of failure.
Facing inland, Traveller set out, boots crunching on black, bubbled glass. The morning sun reflected from the mottled surface in blinding flashes, and the heat swirled up around him until he was sheathed in sweat. He could see the far end, a few thousand paces distant-or thought he could, knowing well how the eyes could be deceived-a darker stretch, like a raised beach of black sand drawn across the horizon, with nothing visible beyond.
Some time later he was certain that the ridge was not an illusion. A wind-banked, undulating heap of crushed obsidian, a diamond glitter that cut into his eyes. As he drew closer, he thought he could hear faint moaning, as of some as yet unfelt wind. And now he could see beyond, another vast stretch of featureless plain, with no end visible through the shimmering heat.
Ascending the rise, boots sinking deep into the sand, Traveller heard the moaning wind once more, and he looked up to see that something had appeared on the plain directly ahead. A high-backed throne, the figure seated upon it a blurred cast of shadows. Standing perhaps ten paces to the right was a second figure, this one wrapped in a dark grey cloak, the hood pulled back to reveal a wind-burned profile and a shock of black hair cut short.
From behind the throne now emerged Hounds, padding forward, their paws kicking up puffs of dust that drifted in their wake. Baran, Gear, Blind. Shan and Rood and two others Traveller had never seen before. Bone-white, both of them, with onyx eyes. Leaner than the others, longer-necked, and covered in scars that displayed a startling dark blue skin beneath the short white hair. Moving as a pair, they ranged out to the far right-inland-and lifted noses to the air. The other Hounds came straight for Traveller.
He walked down to meet them.
Shan was the first to arrive, pulling up along one side, then slinking like a cat around his back to come up on the other. He settled his left hand on her sleek black neck. Ancient Baran was next, and Traveller reached out to set his other hand against one muscled cheek, feeling the skein of seamed scars from centuries of savage combat, the hint of crushing molars beneath the ragged but soft skin. Looking into the beast’s light brown eyes, he found he could not hold the gaze for long-too much sorrow, too much longing for peace for which he could give no benison. Baran leaned his head into that caress, and then rasped a thick tongue against Traveller’s forearm.
With tht huge beasts all round him now excepting the two white ones-traveller approached the throne. As he drew nearer, Cotillion finally faced him.
‘You look terrible, old friend.’
Traveller smiled, not bothering to respond in kind. Cotillion’s face betrayed exhaustion, beyond anything he had ever seen when the man had been mortal, when he had been named I Dancer, when he had shared the rule of an empire. Where were the gifts of godhood? What was their value, when to grasp each one was to flinch in pain and leak blood from the hands?
‘You two,’ Traveller said, eyes settling now on Shadowthrone, ‘banish my every regret.’
‘That won’t last, I’m sure,’ hissed the god on his throne. ‘Where is your army, First Sword? I see only dust in your wake.’
‘While you sit here, claiming dominion over a wasteland.’
‘Enough of the mutual appreciation. You are beset, old friend-hee hee, how often do I use those words, eh? Old friends, oh, where are they now? How far fallen? Scattered to the winds, stumbling hopelessly unguided and blind-’
‘You never had that many friends, Kellanved.’
‘Beset, I was saying. By nightfall you will be dead of dehydration-it is four days or more to the first spring on the Lamatath Plain.’
‘I see.’
‘Of course, no matter where you happen to be when you finally die, your old friend is bound to come find you.’
‘Yes, I am sure he will.’
‘To gloat in victory.’
‘Hood does not gloat.’
‘Well, that’s a disappointing notion. So, he will come to not gloat, then. No matter. The point is, you will have lost.’
‘And my success or lack thereof matters to you, Kellanved?’
Cotillion replied. ‘Surprisingly, yes it does.’
‘Why?’
That blunt question seemed to take both gods aback for a moment. Then Shadowthrone snorted. ‘Does it matter? Hardly. Not at all, in fact. We are here to help you, you damned oaf. You stubborn, obstinate, belligerent fool. Why I ever considered you an old friend entirely escapes me! You are too stupid to have been one, ever! Look, even Cotillion is exasperated by your dimwittedness.’
‘Mostly amused, actually,’ Cotillion corrected, now grinning at Traveller. ‘I was just reminded of our, ah, discussions in the command tent when on campaign. Perhaps the most telling truth of old friendships is in how their dynamics never change.’
‘Including your smarmy postulations,’ said Shadowthrone drily. ‘Listen, you, Traveller or however you call yourself now. My Hounds will guide you to your salvation-hah, how often has that been said? In the meantime, we will give you skins of water, dried fruit and the like-the myriad irritating needs of mortality, I seem to recall. Vaguely. Whatever.’
‘And what do you seek in return for this gift?’
A dozen heartbeats passed with no reply forthcoming,
Traveller’s face slowly descended into a dangerous frown. ‘I will not be swayed from my task. Not even delayed-’
‘No, of course not.’ Shadowthrone waved an ephemeral hand. ‘The very opposite, in fact. We urge you. We exhort you. Make haste, set true your course, seek out your confrontation. Let nothing and no one stand in your way.’
Traveller’s frown deepened.
A soft laugh from Cotillion. ‘No need. He speaks true, First Sword. It is our pleasure to enable you, in this particular matter.’
‘I will not bargain with him.’
‘We know.’
‘I am not sure you fully understand-’
‘We do.’
‘I mean to kill Hood. I mean to kill the God of Death.’
‘Best of luck to you!’ said Shadowthrone.
More silence.
Cotillion then came forward, carrying supplies that had not been there a moment ago. He set them down. ‘Shan will lead the way,’ he said quietly, stepping back.
Traveller glanced over at the two new Hounds. ‘And those ones?’
Cotillion followed his gaze, looking momentarily troubled before he shrugged. ‘Hard to say. They just sort’ve… showed up-’
‘I summoned them, of course!’ said Shadowthrone. ‘The white one is named Pallid. The whiter one is named Lock. Seven is the desired number, the necessary number.’
‘Shadowthrone,’ Cotillion said, ‘you did not summon them.’
‘I must have! Why else would they be here? I’m sure I did, at some point. A wish, perhaps, whilst staring upward at the stars. Or a desire, yes, of such overwhelming power that even the Abyss could not deny me!’
‘The others seem to have accepted them,’ Cotillion noted, shrugging again.
‘Has it occurred to you,’ said Traveller, softly, to the god standing before him, ‘that they might be the fabled Hounds of Light?’
‘Really? Why would you think that?’ And in that moment, when Cotillion met his eyes and winked, all the exhaustion-the very immortality of ascendancy itself-vanished, and Traveller saw once more-after what seemed a lifetime the man he had once called his friend.
Yet he could not bring himself to smile, to yield any response at all to that gesture and the invitation it offered. He could not afford such… weakness. Not now, perhaps never again. Certainly, not with what these two old friends
