The black stagecoach threatened to fly apart as they hurtled through one grand arch after another along the approach to Dis. It creaked and complained, pulled by a pair of black, lathered horses that glistened and churned madly before the whip.

"Faster! Faster, you wretches!" The driver wound the reins further about his bare raw hand, heedless of the digging leather strap. He cracked the lash and the coach lurched and rattled and rumbled. He did not need to look behind him to know that the Roc was still there and gaining ground. It caught up with them just as they entered into the grand arch and it had to veer away to avoid collision. The bird passed above him, an impossibly huge vulture, blotting out the sun and raining flecks of old carrion and coarse synthetic plumage. It rose sharply to the air and cried a ringing shriek of frustration. The next archway lay within sight, as well as the others beyond that spanned the rotting clay road at regular intervals. It was just a matter of threading the needle.

The horses were tired, and likely should they fall, the Roc would devour them first, buying those aboard the coach a few minutes headstart on foot. Hopefully it would not come to that; they were only a few arches away from the towering main gates. Once within range of the city's cannons, the great bird would have to give up the hunt or be shot from the sky.

Along the horizon, the grey city Dis lay scattered like a scrap pile. Its twisted skyline bristled with helical spires and dull leaden minarets. And all was framed by a more distant, sickly radiance. Living so close to the glow, lead was the material of choice - one of fashion, if not necessity.

"Our driver makes good time," said the young man within, watching from the cabin window. His travelling companion sat across from him, nestled in thick robes and beneath a sprawling beard. The older man looked up from the tome he was fingering through and knuckled his glasses up his nose. He glanced at the rushing terrain and the ominous shade that circled and stalked them, in and out of sight, along the desert floor.

"All time is good time," he replied and sniffed, resuming his readings.

"Why are we going to Dis, sir?"

"I did say that once we reached the arches I would tell you," He nodded and closed the book, keeping a finger tucked inside. With his other hand he stroked his beard, a routine gesture of contemplation. The young man's face was soft and smooth. All around them the carriage jingled and groaned, the horses thundered, the driver cursed and the Roc whistled and wheeled above, crying its bloodlust.

"We are not. We are going to the wastes beyond it." The young man turned in his seat and look ahead, seeing the eeriely radiant skyline. The glow was strange and it frightened him.

"But sir, there is nothing in the wastelands."

"Precisely, my young friend. And in that void are things you are now ready to understand."

The youth was silent after that, but he hovered near to the window and watched the chase and the dodge. Ever larger loomed Dis and peering now, he could make out curls of chimney smoke and dots of light from the windows of high towers. Long red pennants snapped and bucked from the top of each peak like a mass of angry serpents above the city. And each bore the old sign of the Vicar.

The din outside was so constant and prolonged that, despite the dire situation, it faded into the background as a muted spectacle. Within the carriage, there was nothing the two passengers could do, anyway. The young man even felt himself to be a little sleepy. The driver had pulled his pistol and would occasionally fire blindly up at the sky behind them while clinging to the taut reins in his other hand. This bound hand ran red with blood now, down the leather straps and onto his own dark cloaks.

The pistolshot was quite ineffectual, but the noise goaded the fatigued horses and it perhaps made the driver feel less like a hapless morsel. There was only one archway left and beyond it a long empty stretch until the main gates. If they were to arrive safely, their hopes rested upon the shoulders of the city guard, now. Presumably unwilling to let wayward travellers lead the Roc to their walls, they were sure to begin firing any moment now. The last gate was narrower than the rest, and on either side lay the crumpled the wrecks of careless drivers gone before. Horses, driven so harshly, blind and insane with terror, would simply plow into the stone columns if the hand at the reins was careless or unsteady. The driver split his attention between the Roc, which had now circled around again for another diving pass and controlling his steeds. His guiding hand was cramping and felt as though on fire, knotted into the leather, it would be useless after this for several days. But he had made this journey before. As a driver on the open road, he was not easily rattled - and he was being well paid for his troubles.

He had been counting his bullets, firing the last just as he entered the split second sactuary of the narrow last arch. He cast down the weapon and took up the hand flare, ripping it into fire with his teeth on the pullcord. He shoved the sputtering geyser of light into a holder and struck the lash over the wet, flayed backs before him. They would fetch a price at any of the city factories when this was all over. And when coupled with his remaining fee, it would be enough to purchase another pair for the return. Now if only the cannons would sound.

The Roc, seeing its prey in the open, drew up high into the sky, preparing for a final, killing pass. It flapped its terrible wings, shedding old tattered plastic feathers and trailing loose cabling. It hung in the sky for a beat, the grace of the motion as beautiful as a stalled airship, then it tilted down to begin its plummet, drawing itself inwards to go faster. It fell out of the sky as a heavy black drop of petroleum. Unable to keep from screaming, it opened its beak for a last, maddening, screeching howl.

The first volley was not quite on target, but it did graze the great bird, enough to startle it from its dive. Its keen lethal grace flustered into a sudden squawking mess of flapping and backpedalling. However momentum carried it forward and it still brushed over the fleeing coach, close enough for the driver to smell it. Old flesh and exhaust fumes roaring by. The horses lurched to the side in a panic, taking them all off-road. Inside, the cabin tossed about.

"Gah! Did you hear that, sir? The cannons! They see us!"

Tangled in his robes, the older man struggled upright. His book had slipped from his fingers and closed itself, losing his place. He scowled at this.

"I've lost my place."

"What? Sir, are you alright? There - again!" And indeed, the cannons could be heard booming in the distance, followed by a low crunching thud close by. The driver cackled loudly in his way, regaining control over the horses and making their way back onto the hardpacked road. They were safe.

The Roc flew in crazy turns, outraged and confused as each shot found its mark. Bits of broken machinery rained down each time until it finally turned and withdrew back into the desert, dripping gouts of dark fluid from its matted plumage.

It was not long before they were within the shadow of the city. Formed by the intensity of the glow beyond, the shadow of Dis reached outward from the walls and sheltered a surrounding tent village. Here lived those too poor to dwell with the protective lead walls and palaces. And here suffered those exposed, even in shadow, to the glow beyond.