Heat enables sound to travel fast. The energetic buzz in the air, swirling in thermal currents, passes soundwaves at breakneck speed. Everything sounds deathly close.

This fact burns at the forefront of Howell’s mind when he hears the dread yipping begin.

It is playful at first—a pack calling to one another. He is inclined, at first, to enjoy it. To delight in the vocalizations of another species; to wonder at the vocabulary of hounds. How much information is contained in a single bark? A shriek? A howl?

But the sharp clicks of claws on lava rock are loud. Close. Too close for comfort. And Howell, under some misguided delusion of who knew what—luck, invulnerability, peacefulness—had descended to the Earthen Furnace alone.

Oh, I should not have come alone!

The hellhounds’ contact calls diverged. He heard them on either side of his path now, doubtless hoping to box him in. An admirable tactic—but one he would rather not experience first hand. Yes, he was a rather succulent herbivore. He was wise enough for that level of self-awareness. But he would not lay down and become a singed meal. Prothero would never let him live it down, even in death.

Fear made his knees weak, but he had no choice except to run.

The hellhounds pursued.

The clatter of his hooves on the ground in swift, galloping succession jolted his bones. Hot winds streaked through his short mane. His short tail must have saved him some contact with canine jaws, but he felt them snapping near his heels despite. Only a little farther, now.

Howell’s flared nostrils stung. The air was sulphur.

He was there. A great door. Open to him, and in a panicked motion, closed with a kick of his hind legs once he was through.

Clang!

The sound nearly deafened him, but it silenced the hounds, too.

Howell’s breath was ragged.

I really should not have come alone.