The two clockwork hounds emerged from the northern archway not with a reckless charge, but with a low, hungry stalking glide that was terrifying in its unnatural smooth speed.
They moved in tandem, their black star-fallen iron chassis low to the ground, their four multi-jointed brass legs moving with a smooth, oiled articulation that barely clicked against the stone flags. In the center of their wedge-shaped skulls, their triple quartz crystals spun slowly, casting narrow beams of pale crimson tracking light across the floor.
At every step, their iron snouts twitched, sniffing the cold draft for traces of mortal iron and sweat.
The lead hound paused at the third intercolumniation, barely six feet from where Qiao Ming’s horsehair tripwire was stretched across the aisle. Its crimson eyes flickered, scanning the floor flags. But the dark brown cord was impossible to tell apart from the shadow cast by the third red stone column.
Behind it, the second hound crowded close, its iron ribs shaking with the muffled hum of its high-pressure spirit-fire.
A faint draft of air shifted through the hall, carrying the scent of drying kelp and sheep fat from the high capital where Yan Zhiqiu was hidden.
The lead hound’s head snapped upward.
