Piers Anthony - On a Pale Horse

"Six of them."

"Can you outrun them?"

"Neigh. I could outdistance them in an extended run, for they lack my endurance, but their short-range speed is greater than mine."

"Can we hide from them?"

"No. They can sniff out even invisible spirits. They are Hell's cleanup squad. Nothing escapes them."

"Is there anywhere in the cosmos we can go where they can't follow?"

"Heaven, perhaps."

Zane laughed wryly. "Let's not involve Heaven in this! Let me consider."

"Do not consider more than ninety seconds. Death," the stallion said meaningfully.

Zane sat and pondered. He was surprised to discover that he was not afraid. He had never been a brave man; temper and bravado had passed for courage. But his recent activities in the office of Death had removed most of the dread of dying from him. He did not want to die himself, but this was now mainly a practical matter rather than fear for himself. If he died now, his replacement would end the strike and take Luna, and Satan would win. Luna might go to Heaven, and perhaps Zane would, too — though he would hardly bet on that! Certainly neither faced extinction. But how would the rest of humanity fare, if Satan had his way? That was Zane's real challenge.

The Hellhounds, it seemed, could kill him, for they were supernatural monsters who would not be balked by the magic of the Death cape. He might send one of them back to Hell in the same manner he had sent the chef-demon, even though its soul was not his proper department. But that would be the limit, since these creatures would have no fear of the human Death Incarnation.

If he couldn't hide from them, or flee them, or fight them — what could he do? Just stand and wait for them?

Into his mind came the pattern of matchsticks. Five arranged in a pentagon: Now he realized what it meant. His thoughts were going in a circle, leading him nowhere, providing no solution.

Hastily he reshaped the matches to a better configuration. He laid them in a line. If he couldn't hide — and he couldn't flee — but he had to prevail — then he had to fight — and therefore needed a suitable weapon — There was his series chain —

He heard a chilling baying. At the horizon of Purgatory, dark lumps appeared, rapidly swelling in size. The Hellhounds had arrived.

Weapon, weapon — what was a weapon against a supernatural monster? Not his cloak, not his gems. He needed something offensive.

The six figures loomed into great red-brown canine shapes, each half the height of a man. Their eyes glowed red, like little furnace portholes. They moved with huge catlike bounds, covering ten meters at a time. There was no sound as their feet struck the ground; even in open attack, they showed their stealth.

What he needed was a good sword — one enchanted to dispatch natural and supernatural entities alike. But this was rather late to think about procuring one.

The Hellhounds ringed man and horse, pausing to study the situation. In a moment one or more would pounce.

Zane's eye fell on the scythe. Suddenly he remembered the manner in which Mars had suggested that he practice with it. He had not done so, as his attention had been taken by other things. But he did know how to swing a scythe.

The first Hellhound pounced.

Zane grasped the scythe and jumped to the ground. The Hound passed overhead, missing the suddenly descending target. That freed a few more seconds.

Zane shook the scythe so that its giant blade snapped into place at right angles to the handle and locked there.

"Get out of here, Mortis!" he cried. "This is not your quarrel."

The Death steed bolted.

Zane hefted the scythe. He felt its terrible power. Oh, yes, this was a good weapon! "Come at me, puppies!" he cried, letting his volatile temper take over, and the cruel blade gleamed. "Come try my strength, you dogs who thought to attack helpless prey! But when you do, O beasts of night, know that you face the Lord of Night. I am Death!"

The first Hound, unimpressed, turned and leaped again. It seemed this kill was the privilege of the leader. Zane angled the great blade upward, pointing roughly at the Hound. The monster canine landed on it.

The gleaming point entered the Hound's head and slid right through to its tail, almost without resistance. Blood spurted at each end as the creature expired. The magic blade had efficiently destroyed the magic animal.

Two more Hellhounds, still unimpressed, pounced, one from each side. Zane hauled the blade out of the first and whipped it about in a fierce circle. It struck the first Hound halfway up its body and passed through as if encountering snow.

The top half of the monster's body flew off, leaving the bottom half to collapse in a burble of blood.

The blade carried on to contact the second Hound crosswise. The front of its body parted company with the rear. Guts spilled out as both halves collapsed.

Three Hellhounds remained. They were now impressed. "What's the matter, curs?" Zane taunted them. "Don't you like it when your quarry fights back?"

Another stepped forward, jaws gaping. Its teeth and tongue were as black as solid soot. It belched forth a searing jet of fire.

Zane's blade swung, separating the creature's head from its body. The fire died as the canine did.

Four down, two to go. Zane's right side smarted where the fire had heated his cloak. This fire was more penetrating than that of the Hot Smoke dragoness! But he couldn't rest now.

"Exactly whom did you suppose you were stalking, O sons of Hellbitches?" Zane demanded, stepping toward the two with a blade that dripped the blood of their companions. "By what unholy arrogance did you expect to interfere with an Incarnation? Begone, whelps, lest I slice you in thin pieces!"

But one Hound refused to be intimidated. It charged — and Zane's terrible blade swept off all four of its legs with one motion. Still determined, the monster opened its mouth to shoot fire, so Zane clipped off the tip of its muzzle. "Are you a slow learner?" he inquired savagely. "Give over, or I will treat you unkindly."

The Hound, incapacitated, lay still and bled.

Zane turned to the last. "Put your tail between your legs, O sniveling cur, and flee back to your fell master," he cried, orienting the bright red blade. "Tell him not again to send pups to do men's work!"

The Hellhound, cowed at last, put down its tail and fled.

Zane's knees felt weak. He had done it! He had bluffed them out!

Bluffed them? No, he had destroyed them, by drawing on a power of his office he had not consciously exploited before. His practice with the scythe, long ago in life, had proved well worthwhile!

Mortis trotted back, nickering. "That was a credit to the office. Death," the translation said.

Zane shrugged. "It was necessary. A desperate man does what he has to do. If I had had any escape, I would have taken it; since I had to fight, I fought as well as I knew how." For once his temper had served him well! "Satan underestimated me this time; I dare say he will not do so again. But I hope in time to serve the office with distinction. It's not that I regard myself as any superior person, for I am not; it's that the office of Death deserves the best that I can give it."

He mounted, and they started toward Earth. "Why didn't you tell me about the scythe?" Zane asked. "I did not know it could be used against Hellhounds,"

Mortis admitted. "My former master never employed it in that manner."

But Mars had known! "So there are powers of the office that are inherent, regardless of the officeholder or the amount such powers have been used before," Zane concluded. "Could there be others?"

"I am not the first Death steed," Mortis neighed. "My predecessors may have seen things that are now clouded. But I understand the office of Death varies considerably with each officeholder. Interpretation is critical. At his height. Death is balked by no force in the firmament."