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darkness in the hall.
    The howling echoed everywhere, rising and falling, sometimes seeming to die and then rising to an even louder pitch.
    And then it was joined by a peculiar roaring sound.
    These were the sounds of the Dog and the Bear—the dark and dreadful gods of the Mabden.
    * * *
    The hall shuddered. A peculiar light began to manifest itself over the vacant throne.
    And then, wreathed in radiance of unpleasant and unnameable colours, a being stood on the granite dais and it turned its muzzle this way and that, sniffing for the feast. It was huge and it stank and it stood upon its hind legs like a parody of those who, quaking, observed it.
    The Dog sniffed again. Noises came from its throat. It shook its hairy head.
    Still from somewhere came the other sound—the sound of grunting and roaring. This now grew louder and louder and, hearing it, the Dog cocked its head on one side and paused in its sniffing.
    A dark blue light appeared on the dais on the opposite side of the throne. It took a form and the Bear stood there—a great, black bear with long, black horns curling from its head. It opened its snout and grimaced, displaying its pointed fangs. It reached out towards the charred wicker cage and it ripped it down from where it hung.
    The Dog and the Bear fell upon the contents of the cage, stuffing the roasted human flesh into their mouths, growling and snuffling and choking, crunching the bones with the bloody juices running down their snouts.
    And then they were finished and they lounged on the dais and glared around them at the silent, fearful mortals.
    Primitive gods for a primitive people.
    For the first time King Lyr-a-Brode left his circle of guards and walked towards the throne. He lowered himself to his knees and raised his arms in supplication to the Dog and the Bear.
    “Great lords, hear us!” he moaned. “We have learned that Lord Arag has been slain by our enemy the Shefanhow who is in league with our enemies of Lywm-an-Esh, the Sinking Land. Our cause is threatened and thus is your own rule in danger. Will you aid us, lords?”
    The Dog growled. The Bear snuffled.
    “Will you aid us, lords?”
    The Dog cast its fierce eyes about the hall and it seemed that the same feral glint was in every other eye there. It was pleased. It spoke.
    “We know of the danger. It is greater than you think.” The voice was clipped, harsh and it did not come easily to the canine throat. “You will have to marshal your strength quickly and march swiftly upon our enemies if those we serve are to retain their power and make you, in turn, stronger.”
    “Our captains are already gathered, my lord the Dog, and their armies come to join them at Kalenwyr.”
    “That is good. Then we shall send you the aid we can send.” The Dog turned its huge head and regarded its brother the Bear.
    The Bear’s voice was high-pitched but easier to understand.
    “Our enemies will also seek aid, but they will have greater difficulty in finding it, for Arkyn of Law is still weak. Arioch—whom you call Arag—must be brought back to his rightful place to rule these planes again. But if he is to do this a new heart must be found for him and a new fleshly form. There is only one heart and one form which will serve—the heart and form of his banisher, Corum in the Scarlet Robe. Complicated sorcery will be required to prepare Corum once he is captured—but captured he must be.”
    “Not slain?”
    It was Glandyth’s disappointed tones.
    “Why spare him?” said the Bear.
    And even Glandyth shuddered.
    “We leave now,” said the Dog. “Our aid will arrive soon. It will be led by one who is a messenger to the Great Gods themselves—to the Sword Ruler of the next plane, Queen Xiombarg. He will tell you more than can we.”
    And then the Dog and the Bear were gone and the stink of the cooked human flesh hung in the black hall and King Lyr’s quaking voice called through the darkness. “Bring brands! Bring brands!”
    The doors were