‘Ha! Got it!’
A blossoming of power pushed Dancer from behind like a giant’s hand. The gigantic beast also flinched, snarling, down upon its forepaws. Dancer found himself eye to eye with the titanic thing. Its gaze was hot and lusting, but held more than just blind animal instinct; he thought he saw intelligence within the eyes. A kind of reasoning and cunning. Just what were these things?
A hand took hold of his collar, drew him backwards. He retreated, on guard, but the hound did not press its advantage; it appeared content to allow them to go – so long as they were leaving.
Plain guardians then? Set upon the borders? Or just fiercely territorial? Would he ever understand this mystery?
‘This way,’ Kellanved shouted. His words were almost drowned out by the steady deep waterfall thrumming. Dancer dared one quick glimpse over his shoulder and saw that the gate was indeed active now: its centre was cloudy, opaque. He could no longer see through it.
‘What now?’ he shouted back.
‘We, ah, jump through, I suppose.’
‘You don’t know?’ he yelled. ‘You’re supposed to be the expert!’
‘Well, I’ve never done anything like this before, have I!’
Dancer noted the hound’s sky-blue eyes narrowing, its haunches lowering and tightening. It seemed that with no monster worthy of its respect emerging from the gate it was running out of patience.
‘You go now,’ he called. ‘I’ll cover.’
‘Oh fine! Send me through first!’
Irritated beyond belief, Dancer almost turned his back on the crouched beast. ‘Would you just go through now!’
‘Well, if you’re going to be like that about it,’ Kellanved sniffed.
The beast’s rear claws now clenched at the sands for purchase. Dancer spun, saw Kellanved standing with hand on chin still studying the arch, and summarily planted a boot to his rear and pushed him through.
The mage’s yelp of surprise and protest was cut off as he disappeared within the clouded milky opaqueness.
Dancer leapt after him even as he heard the jarring clash of teeth closing upon the air just behind.
*
The beast remained crouched before the gate for a time, jaws upon its forepaws, patient and waiting. Eventually, however, with nothing forthcoming, it lost interest – or another summoning beckoned – and it loped off across the hills, howling.
Watching from its hilltop, the night-dark creature threw open its broad wings and took flight. It wafted over the sullen featureless skies of Shadow, scudding low across the landscape, until it found what it sought: a lone figure marking a solitary path through the barrens.
It landed before the scarecrow-thin walker, who came to a halt. To all appearances it resembled an ambulatory corpse. Mummified leather-like skin clung to wind-and sun-greyed bone peeping out behind rusted and tattered ancient armour. A single weapon hung at its waist, rusted and blunted.
The desiccated corpse tilted its eyeless face to regard the flying creature. After a time it asked in a breathless whisper, ‘Yes?’
‘Those poachers have returned,’ the bat-like thing hissed, somehow conveying disapproval and impatience. ‘They escaped the hounds.’
‘So?’
It hopped on its tiny clawed feet, clearly agitated. ‘They are meddling! They have opened a gate into the Scarred Lands.’
‘That is outside my purview.’
The creature fairly leapt into the air. ‘What? Purview? They trespass! Vandalize! Fall upon them and rend them bone from bone!’
‘No.’
‘No? It is what you do. None have defeated you! Exult in your supremacy, Edgewalker!’
‘You have no idea what it is I do, Koro.’
‘Faugh! Your passivity is infuriating! If you will not act then at least set Telorast and Curdle upon them.’
‘No.’
‘No?’ the creature fairly squawked. ‘No? Why ever not?’
‘Because I do not want them eaten. Not yet, in any case.’
Koro hopped in animated circles. ‘Bah! Do you guard or not?’
‘I do – in my own manner.’
‘Infuriating!’ And Koro leapt into the air.
‘Do not interfere,’ the skeletal figure called after it. ‘Save at my order.’
The creature flapped away, though its torn membranous wings did not appear in any way adequate to keep it aloft.
The desiccated corpse, Edgewalker, regarded the flat umber horizon in the direction of the gate to the Scarred Lands. It adjusted the hang of the sheathed sword at its side, dust sifting from the cracked leather belt, and continued its slow limping walk.
*
Dancer fell into what felt like a heap of ash. Sooty black dust that marked him like charcoal. To one side Kellanved sat coughing. Dancer stood and faced the gate, weapons raised.
‘It will not pursue us,’ Kellanved said, his voice hoarse.
‘Why not?’
‘I believe because it has not been summoned.’
‘We didn’t summon them before.’
Kellanved slapped the dust from his chest and sleeves. ‘Oh, we did! By invoking Shadow.’
Dancer eased his stance. ‘Ah. I see.’ He turned a full circle. Gentle rolling hills all round, bare, wind-blown, with scarves of ash and dust masking the distances. ‘Another garden spot you’ve managed to find for us. Why couldn’t it be an orchard, or a vineyard?’
Kellanved tapped his walking stick in the dirt. ‘Don’t blame me. All this is the legacy of ancient war, violence, and curses.’ He nodded to himself as he examined the blasted hillsides. ‘Yes. Curses. They linger even now.’
‘Are we safe?’
The little mage blinked, distracted. ‘What? Safe? Oh yes. Provided nothing from the period that produced this desolation should find us.’ He pointed his stick. ‘This way, I believe.’
Dancer set off with him, though every direction appeared the same. ‘How can you tell?’
Kellanved pointed. ‘I sense something over there. Some sort of disruption. Something perhaps impinging into the Warren here.’
Dancer shoved his blades home in his baldrics. ‘Well, let’s hope it’s not too much of a disruption.’
They walked on. Dancer had no idea how much time passed, or how far they’d travelled. All the landscape ran together into one indistinguishable wasteland of blackened earth and blowing ash and dust. It left a taste of acrid smoke in his mouth, stung his eyes, and tricked his ears with faint ghostly brushings and moans.
He wondered if the place was haunted and decided it probably was.
After a time something changed ahead; some sort of haze blurred the distant hillsides, as of a dust storm. It appeared to be heading their way, like a moving curtain of darkness.
The two men slowed, then halted. ‘What is it?’ Dancer asked.
‘I do not know – but it isn’t natural, I assure you of that.’
‘Nothing here is natural.’ He drew out a handkerchief and tied it over his lower face.
Kellanved watched, amused. ‘It is not that sort of storm. It is like a storm among Warrens. We must be passing over a bizarre region.’ Dancer glimpsed the faint rippling about him that betrayed his raised Warren.
Dust and sand now buffeted them and the Dal Hon frowned. ‘This isn’t normal.’