Deadhouse Landing

‘Nightchill.’ She walked on and he trailed along with her. ‘Not a night to be out,’ she continued. ‘There are things in this storm.’

‘I know.’ He raised his wide knotted hands. ‘I nearly had one. Another minute and I’d have throttled it, I’m sure. But we fell into the river and I had to let go.’

She eyed him. ‘Really? You had to?’

He grimaced, ran a hand over his crew-cut pate. ‘Can’t swim.’

‘Ah.’ She wondered if he was referring to one of the hounds, or some other fiend out of Shadow. She knew it was possible to destroy them – if one were potent enough. It was rare these days that anything could impress her; yet this one’s feat, if true, was worthy of it.

She crossed streets and squares, always directing herself towards the nexus of power manifesting in the town. Eventually, she reached it, or as close as she could come in the normal mundane world. She faced a small square, a crossroads, really, graced by a small stone drinking fountain, fed, no doubt, by spring water channelled in from higher on the island.

Facing the small square, one block over, as she suspected, squatted the structure the locals called the Deadhouse.

Here also were gathered the night’s witnesses.

Seeing these people through the murk, Urko, at her side, grunted his recognition. He bowed his farewell to her, and jogged off to join a group of his fellow Napans, together with a mage she knew to be a compatriot of Agayla’s.

And speaking of the servant of the Weaver and an eye of the Enchantress, she too stood to one side. She went to join her and nodded a greeting, to which Agayla merely scowled. ‘What do you want here, Elder?’

‘I am merely curious.’

Agayla snorted her scepticism.

‘And our friend Obo?’

Agayla snorted once again. ‘Only the submersion of the entire island would bring him out.’

While they watched, the churning and spinning tatters of murk and shadow coalesced, rather like a sort of funnel cloud, while two shapes took on solidity and form within. The display of power was of interest to Sister of Cold Nights, as she saw demonstrated a mastery of Meanas. But she sensed far more – something she hadn’t witnessed in ages – the lineaments of an Elder Realm thought lost. Ancient Kurald Emurlahn.

This, itself, was of great note generally as well as to her personally, as it touched directly upon her purposes. Great interest generally, as was affirmed by another figure she glimpsed watching from Shadow itself – no doubt invisible to all else present. Lean and tall, in weathered time-gnawed armour, his face a dried leather mien of bared yellow teeth.

She quickly glanced away. Edgewalker, guardian of Shadow.

The gyre of raw potency tightened and darkened. Energies crackled and snapped about it. It looked as if it consisted of a great mass of shadows all flowing into it from every nook and cranny of the city, and, perhaps, even beyond; mayhap the entire island. Thus it deepened and intensified, until not even her senses could penetrate the dense liquid gloom of dusk at its centre.

The concentration of power amassed impressed even her.

Then, with a boom as of a release of tension, or energies, that struck everyone as a physical blow to the chest, the pressure and ‘presence’ of a gateway passed and the gusting contrary winds began to ease. The shadows drifted away, revealing two figures in the square who had not been present earlier, the two whom she knew from Heng: the short mage of Meanas, and the slim knife-fighter with whom she had spoken before.

Sister of Cold Nights glanced over to where Edgewalker had been watching, fully expecting to see him gone. But he was not; he remained still, and appeared even more intent as he stared across the square. He even carried his sheathed sword in his bony hands now, as if ready to draw. She followed his gaze and had to tense. Four creatures of ancient legend were now edging forward into the square, muzzles low, ears down, clearly stalking the two at the centre. The Hounds of Shadow.

Everyone gathered about the side streets and alleyways backed away as the creatures slid forward on their forepaws, while the slim one, Dancer, shifted to guard the mage’s back, drawing his knives.

She applauded such bravery, but it was useless. There was nothing they could do, nor could, or would, anyone interfere; those beasts could tear anyone and anything apart. Even Azathani had died in their maws.

Agayla, she noticed, had edged closer to her side. Wisely, she had yet to raise her Warren.

‘Can you dismiss them?’ Agayla whispered.

She shook her head.

Agayla crossed her arms. ‘The fools. All that effort just to be torn to bits like all the others before them.’

But Sister of Cold Nights glanced aside to where Edgewalker still watched, intent, almost … concerned? ‘Perhaps not,’ she answered.