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.’