Toll the Hounds

‘You go through the motions, Monkrat. You just follow me. Do as I do. We start there and worry about the rest later.’

Monkrat realized that Spindle was still waiting. ‘Do what’s right,’ Dassem told us. Gods, even after all this time he still remembered the First Sword’s words. ‘That’s a higher law than the command of any officer. Higher even than the Em-peror’s own words. You are in a damned uniform but that’s not a licence to deliver terror to everyone-just the enemy soldier you happen to be facing. Do what is right, for that armour you wear doesn’t just protect your flesh and bone. It defends honour. It defends integrity. It defends justice. Soldiers, heed me well. That armour defends humanity. And when I look upon my soldiers, when I see these uniforms, I see compassion and truth. The moment those virtues fail, then the gods help you, for no armour is strong enough to save you.’

‘All right, Spin. I’ll follow you.’

A sharp nod. ‘Dassem, he’d be proud. And not surprised, no, not surprised at all.’

‘We have to watch out for Gradithan-he wants those virgins. He wants their blood, for when the Dying God arrives.’

‘Yeah? Well, Gredishit can chew on Hood’s arsehole. He ain’t getting ’em.’

‘A moment ago I was thinking, Spin…’

‘Thinking what?’

‘That you was a three-legged dog. But I was wrong. You’re a damned Hound of Shadow is what you are. Come on. I know where they all huddle to stay outa the rain.’

Seerdomin adjusted the grip on his sword and then glanced back at the Redeemer. The god’s position was unchanged. Kneeling, half bent over, face hidden behind his hands. A position of abject submission. Defeat and despair. Hardly an inspiring standard to stand in front of, hardly a thing to fight for, and Seerdomin could feel the will draining from him as he faced once more the woman dancing in the basin.

Convulsing clouds overhead, an endless rain of kelyk that turned everything black. The drops stung and then numbed his eyes. He had ceased to flinch from the crack of lightning, the stuttering crash of thunder.

He had fought for something unworthy once, and had vowed never again. Yet here he was, standing between a god of unimaginable power and a god not worth believing in. One wanted to feed and the other looked ready to be devoured-why should he get in the way of the two?

A wretched gasp from the Redeemer snapped him round. The rain painted It-kovian black, ran like dung-stained water down the face he had lifted skyward. ‘Dying,’ he murmured, so faint that Seerdomin had to step closer to catch the word. ‘But no end is desired. Dying, for all eternity. Who seeks this fate? For himself? Who yearns for such a thing? Can I… can I help him?’

Seerdomin staggered back, as if struck by a blow to his chest. That-Beru fend-that is not a proper question? Not against this… this thing. Look to yourself, Redeemer! You cannot heal what does not want healing! You cannot mend what delights in being broken! ‘You cannot,’ he growled. ‘You cannot help it, Redeemer. You can only fall to it. Fall, vanish, be swallowed up.’

‘He wants me. She wants me. She gave him this want, do you see? Now they share.’

Seerdomin turned to gaze upon the High Priestess. She was growing more arms, each bearing a weapon, each weapon whirling and spinning in a clashing web of edged iron. Kelyk sprayed from the blades, a whirling cloud of droplets. Her dance was carrying her closer.

The attack was beginning.

‘Who,’ Seerdomin whispered, ‘will share this with me7.’

‘Find her,’ said the Redeemer. ‘She remains, deep inside. Drowning, but alive. Find her.’

‘Salind? She is nothing to me!’

‘She is the fire in Spinnock Durav’s heart. She is his life. Fight not for me. Fight not for yourself. Fight, Seerdomin, for your friend.’

A sob was wrenched from the warrior. His soul found a voice, and that voice wailed its anguish. Gasping, he lifted his sword and set his eyes upon the woman cavorting in her dance of carnage. Can I do this? Spinnock Durav, you fool, how could you have fallen so?

Can I find her?

I don’t know. I don’t think so.

But his friend had found love. Absurd, ridiculous love. His friend, wherever he was, deserved a chance. For the only gift that meant a damned thing. The only one.

Blinking black tears from his eyes, Seerdomin went down to meet her.

Her howl of delight was a thing of horror.

A soldier could discover, in one horrendous, crushing moment, that everything that lay at the heart of duty was a lie, a rotted, fetid mass, feeding like a cancer on all that the soldier was; and that every virtue was rooted in someone else’s poison.

Look to the poor fool at your side. Know well there’s another poor fool at your back. This is how far the world shrinks down, when everything else melts in front of your eyes-too compromised to sustain clear vision, the brutal, uncluttered recognition of the lie.

Torn loose from the Malazan Empire, from Onearm’s Host, the bedraggled clutch of survivors that was all that remained of the Bridgeburners had dragged their sorry backsides to Darujhistan. They found for themselves a cave where they could hide, surrounded by a handful of familiar faces, to remind them of what had pushed them each step of the way, from the past to the present. And hoping it would be enough to take them into the future, one hesitant, wayward step at a time.

Slash knives into the midst of that meagre, vulnerable clutch, and it just falls apart.

Mallet. Bluepearl.

Like blindfolded goats dragged up to the altar stone.

Not that goats needed blindfolds. It’s just no fun looking into a dying animals eyes.

Picker fell through darkness. Maybe she was flesh and bone. Maybe she was nothing but a soul, torn loose and now plummeting with naught but the weight of its own regrets. But her arms scythed through bitter cold air, her legs kicked out to find purchase where none existed. And each breath was getting harder to snatch from that rushing blast.

In the dream-world every law could be twisted round, bent, folded. And so, as she sensed the unseen ground fast approaching, she spun herself upright and slowed, sudden and yet smooth, and moments later she landed lightly on uneven bedrock. Snail shells crunched underfoot; she heard the faint snap of small rodent bones.

Blinking, gasping one breath after another deep into her lungs, she simply stood for a time, knees slightly flexed, hands out to her sides.

She could smell an animal stench, thick, as if she found herself in a den in some hillside.

The darkness slowly faded. She saw rock walls on which scenes had been pecked, others painted in earthy hues. She saw the half-shells of gourds crowding the rough floor on both sides-she had landed upon a sort of path, reaching ahead and behind, perhaps three paces wide. Before her, six or seven paces away, it ended in a stone wall. Behind her, the trail blended into darkness. She looked once more at the objects cluttering the flanks. In each gourd there was thick, dark liquid. She knew instinctively that it was blood.

The image etched into the wall in front, where the path ended, now snared her attention, and slowly its details began to resolve. A carriage or wagon, a swarm of vague shapes all reaching up for it on both sides, with others hinted at in its wake. A scene of frenzy and panic, the figure sitting on the bench holding reins that seemed to whip about-but no, her mind was playing tricks in this faint light, and that sound, as of wheels slamming and rocking and spinning over broken ground, was only her lunging heart, the rush of blood in her ears.

But Picker stared, transfixed.

A soldier with nothing left to believe in is a terrible thing to behold. When the blood on the hands is unjust blood, the soul withers.

Death becomes a lover, and that love leads to but one place. Every time, but one place.

Friends and family watch on, helpless. And in this tragic scene, the liars, the cynical bearers of poison, they are nowhere to be found.

Endest Silann had once been a priest, a believer in forces beyond the mortal realm; a believer in the benign