mountain of ice. ‘Then what is that?’
‘Something that belongs here no more than you.’
‘Oh.’ Kiska lowered her arm, shivered. ‘Well, I didn’t ask to come here.’
‘You were swept up by a Changing, a shadow storm. They will be frequent. I suggest you stay indoors.’
‘Indoors?’ Kiska barked a laugh.
’Where?’
Then she clamped her mouth shut. ‘You mean . . . you will send me back?’
‘Yes. I will. You do not belong here.’
‘Then I suppose I should give you my thanks.’ Kiska pushed back her hair, eyed the dunes. Was this really Malaz? Then she remembered. ‘Do you know a man named Oleg?’
‘No. I know of no one by that name.’
‘What of a ruler? If this is Shadow then does it have a throne?’
Edgewalker remained silent for a time, long enough for Kiska to lean closer. Had he died?
But at last he asked, ‘What of it?’
‘I was told someone would attempt to take it this night.’
‘Countless have tried. All have failed. Even those who succeeded for a time. Myself included, after a fashion. Now I walk its boundaries forever. And I fared better than most.’
Bizarrely, Kiska felt disappointed by the acknowledgement. She’d half-suspected, half-hoped, that Oleg had been insane. Now she tried to recall more of his babbling.
A low moaning raised the hairs at her neck. The creature raised one sinewy arm like the twisted branch of an oak and pointed back across the stream. Gold rings glinted on his withered fingers. ‘A Hound has found your scent. Run while you can, child.’
She needed no more convincing, yet she suddenly remembered. ‘What is entombment? What is that?’
‘The price of failure. Eternal enslavement to Shadow House.’
The baying returned, closer now, echoing from the distant wall of glittering ice. ‘You haven’t much time,’ said the being, its voice no more than the scratching of leaves. ‘Go to Obo’s tower. Beg his protection.’
‘Obo’s tower? But that’s an empty ruin. Obo’s just a myth.’
‘No doubt so were certain Hounds a mere hour ago.’
Kiska blinked her surprise. ‘But what of you? Will you be safe?’
The brittle flesh of the being’s neck creaked as it cocked its head to regard her through empty sockets. ‘The Hounds and I are akin. Slaves to Shadow in our own ways. But I thank you for your concern. Now you must go.’
The creature raised a clawed hand in farewell and at that the world darkened. All around shadows writhed like black wings. For an instant she thought she heard a chorus of whispers in a confusing multitude of languages. Then the shadows whipped away, and she recognized where she stood: Riverwalk, south of Malaz River.
Immediately, a howl tore through the night so loud that Kiska jumped as if the Hound was beside her, ready to close its jaws. She took off at a run, not daring to glance behind. Ahead, a mere few blocks, the jagged top of Obo’s ruined tower thrust into the clouds like a broken dagger. Another bellow, loud as a thunderclap, and she stumbled. Screams rose around her, torn from the throats of terrified citizens locked in their houses. She raced around a corner and over an open square, then dived the low stone wall of the tower grounds. Amongst the leaves and tossed garbage of the abandoned yard she lay trembling, straining to listen.
But she heard nothing, only the surf, strangely distant, and the rush of wind. Slowly, she brought her breath under control, stilled her pulse. Something kicked through the fallen branches and she suppressed a yelp. She raised her head a fraction: a thin foot in leather sandals. She looked up. An old man in tatteredbrown woollen robes, hefting a tree limb as a staff. He was bald but for strands of long wild white hair in a fringe over his ears.
He glowered down the length of a long hooked nose. ‘What’s this?’ he muttered, as if he’d stepped on a cow turd.
Kiska blinked up at him. Who was this doddering oldster? Surely not Obo, the malevolent ogre of
‘Something that belongs here no more than you.’
‘Oh.’ Kiska lowered her arm, shivered. ‘Well, I didn’t ask to come here.’
‘You were swept up by a Changing, a shadow storm. They will be frequent. I suggest you stay indoors.’
‘Indoors?’ Kiska barked a laugh.
’Where?’
Then she clamped her mouth shut. ‘You mean . . . you will send me back?’
‘Yes. I will. You do not belong here.’
‘Then I suppose I should give you my thanks.’ Kiska pushed back her hair, eyed the dunes. Was this really Malaz? Then she remembered. ‘Do you know a man named Oleg?’
‘No. I know of no one by that name.’
‘What of a ruler? If this is Shadow then does it have a throne?’
Edgewalker remained silent for a time, long enough for Kiska to lean closer. Had he died?
But at last he asked, ‘What of it?’
‘I was told someone would attempt to take it this night.’
‘Countless have tried. All have failed. Even those who succeeded for a time. Myself included, after a fashion. Now I walk its boundaries forever. And I fared better than most.’
Bizarrely, Kiska felt disappointed by the acknowledgement. She’d half-suspected, half-hoped, that Oleg had been insane. Now she tried to recall more of his babbling.
A low moaning raised the hairs at her neck. The creature raised one sinewy arm like the twisted branch of an oak and pointed back across the stream. Gold rings glinted on his withered fingers. ‘A Hound has found your scent. Run while you can, child.’
She needed no more convincing, yet she suddenly remembered. ‘What is entombment? What is that?’
‘The price of failure. Eternal enslavement to Shadow House.’
The baying returned, closer now, echoing from the distant wall of glittering ice. ‘You haven’t much time,’ said the being, its voice no more than the scratching of leaves. ‘Go to Obo’s tower. Beg his protection.’
‘Obo’s tower? But that’s an empty ruin. Obo’s just a myth.’
‘No doubt so were certain Hounds a mere hour ago.’
Kiska blinked her surprise. ‘But what of you? Will you be safe?’
The brittle flesh of the being’s neck creaked as it cocked its head to regard her through empty sockets. ‘The Hounds and I are akin. Slaves to Shadow in our own ways. But I thank you for your concern. Now you must go.’
The creature raised a clawed hand in farewell and at that the world darkened. All around shadows writhed like black wings. For an instant she thought she heard a chorus of whispers in a confusing multitude of languages. Then the shadows whipped away, and she recognized where she stood: Riverwalk, south of Malaz River.
Immediately, a howl tore through the night so loud that Kiska jumped as if the Hound was beside her, ready to close its jaws. She took off at a run, not daring to glance behind. Ahead, a mere few blocks, the jagged top of Obo’s ruined tower thrust into the clouds like a broken dagger. Another bellow, loud as a thunderclap, and she stumbled. Screams rose around her, torn from the throats of terrified citizens locked in their houses. She raced around a corner and over an open square, then dived the low stone wall of the tower grounds. Amongst the leaves and tossed garbage of the abandoned yard she lay trembling, straining to listen.
But she heard nothing, only the surf, strangely distant, and the rush of wind. Slowly, she brought her breath under control, stilled her pulse. Something kicked through the fallen branches and she suppressed a yelp. She raised her head a fraction: a thin foot in leather sandals. She looked up. An old man in tatteredbrown woollen robes, hefting a tree limb as a staff. He was bald but for strands of long wild white hair in a fringe over his ears.
He glowered down the length of a long hooked nose. ‘What’s this?’ he muttered, as if he’d stepped on a cow turd.
Kiska blinked up at him. Who was this doddering oldster? Surely not Obo, the malevolent ogre of
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