“Hold, hold,” Jol hushed the hounds as they struggled against his grip on their leads. The pack yelped and bayed and snarled in frenzy, their eyes tracking the lone runner on the plains below them. Jol could see the figure start as the winds shifted, pulling the keening yowls of the keelhounds down the hill. He felt sorry for them, sometimes, when the Prophet-Queen was far enough away that his thoughts were his own. Nothing living could outrun the keelhounds, and few things could kill one. Only wings would save the runner now.

“Go.” The whispered command danced in his mind as the Prophet-Queen tugged her mental leash. Jol dropped the leads, sending the pack in a mad wave down the hill. In moments the runner was torn to pieces, reduced to a simple pile of scraps in less time than it took for Jol to look away. He could feel her there, watching through his eyes and laughing.