The Hounds of the Gods
The things that fling themselves at the Mutewall in the night. 3 meters long, on all fours, black-grey scaled skin, no eyes at the center of the face — only a hollow. Their howl does not come from the mouth; it comes from that hollow.
The Hounds of the Gods are the things that come up over the Mutewall from beyond in the night, dozens in a single night. 3 meters long, on all fours, their skin black-grey scale. There are no eyes at the center of their faces, only a hollow — and their howl does not come from the mouth; it comes from that hollow.
They hunt in concert, knowing to single out the man left alone, to pick the gaps between tower and tower. The Wall Garrison meets them with oil, fire, and bow, but the real trouble is this: the thing is hard to kill. Cut it anywhere and it does not die, save for one place — the third vertebra at the back of the neck. Only when the blade goes into that joint does it fall.
No one knows where they come from, why they always come in the night, why they must fling themselves at this one wall. The Wall Garrison does not ask such things. They only count: how many came tonight, how many men they are short tonight.
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