
He stroked and twirled now as he frowned down into the fire before him.
What had that grey-haired bard sung? There on the modest stage in K’rul’s Bar earlier in the night, when he had watched on, content with his place in the glorious city he had saved more than once?
‘Oh frail city, where strangers arrive…’
‘I need to tell you something, Kruppe.’
The round man glanced up to find a shrouded figure seated on the other flat stone, reaching thin pale hands out to the flames. Kruppe cleared his throat, then said, ‘It has been a long time since Kruppe last found himself perched as you see him now. Accordingly, Kruppe had long since concluded that you wished to tell him something of such vast import that none but Kruppe is worthy to hear.’
A faint glitter from the darkness within the hood. ‘I am not in this war.’
Kruppe stroked the rattails of his beard, delighting himself by saying nothing.
‘This surprises you?’ the Elder God asked.
‘Kruppe ever expects the unexpected, old friend. Why, could you ever expect otherwise? Kruppe is shocked. Yet, a thought arrives, launched brainward by a tug on this handsome beard. K’rul states he is not in the war. Yet, Kruppe suspects, he is nevertheless its prize.’
‘Only you understand this, my friend,’ the Elder God said, sighing. Then cocked its head. ‘I had not noticed before, but you seem sad.’
‘Sadness has many flavours, and it seems Kruppe has tasted them all.’
‘Will you speak now of such matters? I am, I believe, a good listener.’
‘Kruppe sees that you are sorely beset. Perhaps now is not the time.’
‘That is no matter.’
‘It is to Kruppe.’
K’rul glanced to one side, and saw a figure approaching, grey-haired, gaunt.
Kruppe sang,’”Oh frail city, where strangers arrive”… and the rest?’
The newcomer answered in a deep voice, ‘“… pushing into cracks, there to abide.”‘
And the Elder God sighed.
‘Join us, friend,’ said Kruppe. ‘Sit here by this fire: this scene paints the history of our kind, as you well know. A night, a hearth, and a tale to spin. Dear K’rul, dearest friend of Kruppe, hast thou ever seen Kruppe dance?’
The stranger sat. A wan face, an expression of sorrow and pain.
‘No,’ said K’rul. ‘I think not. Not by limb, not by word.’
Kruppe’s smile was muted, and something glistened in his eyes. ‘Then, my friends, settle yourselves for this
