Toll the Hounds

the two refugees, could drive one insane, and often did.

The jungle resisted farming. Its soil disliked taming. The huge trees were im-pervious to fire and could turn the edge of an iron axe. Villages were growing too massive, devouring land, while every cleared area around them was exhausted, Rival tribes suffered the same, and before too long wars were unleashed. The dead ancestors demanded vengeance for transgressions. Murdered kin-whose bodies had been stolen and so could not be properly taken care of-represented an open wound, a crime that needed answering.

Blood back and forth, said the two refugees. Blood back and forth, that is all. And when the enemy began destroying villages, burning them to the ground,,,

No answer to the madness but flight.

Nimander thought about all this as he led his mare by the reins along the dusty road. He had no ancestors to haunt him, no ancestors to demand that he do this and that, that he behave in this way but not in that way. Perhaps this was freedom, but it left him feeling strangely… lost.

The two Dal Honese had built a new boat and paddled away-not back home, but to some unknown place, a place devoid of unblinking ghosts staring out from every wall.

Rocking sounds came from the wagon and he turned to see Kallor swinging down on the near side, pausing to adjust his cloak of chain, then walking until he was alongside Nimander.

‘Interesting use of corpses,’ he said.

‘What use would that be?’ Skintick asked with a glance back towards them.

‘To frighten the crows? Not that any right-minded crow would look twice at those foul plants-they’re not even native to this world, after all.’

Nimander saw Skintick’s brows rise. ‘They aren’t?’

Kallor scratched at his beard and, since it seemed he wasn’t in any hurry to re-ply, Skintick faced forward once more.

‘Saemankelyk,’ said Nimander. ‘The Dying God… who will be found in Bas-tion.’

The grey-haired warrior grunted. ‘Nothing changes.’

‘Of course it changes,’ Skintick retorted without turning round. ‘It keeps get-ting worse.’

‘That is an illusion,’ Kallor replied. ‘You Tiste Andii should know that. Your sense of things getting worse comes from growing older. You see more, and what you see wars with your memories of how things used to be.’

‘Rubbish. Old farts like you say that because it suits you. You hope it freezes us in our tracks so we end up doing nothing, which means your precious status quo persists just that much longer-enough for you to live put your life in what-ever comfort you think you’ve earned. You won’t accept culpability for anything, so you tell us that nothing ever changes.’

‘Ah, the fire of youth. Perhaps one day, pup, you’ll be old-assuming your stupidity doesn’t get you killed first-and I’ll find you, somewhere. You’ll be sit-ting on the stone steps of some abandoned temple or, worse, some dead king’s glorious monument. Watching the young people rush by. And I’ll settle down be-side you and ask you: “What’s changed, old man?” And you will squint, chew your gums for a time, then spit on to the cobbles shaking your head.’

‘Plan on living for ever, Kallor?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘What if your stupidity gets you killed?’

Kallor’s grin was feral. ‘It hasn’t yet.’

Skintick glanced back again, eyes bright, and all at once he laughed. ‘I am changing my mind about you.’

‘The Dying God has stolen Clip’s soul,’ Nimander said. ‘We’re going to get it back.’

‘Good luck.’

‘I suppose we will need it.’

‘I’m not the kind who helps, Nimander,’ Kallor said. ‘Even kin of Rake. Maybe,’ he added, ‘especially kin of Rake.’

‘What makes you think-’

The man interrupted with a snort. ‘I see him in all of you-excepting the empty one you call Clip. You are heading to Coral. Or you were, before this de-tour was forced upon you. Tell me, what do you imagine will happen when you find your glorious patron? Will he reach out one perfect hand to brush your brows, to bless the gift of your existence? Will you thank him for the privilege of being alive?’

‘What do you know about it?’ Nimander demanded, feeling the heat rise to flush his face.

‘Anomander Rake is a genius at beginning things. It’s finishing them he has trouble with.’

Ah, that stings of truth. Kallor, you have just prodded my own soul. A trait I inherited from him, then? That makes too much sense. ‘So, when I speak to him of you, Kallor, he will know your name?’

‘Were we acquaintances? Yes, we were. Did we delight in each other’s com-pany? You will have to ask him that one. Caladan Brood was simpler, easier to manage. Nothing but earth and stone. As for K’azz, well, I’ll know more when I fi-nally meet the bastard.’

‘I do not know those names,’ Nimander said. ‘Caladan Brood. K’azz.’

‘It’s of no real significance. We were allies in a war or three, that is all. And per-haps one day we will be allies once more, who can say? When some vast enemy forces us once again into the same camp, all on the same side.’ He seemed to think about that for a moment, then said, ‘Nothing changes.’

‘Are you then returning to Coral-where waits our father?’

‘No. The dust I kicked up last time will need a few centuries to settle, I ex-pect.’ He was about to add something more when his attention was pulled away, and he stepped across Nimander’s path-forcing him to halt-to walk to the road’s edge, facing north.

‘I’d spotted that,’ Skintick muttered, also stopping.

Fifty or so paces from the road, just beyond a strip of the alien plants and Hi row of wrapped effigies, was a ruin. Only one of the walls of the squarish, tower. like structure rose above man-height. The stones were enormous, fitted without mortar. Trees of a species Nimander had never seen before had rooted on top of the walls, snaking long, thick ropes down to the ground. The branches were skeletal, reaching horizontally out to the sides, clutching mere handfuls of dark, leathery leaves.

Nenanda had stopped the wagon and all were now studying the ruin that had so captured Kallor’s attention.

‘Looks old,’ Skintick said, catching Nimander’s eye and winking.

‘Jaghut,’ Kallor said. And he set out towards it. Nimander and Skintick followed.

In the field, the furrows of earth were bleached, dead, and so too the ghastly plants. Even the terrible clouds of insects had vanished.

Kallor stepped between two corpses, but there was not enough room so he reached out to either side and pushed the stakes over. Dust spat from the bases as the scarecrows sagged, then, pulling free, fell to the ground. The warrior continued on.

‘We can hope,’ said Skintick under his breath as he and Nimander followed through the gap.

‘For what?’ Nimander asked.

‘That he decides he doesn’t like this Dying God. And makes up his mind to do something about it.’

‘You believe he is that formidable?’

Skintick shot him a glance. ‘When he said he was allied with Anomander and those others, it didn’t sound as though he meant he was a soldier or minor officer in some army, did it?’

Nimander frowned, then shook his head.

Skintick hissed wordlessly through his teeth, and then said, ‘Like… equals.’

‘Yes, like that. But it doesn’t matter, Skin-he won’t help us.’

‘I wasn’t hoping for that. More like him deciding to do something for his own reasons, but something that ends up solving our problem.’

‘I’d wager no coins on that, Skin.’

Drawing closer to the ruin, they fell silent. Decrepit as it was, the tower was imposing. The air around it seemed grainy, somehow brittle, ominously cold despite the sun’s fierce heat.

The highest of the walls revealed a section of ceiling just below the uppermost set of stones, projecting without any other obvious support to cast a deep shadow upon the ground floor beneath it. The facing wall reached