stallions on the beach, its eyes full of fire. Farther back within the cloud,
stonework could be seen, masonry like none in Sanctuary, a sky more blue and
hills more virile than any Kadakithis knew.
The first horse, reins flapping, was emerging, nose and neck casting shadows
upon solid Sanctuary sand; then its hooves scattered grains, and the whole of
the beast, and its rider, and the second horse he led on a long tether, stood
corporeal and motionless before the Hell Hound, while behind, the cloud whirled
in upon itself and was gone with an audible ‘pop’.
‘Greetings, Riddler,’ said the rider in burgundy and scarlet, as he doffed his
helmet with its blood-dark crest to Tempus. ‘I did not expect you, Abarsis. What
could be so urgent?’
‘I heard about the Tros horse’s death, so I thought to
bring you another, better auspiced, I hope. Since I was coming anyway, our
friends suggested I bring what you require. I have long wanted to meet you.’
Spurring his mount forward, he held out his hand. Red stallion and iron grey
snaked arched necks, thrusting forth clacking teeth, wide-gaped jaws emitting
squeals to go with flattened ears and rolling eyes. Above horse hostilities
could be heard snatches of low wordplay, parry and riposte: ‘… disappointed
that you could not build the temple’.’… welcome to take my place here and
try. The foundations of the temple grounds are defiled, the priest in charge
more corrupt than even politics warrants. I wash my hands …”… with the
warring imminent, how can you … ?’