Zalbar had no love for that crime-lord who traded in slaves to mask his more
illicit activities, but neither could he tolerate a Hell Hound taking it upon
himself to be judge and executioner. But he had been ordered by the prince to
allow Tempus free rein and was powerless to even investigate the rumours: a fine
state of affairs when the law-enforcers became the lawbreakers and the lawgiver’
only moved to shelter them.
A scream rent the air, interrupting Zalbar’s reverie and bringing him to his
feet, sword in hand. As he cast about, searching for the source of the noise, he
remembered he had heard screams like that before … though not on any
battlefield. It wasn’t a scream of pain, hatred, or terror but the heartless,
soulless sounds of one without hope and assaulted by horror too great for the
mind to comprehend.
The silence was completely shattered by a second scream and this time Zalbar
knew the source was the beautifully gardened house. He watched in growing
disbelief as the gardener calmly continued his work, not even bothering to look
up despite the now frequent screams. Either the man was deaf or Zalbar himself
was going mad, reacting to imaginary noises from a best-forgotten past. Turning
to Razkuli for confirmation, Zalbar was outraged to find his friend not only
still seated but grinning ear-to-ear.
‘Now do you see why I was willing to pass this spot by?’ the swarthy Hell Hound
said with a laugh. ‘Perhaps the next time I offer to lead you won’t be so quick
to exert your rank.’
‘You were expecting this?’ Zalbar demanded, unsoothed by Razkuli’s humour.