Ducking, he spun round to see, cartwheeling above tent-roofs, a soldier, his weapon whipping away – and now the sudden snap of guyropes, the earth trembling underfootAnd a monstrous, black, blurred shape appeared, racing like lightning over the ground – straight for them.
A wave of charged air struck the three like a battering ram a moment before the beast reached them. Hurlochel, all breath driven from his lungs, flew through the air, landing hard on one shoulder, then rolling – caught a glimpse of Captain Sweetcreek tossed to one side, limp as a rag doll, and Futhgar seeming to vanish into the dirt as the midnight creature simply ran right over the hapless manThe Hound's eyesOther beasts, bursting through the camp – horses screaming, soldiers shrieking in terror, wagons flung aside before waves of power – and Hurlochel saw one creature – no, impossibleThe world darkened alarmingly as he lay in a heap, paralysed, desperate to draw a breath. The spasm clutching his chest loosed suddenly and sheer joy followed the sweet dusty air down into his lungs.
Nearby, the captain was coughing, on her hands and knees, spitting blood.
From Futhgar, a single piteous groan.
Pushing himself upright, Hurlochel turned – saw the Hounds reach the wall of G'danisban – and stared, eyes wide, as a huge section of that massive barrier exploded, stone and brick facing shooting skyward above a billowing cloud of dust – then the concussion rolled over themA horse galloped past, eyes white with terror'Not us!' Sweetcreek gasped, crawling over. 'Thank the gods – just passing through – just-' She began coughing again.
On watery legs, Hurlochel sank down onto his knees. 'It made no sense,' he whispered, shaking his head, as buildings in the city beyond rocked and blew apart'What?'
He looked across at Sweetcreek. You don't understand – I looked into that black beast's eyes, woman! 'I saw… I saw-'
'What?'
I saw pure terrorThe earth rumbled anew. A resurgence of screams – and he turned, even as five huge shapes appeared, tearing wide, relentless paths through the encamped army – big, bigger than – oh, gods below**** 'He said to wait-' Noto Boil began, then wailed as his horse flinched so hard he would later swear he heard bones breaking, then the beast wheeled from the temple entrance and bolted, peeling the cutter from its back like a wood shaving.
He landed awkwardly, felt and heard ribs crack, the pain vanishing before a more pressing distress, that being the fish spine lodged halfway down his throat.
Choking, sky darkening, eyes bulgingThen the girl hovering over him. Frowning for a lifetime.
Stupid stupid stupidBefore she reached into his gaping mouth, then gently withdrew the spine.
Whimpering behind that first delicious breath, Noto Boil closed his eyes, becoming aware once again that those indrawn breaths in fact delivered stabbing agony across his entire chest. He opened tearfilled eyes.
The girl still loomed over him, but her attention was, it seemed, elsewhere. Not even towards the temple entrance – but down the main avenue.
Where someone was pounding infernal drums, the thunder making the cobbles shiver and jump beneath him – causing yet more pain – And this day started so well…
'Not Soletaken,' Paran was saying to the goddess writhing on her throne, the pierced hand and its otataral spike pinning her here, to this realm, to this dreadful extremity, 'not Soletaken at all, although it might at first seem so. Alas, Poliel, more complicated than that. My outrider's comment earlier, regarding my eyes – well, that was sufficient, and from those howls we just heard, it turns out the timing is about right.'
The captain glanced down once more at the woman on the tiles.
Unconscious, perhaps dead. He didn't think the Hounds would bother with her. Gathering the reins, he straightened in his saddle. 'I can't stay, I'm afraid. But let me leave you with this: you made a terrible mistake. Fortunately, you won't have long to regret it.'
Concussions in the city, coming ever closer.
'Mess with mortals, Poliel,' he said, wheeling his horse round, 'and you pay.'
The man named Brokeface – who had once possessed another name, another life – cowered to one side of the altar chamber's entranceway. The three priests had fled back down the hallway. He was, for the moment, alone. So very alone. All over again. A poor soldier of the rebellion, young and so proud back then – shattered in one single moment.
A Gral horse, a breath thick with the reek of wet grass, teeth like chisels driving down through flesh, through bone, taking everything away. He had become an unwelcome mirror to ugliness, for every face turning upon his own had twisted in revulsion, or worse, morbid fascination. And new fears had sunk deep, hungry roots into his soul, flinching terrors that ever drove him forward, seeking to witness pain and suffering in others, seeking to make of his misery a legion, soldiers to a new cause, each as broken as he.