Toll the Hounds

by Steven Erikson

  One quarrel glanced off Leff’s helm. Another was deflected by Scorch’s chain hauberk, although the blow, impacting his left shoulder blade, sent him stumbling.

  The third quarrel exploded in stone. The sky to the west lit up momentarily, and the cobbles shook as Leff reached his crossbow, managed a skidding turn and loosed the quarrel into the crowd of killers fast closing.

  A bellow of pain and one figure tumbled, weapons skittering.

  Scorch scrabbled for his own crossbow, but it looked to Leff as if he would not ready it in time, and so with a shout he drew his shortsword and leapt into the path of the attackers.

  Scorch surprised him, as a quarrel sped past to thud deep into a man’s chest, punching him back and fouling up the assassin behind him. Leff shifted direction and went in on that side, slashing with his sword at the tangled figure – a thick, heavyset woman – and feeling the edge bite flesh and then bone.

  Shapes darted in on his left – but all at once Scorch was there.

  Things got a bit hot then.

  Torvald Nom was looking for a way down when the tiles beneath his boots trembled to the sounds of running feet. He spun round to find four figures charging towards him. Clearly, they had not been expecting to find anyone up here, since none carried crossbows. In the moment before they reached him, he saw in their hands knives, knotted clubs and braided saps.

  The nearest one wobbled suddenly – a bolt was buried deep in his right temple – and then fell in a sprawl.

  Torvald threw himself to one side and rolled – straight over the roof edge. Not quite what he had planned, and he desperately twisted as he fell, knowing that it wouldn’t help in the least.

  He had tucked into his belt two Blue Moranth sharpers.

  Torvald could only close his eyes as he pounded hard on to the pavestones. The impact threw him back upward on a rising wave of stunning pain, but the motion seemed strangely slow, and he opened his eyes – amazed that he still lived – only to find that the world had turned into swirling green and blue clouds, thick, wet.

  No, not clouds. He was inside a bulging, sloshing sphere of water. Hanging suspended now, as it rolled, taking him with it, out into the courtyard.

  Looking up at the rooftop as the misshapen globe tumbled him over and over, he saw an assassin pitch over the edge in a black spray of blood – and then he was looking at Madrun and Lazan Door, wielding two curved swords each, cutting through a mob that even now scattered in panic.

  At that moment sorcery lit up the courtyard, rolling in a spitting, raging wave that swept up the main building’s front steps and collided with the door, shattering it and the lintel above. Clouds of dust tumbled out, and three vague shapes rushed in, disappearing inside the house. A fourth one skidded to a halt at the base of the cracked steps, spun round and raised gloved hands. More magic, shrieking as it darted straight for the two unmasked Seguleh and those few assassins still standing. The impact sent bodies flying.

  Torvald Nom, witnessing all this through murky water and discovering a sudden need to breathe, lost sight of everything as the globe heaved over one last time, even as he heard water draining, splashing down out to the sides, and watched the blurred pavestones beneath him draw closer.

  All at once he found himself lying on the courtyard, drenched, gasping for air. He rolled over on to his back, saw a spark-lit, fiery black cloud tumble through the sky directly overhead – and that was curious, wasn’t it?

  Detonations from within the estate. A sudden scream, cut bloodily short. He looked over to where Lazan Door and Madrun had been. Bodies crowded up against the inside wall, like a handful of black knuckles, and their bouncing, skidding journey was at an end, every knuckle settled and motionless.

  Someone was approaching. Slow, steady steps, coming to a rest beside him.

  Blinking, Torvald Nom looked up. ‘Cousin! Listen! I’m sorry, all right? I never meant it, honest!’

  ‘What in Hood’s name are you going on about, Tor?’ Rallick Nom was wiping blood from his tjaluk knives. ‘I’d swear you were scared of me or something.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to steal her, Rallick. That’s no lie!’

  ‘Tiserra?’

  Torvald stared up at his cousin, wide-eyed, his heart bounding like an antelope with a hundred starving wolves on its stumpy tail.

  Rallick made a face. ‘Tor, you idiot. We were what, seven years old? Sure, I thought she was cute, but gods below, man, any boy and girl who start holding hands at seven and are still madly in love with each other twenty-five years later – that’s not something to mess with—’

  ‘But I saw the way you looked at us, year after year – I couldn’t stand it, I couldn’t sleep, I knew you’d come for me sooner or later, I knew . . .’

  Rallick frowned down at him. ‘Torvald, what you saw in my face was envy. Yes, such a thing can get ugly, but not with me. I watched in wonder, in admiration. Dammit, I loved you both. Still do.’ He sheathed his weapons and reached down with a red-stained hand. ‘Good to see you, cousin. Finally.’

  Torvald took that hand, and suddenly – years of guilt and fear shedding away – the whole world was all right. He was pulled effortlessly to his feet. ‘Hang on,’ he said, ‘what are you doing here?’

  ‘Helping out, of course.’

  ‘Taking care of me—’

  ‘Ah, that was incidental, in truth. I saw you on the rooftop earlier. There’d be a few trying that way. Anyway, you did a nice job of catching their attention.’

  ‘That quarrel through that one’s head was from you?’

  ‘At that range, I never miss.’

  They turned then as Studious Lock, limping, emerged from the wreckage of the main entrance. And behind him strode the Lady of the house. She was wearing leather gloves that ran up to the elbow on which dagger-sheaths had been riveted. Her usual voluminous silks and linens had been replaced by tight-fitting fighting clothes. Torvald squinted thoughtfully.

  Studious Lock was making his way towards the heap of bodies.

  Lady Varada saw Rallick and Torvald and approached.

  Rallick bowed. ‘Did the mage give you any trouble, Mistress?’

  ‘No. Is the rooftop clear?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And Seba?’

  ‘Probably scampering for his warren as fast as his legs can take him.’ Rallick paused. ‘Mistress, you could walk back in—’

  ‘And who is left in my Guild, Rallick? Of any worth, I mean.’

  ‘Krute, perhaps. Myself. Even Seba would manage, so long as he was responsible for a single cell and nothing more.’

  Torvald was no fool, and as he followed this conversation, certain things fell into place. ‘Lady Varada,’ he said. ‘Er, Mistress Vorcan, I mean. You knew this was coming, didn’t you? And you probably hired me, and Scorch and Leff, because you believed we were useless, and, er, expendable. You wanted them to get through – you wanted them all in here, so you could wipe them out once and for all.’

  She regarded him for a moment, one eyebrow lifting, and then turned away and headed back to her house.

  Torvald made to pursue her but Rallick reached out a hand and held him back. ‘Cousin,’ he said in a low voice, ‘she was Mistress of the Assassins’ Guild. Do you think she’s anything like us? Do you really think she gives a damn if we live or die?’

  Torvald glanced over at Rallick. ‘Now who’s the fool, cousin? No, you’re right, about me and Scorch and Leff – and those fallen Seguleh over there – she doesn’t care. But you, Rallick, that’s different. Are you blind? Soon as she stepped out, her eyes went to you, and all the stiffness relaxed, and she came over to make sure you weren’t wounded.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘And you can’t be so stupid, can you?’

  At that moment the main gates crashed open and two bloody figures staggered in.

  ‘We was attacked!’ Scorch shouted in outrage.

  ‘We killed ‘em all,’ Leff added, looking round wildly, ‘but
there could be more!’

  Torvald noted his cousin’s expression and softly laughed, drawing Rallick’s attention once more. ‘I got some wine in my office,’ Torvald said. ‘We can sit and relax and I can tell you some things about Scorch and Leff—’ ‘This is not the night for that, Tor – are you deaf?’

  Torvald scowled, then thumped at the side of his head. Both sides. ‘Sorry, got water in my ears. Even you here, you sound to me like you’re under a bucket.’

  The thumping worked, at least for one ear, and he could hear now what everyone else was listening to.

  Screams, all through the city. Buildings crashing down. Echoing howls. Recalling the fireball he’d seen, he looked skyward. No stars in sight – the sky was filled with smoke, huge bulges underlit by wildfires in the city. ‘Gods below!’

  Harllo ran down the road. His knees were cut and deeply scored by his climb up the slope of scree, and blood ran down his shins. Stitches bit into his sides and every muscle was on fire. And Venaz was so close behind him that he could hear his harsh gasps – but Venaz was older, his legs were longer, and it would be soon now, no matter how tired he sounded.

  To have come so far, and everything was about to end . . . but Harllo would not weep. Would not plead or beg for his life. Venaz was going to beat him to death. It was as simple as that. There was no Bainisk to stand in the way, there were no rules of the camp. Harllo was not a mole any more; he was of no use to anyone.

  People like him, big and small, died all the time. Killed by being ignored, killed because nobody cared what happened to them. He’d walked the streets of Darujhistan often enough to see for himself, to see that the only thing between those huddled shapes and himself was a family that didn’t even want him, no matter how hard he worked. They were Snell’s parents, and Snell was what they’d made between them, and nothing in the world could cut through those tethers.

  That was why they let Snell play with Harllo, and if he played using fists and feet and something went bad, well, that stuff happened all the time, didn’t it? That’s why they never came to get him. And the one man who did, Gruntle, who always looked down at him with sad eyes, he was dead now, too, and it was this fact that eased Harllo’s mind. He was happy to go where Gruntle had gone. He would take hold of that giant scarred hand and know that, finally, he was safe.

  ‘I got you! I got you!’

  A hand snagged at the back of his shirt, missed.

  Harllo threw himself forward – maybe one last spurt – away, fast as he could—

  The hand caught a handful of tunic, and Harllo stumbled, and then a thin sweaty arm wrapped tight round his neck, lifting him from his feet.

  The forearm pressed against his throat. He could not breathe. And all at once Harllo did not want to die.

  He flailed, but Venaz was too big, too strong.

  Harllo was forced down to the stony surface of the road, then pushed over on his back as Venaz straddled him and closed both hands round his neck.

  The face glaring down at him was flushed with triumph. Sweat ran muddy streaks down it; something had cut one cheek and white threads of cave-worms clustered round the wound – they’d lay eggs and that cut would become a huge welt, until it burst and the grubs crawled out, and the scar left behind would never go away and Venaz would be ugly for the rest of his life.

  ‘Got you got you got you,’ Venaz whispered, his eyes bright. ‘And now you die. Now you die. Got you and now you die.’

  Those hands squeezed with savage strength.

  He fought, he scratched, he kicked, but it was hopeless. He felt his face swell, grow hot. The darkness flushed red.

  Something cracked hard and Venaz was reeling back, his grip torn loose. Hands closed on Harllo’s upper arms and dragged him a short distance away. Gasping, he stared up at a strange face – another boy – who now stepped past him, advancing on Venaz.

  Who had scrambled upright, nose streaming blood.

  ‘Who the shit are—’

  The stranger flung himself at Venaz, and both went down.

  Coughing, tears streaming, Harllo forced himself on to his hands and knees. The two boys were about the same size, and they were of that age when a real fight had a deadly edge. They fought as would rabid dogs. Clawing into faces, seeking eye sockets, or inside the mouth to tear aside one entire cheek. They bit, gouged, used their elbows and knees as they rolled about on the roadside.

  Something snapped, like a green sapling, and someone howled in terrible pain.

  Harllo climbed to his feet, and he found he was holding a large round stone in his hands.

  Venaz had broken the stranger’s left arm, and he was now working himself on top, fists raining down into the other boy’s face – who did what he could to protect it with his one working arm, but half of those fists got through, smashing into the face beneath.

  Harllo stepped up behind Venaz, who was straddling the stranger. He looked down, seeing him as the stranger must have done when Harllo was the one lying on the ground, being murdered. He raised the rock, and then drove it down on to the top of Venaz’s skull.

  The impact made him lose his grip on the stone and he saw it roll off to one side, leaving a shallow dent in Venaz’s head.

  Venaz seemed to be in the midst of a coughing fit, a barely human stuttering sound bursting from his throat. He pushed himself off the other boy and rose wobbling to his feet. When he turned to stare at Harllo, he was smiling, the teeth bright shards between gushing streams of blood from his nose. His eyes had filled and were now opaque. He lost his balance and reeled to one side, only to lose his footing on the edge of the road and plunge into the grassy ditch.

  Harllo went to stare down at him. Venaz was still smiling, lying on his back, his cut and bruised hands making strange circular motions. He had soiled himself and the stench made Harllo step back, away, to walk over and kneel down beside the other boy.

  Who was sitting up, cradling his broken arm, hair hanging over his face.

  ‘Hello,’ said Harllo, ‘who are you?’

  Hanut Orr stood in the shadows behind the Phoenix Inn, waiting for the first of the cowardly bastards to come rushing out from the kitchen door. His man must be inside by now, stirring things up. Not long, then.

  He ducked at the sound of ferocious howls echoing through the city, and then a thundering concussion somewhere to the south – but close – and he stepped out to the centre of the alley. Some shambling figure walking past had to shift quickly to one side to avoid colliding with him.

  ‘Watch it,’ Hanut snapped, and then he looked up into the slash of night visible between the buildings, as it suddenly lit red and orange.

  It was pretty much the last thing he ever saw.

  As soon as he was past the fool, Gaz whirled round, his right fingerless hand lashing out to crack with a crunch against the base of his victim’s neck. Bone against bone, and it was not knuckles that broke – they were by now too scarred, too calcined, for that. No, what snapped was Hanut Orr’s neck.

  Gaz was swinging with his other hand even as the body crumpled, his left pounding into the man’s forehead, flinging the head back like a bulbous seed pod on a broken stalk. Slap went the body, head bouncing once and then lolling way too far to one side.

  He stared down, and then moaned. This was no drunk who’d been leaning against a wall behind the inn. He should have noted the man’s tone when he’d warned him off.

  This was a highborn.

  Gaz found he was breathing fast. A rapid pounding in his chest, a sudden heat flooding through him. His knuckles throbbed.

  ‘Thordy,’ he whispered, ‘I’m in deep trouble. Thordyyyy . . .’

  He looked up and down the alley, saw no one, and then set off, stiff-legged, leaning far forward, his fingerless hands drawn up under his chin. He was going home. Yes, he had to get home, and be there all night, yes, he’d been there all night—

  In trouble in trouble I’m in trouble now. Mages and necromancers, guards everywhere – listen to the
alarms – they’ve found him already! Oh oh oh trouble, Thordy, so much trouble . . .

  Councillor Coll had pushed him back on to the bar, then down on to its battered surface. The severe arch forced by the position had Hanut Orr’s thug groaning in pain.

  ‘Is he waiting, then?’ Coll asked, leaning close. ‘Your shitface boss – is he waiting outside?’

  The man understood loyalty, and he understood the demands of raw survival, and of course there was no contest between the two. He managed a nod and gasped, ‘Alley. He’s in the alley. There’s another man, other side of the street out front.’

  ‘And who are you all looking for?’

  ‘Any – uh – any one of you. No, wait. The assassin, the one with the two knives – the one who just killed Gorlas Vidikas.’

  The man saw Coll’s broad, oddly puffy face twist into a frown, and the heavy weight pressing down on his chest – keeping him pinned on the countertop – eased back.

  ‘Meese, this one moves, kill him.’

  The woman with the absurd two-handed mace stepped up, eyes flat and lifeless as they fixed on the thug. ‘Give me a reason,’ she said.

  The thug simply shook his head and stayed right where he was, leaning now against the rail.

  He watched as Coll shambled over to where stood the short, round man in the red waistcoat. They spoke for a time, in tones so low the man had no chance of overhearing their conversation. And then Coll went behind the bar and emerged a moment later with an antique broadsword that looked like a perfect fit in those huge hands. Trailed by the fat man, he marched out into the kitchen, presumably for the back door.

  Well, Hanut Orr was an arrogant tyrant. So he got what he wanted and a whole lot more. Things like that happen.

  The man suddenly recalled that he’d spilled nothing about the two men waiting outside Coll’s estate. Well, this could work out just fine, so long as he managed to get out of this damned inn before Coll got ambushed at his gate.

  Damned noisy in the city tonight – ah, yes, the last night of the Gedderone Fête. Of course it was noisy, and dammit, he wanted to be out there himself, partying, dancing, squeezing soft flesh, maybe picking a fight or two – but ones he could win, of course. Nothing like this crap—