from an ill-omened tumble. Ten felons from the city dungeons, drugged into a
stupor, clambered past – oblivious to the past and present as well as the
limited future. Their white robes were already soiled by numerous falls in the
muddy streets but none had seriously injured himself.
At the rear of the procession, wearing another mask of hammered gold and
obsidian, Prince KLadakithis groped his way to the tent. He glanced at Molin
as he passed though their masks made subtle communication impossible. It was
enough, for Molin’s purposes, that the Prince himself was entering the tent.
He tied the cloth-door of the tent closed and braced three crossed spears
against the lintel.
The Hell Hounds formed an outer perimeter – the Hell Hounds save for Tempus whom
Molin, with self-congratulations, had had assigned to other duties in the
palace; the man might not do as he was told, but he wouldn’t be near this
ritual. The Hounds held their drawn swords before them; they would administer
the coup de grace should anyone leave or enter the tent before sunrise. Molin
reminded them of their obligations in a voice that carried well beyond the
unfinished walls.
‘Those Ten whom Vashanka destroyed have been disgraced and remain unworshipped
to this day; their very names have been unlearned. But the wraith of a god is
far stronger than the spirit of a mortal man. They will feel their deaths again
and converge upon this site seeking an unwitting or feeble mortal whom they can
usurp and use against their brother. It is your duty to see that this does not