Toll the Hounds

‘That sounds more like a profession.’

The corpse scratched his forehead, flakes of skin fluttering down. ‘It does. An extraordinary coincidence. What were my parents thinking?’

‘Perhaps you are but confused. Perhaps you were a cartographer, trained in the making of maps and such.’

‘Then it was wise that they named me so, wasn’t it? Clever parents.’

‘What did Hood command of you, Cartographer?’

‘Well, he said “Come” and nothing more. It wasn’t a command to create confusion, or arguments regarding interpretation. A simple command. Even dogs understand it, I believe. Dogs and sharks. I have found seventeen species of shellfish on this beach. Proof that the world is round.’

Another nut thudded in the sand.

‘We are perturbing this island with our presence,’ said the cartographer. ‘The trees are so angry they’re trying to kill us. Of course, I am already dead.’ He climbed to his feet, bits falling away here and there, and brushed sand and skin from his hands. ‘Can we go now?’

‘Yes,’ said Master Quell, though his eyes were still a little wild. ‘We’re going back to Hood’s realm and we’re happy to take you with us.’

‘Oh, no, I’m not going back there. It’s not time.’

‘Yes it is and yes you are,’ said Master Quell.

‘No it isn’t and no I’m not. Hood issued a second command, one just to me. He said “Go” and so I did. It’s not time. Until it is, I’m staying with you.’

‘Everyone who rides the carriage,’ Quell said in a growl, ‘has to work for the privilege.’

‘Yes, and I have begun.’ And he gestured down at the coconut pyramids. ‘You have netting bundled to the sides of the carriage, presumably to hold people on board. If we are to cross water, then we should place these nuts within said net-ting. As flotation devices, in case someone is washed overboard.’ He made a heav-ing motion with his emaciated arms. ‘With a line attached for retrieval.’

‘That might work,’ said Gruntle.

‘Gods below,’ Master Quell muttered. ‘Fine, I’m not arguing with a dead man. Gruntle, draw your weapons. We’re going now.’

‘My weapons?’

‘Just in case. And now, no more damned talking back!’

Quell fashioned a portal into Hood’s warren that was but a thin, elongated slice, like a parting of curtains, from which cool lifeless breath gusted out, sweep-ing the sand into the air. Eyes stinging, Gruntle glanced back just before follow-ing the mage into the rent. And saw Amby and Jula wave.

They emerged on the summit of a hill, one of a long spine of hills, each one so similar to the next that they might he enormous barrows although why there would he barrows in the realm of death Gruntle could not imagine.

In the valley before them the broad basin was a solid river of grey figures, tens of thousands on the march. Ragged pennons hung from standards as if impervious to the moaning wind. Weapons glinted in muted flashes.

‘Gods below,’ muttered Quell. ‘He’s assembling the entire host.’

‘Looks that way,’ agreed Gruntle, feeling like an idiot with his cutlasses in his hands. He slid them back into the underslung scabbards. ‘Do we make our way down?’

‘I’d rather not.’

‘Good. Seen enough? Can we go now, Master Quell?’

‘Look, a rider approaches.’

The horse was clearly as dead as the man who rode it, gaunt and withered, mot-tled where hair had worn off. Both wore armour, boiled leather tarnished and cracked, flapping on frayed leather thongs as they climbed the slope. A ragged cape lifted like a tattered wing behind the warrior. As they drew closer, Gruntle swore under his breath. ‘He’s wearing a mask-he’s a damned Seguleh!’ And he reached for his weapons-

‘Gods’ breath, Gruntle, don’t do that!’

It was a struggle to lower his arms. Gruntle’s blood felt hot as fire in his veins-the beast within him wanted to awaken, to show hackles lifted and fangs bared. The beast wanted to challenge this… thing. Trembling, he made no move as the rider drove his horse over the crest a dozen paces to their right, sawing the reins and wheeling the beast round to face them.

‘Now this is living!’-the Seguleh roared, tilting his head back to loose a manic laugh. Then he leaned forward on the saddle and cocked his head, long filthy hair swinging like ropes. ‘Well,’ he amended in an amused rumble, ‘not quite. But close enough. Close enough. Tell me, mortals, do you like my army? I do. Did you know the one thing a commander must battle against-more than any enemy across the plain, more than any personal crisis of will or confidence, more than unkind weather, broken supply chains, plague and all the rest? Do you know what a commander wages eternal war with, my friends? I will tell you. The true enemy is fear. The fear that haunts every soldier, that haunts even the beasts they ride.’ He lifted a gauntleted hand and waved to the valley below. ‘But not with this army! Oh, no. Fear belongs to the living, after all.’

‘As with the T’lan Imass,’ said Gruntle.

The darkness within the mask’s elongated eye-holes seemed to glitter as the Seguleh fixed his attention on Gruntle. ‘Trake’s cub. Now, wouldn’t you like to cross blades with me?’ A low laugh. ‘Yes, as with the T’lan Imass. Is it any won-der the Jaghut recoiled?’

Master Quell cleared his throat. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘what need has Hood for an army? Will he now wage war against the living?’

‘If only,’ the Seguleh replied in a grunt. ‘You don’t belong here-and if you drag that infernal carriage of yours back here any time soon, I will seek you out myself.

And then Trake’s spitting kitten here can fulfil his desperate desire, hah!’ He He twisted in his saddle. Other riders were approaching. ‘Look at that, my watchdogs. “Be reasonable”, indeed. Have I chopped these two interlopers to pieces? I have not. Constraint has been shown.’ He faced Gruntle and Quell once more. ‘You will confirm this, yes?’

‘Beyond you goading Gruntle here,’ Quell said, ‘yes, I suppose we can.’

‘It was a jest!’ the Seguleh shouted.

‘It was a threat,’ Quell corrected, and Gruntle was impressed by the man’s sud-den courage.

The Seguleh tilted his head, as if he too was casting new measure upon the mage. ‘Oh, trundle your wagon wherever you like, then, see if I care.’

Three riders mounted the summit and, slowing their horses to a walk, drew up to where waited the Seguleh, who now sat slumped like a browbeaten bully.

Gruntle started, took an involuntary step forward. ‘Toc Anaster?’

The one-eyed soldier’s smile was strained. ‘Hello, old friend. I am sorry. There may come a time for this, but it is not now.’

Gruntle edged back, blunted by Toc Anaster’s cold-even harsh-tone. ‘I-I did not know.’

‘It was a messy death. My memories remain all too sharp. Gruntle, deliver this message to your god: not long now.’

Gruntle scowled. ‘Too cryptic. If you want me to pass on your words, you will have to do better than that.’

Toc Anaster’s single eye-terrifying in its lifelessness-shifted away.

‘He cannot,’ said the middle horseman, and there was something familiar about the face behind the helm’s cheekguards. ‘I remember you from Capustan. Gruntle, chosen servant of Treach. Your god is confused, but it must choose, and soon.’

Gruntle shrugged. ‘There is no point in bringing all this to me Trake and me, we’re not really on speaking terms. I didn’t ask for any of this. I don’t even want it-’

‘Hah!’ barked the Seguleh, twisting round to face the middle rider. ‘Hear that, Iskar Jarak? Let me kill him!’

Iskar Jarak? I seem to recall he had a different name. One of those odd ones, common to the Malazan soldiery-what was it now?