remove himself from possible danger.
“Coward,” Death said, though his tone was not unkind.
He squinted, peering into the soot-thickened wind, and made a swift decision. As quickly as he could think it, his scythe flowed, fluid for less than the blink of an eye. Death was now holding two weapons where there had only been one: two crescent blades, thick and heavy, shaped like knives but larger than most swords. Blades that would be easier to swing and thrust through the violent gusts than the longer, broader scythe.
“I didn’t know you could do that.”
Death had never heard that voice, high and sneering, before. But between the sound and the silhouette appearing through the cloud, he recognized his visitor all the same.
“I am Death,” he said simply, without pomp or vanity, “and Harvester is bound to me. Whatever tools I require to serve my function, it can emulate. Hello, Panoptos.”
“You’ve heard of me! I’m flattered.”
The dusky figure that finally materialized was peculiar even by the Horseman’s standards. Gaunt, almost spindly, humanoid from the waist up, tapering off into semi-solid vapors below. Its arms and fingers were stretched and distended, its wings serrated and broad. Its oblong face, like Death’s mask, lacked anything resembling a mouth, though this didn’t stop it from speaking. Instead, it boasted an array of emerald eyes, shifting and flowing across a vaguely gelatinous surface. Nine of them, usually; though between the constant motion, and the fact that one or two would occasionally disappear, only to sprout anew, the number varied moment by moment.
“Don’t be. The Charred Council told me about you,” Death said. “My brothers told me
more
about you. Care to guess who I’m most likely to believe?”
“Aww …” The creature sniggered softly. “Surely you know better than to listen to rumor and gossip!”
“Depends who’s spreading the rumors.” Death allowed Harvester to return to its innate form, that of the single great scythe, and leaned it against the partial wall of bone. At his silent command, the ghouls resumed their labors.
“So,” Panoptos said, flitting this way and that, untouched by the wailing winds. “Welcome back. Such a lovely home you’ve chosen. Very … you.” Already concealed beneath the newer walls of bone, the older, inner structure had apparently escaped his notice.
It wasn’t an oversight Death felt compelled to correct. “I enjoy the view.”
“Heh. Strife
said
you were a sarcastic bastard.”
“What do you want, Panoptos?”
Clearly, the creature had no interest in answering Death’s question, at least not yet. “Where have you been these past centuries, anyway?”
“I wouldn’t tell the Charred Council when they asked. What makes you think I’ll tell you?”
Again that irritating little laugh. “Why, as a gesture of friendship! I
so
want us to be friends.”
“It’s good to have goals. Keeps us motivated,” Death told him. “But I wouldn’t wager anything you can’t do without, were I you.”
“How unkind! We’ve only just met!”
“And I already despise you. Imagine how much greater my loathing will become when I
have
gotten to know you.”
Panoptos might have had a retort for that, or not, but Dust chose that moment to decide the newcomer was safe after all. He dropped from above to settle comfortably on Death’s shoulder, puffing out his feathers and shaking off the worst of the soot.
Every one of Panoptos’s eyes blinked in unison. “Where did the bird come from?” he screeched.
“His name is Dust,” the Horseman said.
“That is
not
what I asked!”
“And yet, it’s the answer you got. The universe works in mysterious ways.”
“Hmph!” Panoptos darted upward, apparently for no other reason than so he could look down on Death. “Does the Crowfather know you’ve absconded with one of his creatures?” he asked petulantly.
The Council’s errand boy doesn’t care for