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I hadn’t at that point adequately absorbed my surroundings
within the underground world. As I seated myself at a small
nearby table, I realized we were situated atop a great sable
skyscraper carved from the dullest anthracite. It was but a
single structure amid an endless cityscape, stretching beyond
the dark horizon in every direction. This place was made to
the specific comforts of living shadows. I was at last in the
darkly fabled city of Unduur.
The thing sitting across from me was known as a
Darkling. Nourished by purest darkness, I could hear the
kindle of shadows surging through the metal coils and
tubers that adorned his armored exterior. For all of that, he
was a perfectly pleasant host, even offering me a beverage.
I declined, of course. I was all too familiar with the sweet
blackberry wines derived from the dusky fruits of the deep
woods, where the eldest Dark Hats are known to pray to
strange gods. The inky beverages were likely to contain
spirits of a decidedly non-alcoholic variety.
Without conversational nuance, my host began his
exposition. “The Shepherd of Wolves is a type of being
called, by my kind, an Unbegotten. These creatures are
without beginning or end, and they seek nothing but the
limits of their own pleasure. They have been known, from
time to time, to put on a semblance of definition—merely
a trifling whim on their part, we suspect. The Shepherd,
in particular, enjoys the occasional solidity of shape and
title, and has made great sport of his pet murderers, even
fashioning games of death to further satisfy its fascination
with killing and killers. Surely, this last bit is why you have
sought us. You are a player in one of his games, are you
not?”
“I am,” I confirmed.
“I see. In the past, the Shepherd’s contests were small,
consisting only of a handful of participants, and taking
place across a relatively minute killing field. But since the
Darkness, all that has changed. The powers behind the night
198 | Mark Anzalone