Rest easy for the next few moments, for there is more to tell.
Iskaral Pust rode like a madman. Unfortunately, the mule beneath him had decided that a plodding walk would suffice, making the two of them a most incongruous pair. The High Priest flung himself back and forth, pitched from side to side. His feet kicked high, toes skyward, then lashed back down. Heels pounded insensate flanks in a thumping drum-roll entirely devoid of rhythm. Reins flailed about but the mule had chewed through the bit and so the reins were attached to nothing but two mangled stumps that seemed determined to batter Pust senseless.
He tossed about as if riding a goaded bull. Spraying sweat, lips pulled back in a savage grimace, the whites visible round his bugged-out eyes.
The mule, why, the mule walked. Clump clump (pause) clump (pause) clump clump. And so on.
Swirling just above Iskaral Pust’s head, and acrobatically avoiding the bit-ends, flapped the squall of bhokarala. Like oversized gnats, and how that mule’s tail whipped back and forth! She sought to swat them away, but in the spirit of gnat-hood the bhokarala did not relent, so eager were they to claim the very next plop of dung wending its way out beneath that tail. Over which they’d fight tooth, talon and claw.
Swarming in mule and rider’s wake was a river of spiders, flowing glittering black over the cobbles.
At one point three white Hounds tramped across the street not twenty paces distant. A trio of immensely ugly heads swung to regard mule and rider. And to show that it meant business, the mule propped up its ears. Clump clump (pause) clump clump clump.
The Hounds moved on.
It does no good to molest a mule.
Alas, as Iskaral Pust and his placid mount were moments from discovering, there were indeed forces in the world that could confound both.
And here then, at last, arrives the shining, blazing, astonishing nexus, the penultimate pinnacle of this profound night, as bold Kruppe nudges his ferocious warmule into the path of one Iskaral Pust, mule, and sundry spiders and bhokarala.
Mule sees mule. Both halt with a bare fifteen paces between them, ears at bristling attention.
Rider sees rider. Magus grows dangerously still, eyes hooded. Kruppe waves one plump hand in greeting.
Bhokarala launch a mid-air conference that results in one beast landing awkwardly on the cobbles to the left of the High Priest, whilst the others find window sills, projections, and the heads of handsome gargoyles on which to perch, chests heaving and tongues lolling.
The spiders run away.
Thus, the tableau is set.
‘Out of my way!’ screeched Iskaral Pust. ‘Who is this fool and how dare he fool with me? I’ll gnash him! I’ll crush him down. I’ll feint right and dodge left and we’ll be by in a flash! Look at that pathetic mule – he’ll never catch us! I got a sword to claim. Mine, yes, mine! And then won’t Shadowthrone grovel and simper! Iskaral Pust, High Priest of Dragnipur! Most feared swordsman in ten thousand worlds! And if you think you’ve seen justice at its most fickle, you just wait!’ He then leaned forward and smiled. ‘Kind sir, could you kindly move yourself and yon beast to one side? I must keep an appointment, you understand. Hastily, in fact.’ Then he hissed, ‘Go climb up your own arse, you red-vested ball of lard that someone rolled across a forest floor! Go! Scat!’
‘Most confounding indeed,’ Kruppe replied with his most beatific smile. ‘It seems we are in discord, in that you seek to proceed in a direction that will inevitably collide with none other than Kruppe, the Eel of Darujhistan. Poor priest, it is late. Does your god know where you are?’
‘Eel? Kruppe? Collide? Fat and an idiot besides, what a dastardly combination, and on this of all nights! Listen, take another street. If I run into this Crappy Eel I’ll be sure to let him know you’re looking for him. It’s the least I can do.’
‘Hardly, but no matter. I am Kruppe the Crappy Eel, alas.’
‘So fine, we’ve run into each other. Glad that’s over with. Now let me pass!’
‘Kruppe regrets that any and every path you may seek shall be impeded by none other than Kruppe himself. Unless, of course, you conclude that what you seek is not worth the effort, nor the grief certain to follow, and so wisely return to thy shadowy temple.’
‘You don’t know what I want so it’s none of your damned business what I want!’
‘Misapprehensions abound, but wait, does this slavering fool even understand?’
‘What? I wasn’t supposed to hear that? But I did! I did, you fat idiot!’
‘He only thought he heard. Kind priest, Kruppe assures you, you did not hear but mishear. Kind priest? Why, Kruppe is too generous, too forgiving by far, and hear hear! Or is it here here? No matter, it’s not as if this grinning toad will understand. Why, his mule’s got a sharper look in its eye than he has. Now, kindly priest, it’s late and you should be in bed, yes? Abjectly alone, no doubt. Hmm?’
Iskaral Pust stared. He gaped. His eyes darted, alighting on the bhokaral squatting on the cobbles beside him as it made staring, gaping, darting expressions. ‘My worshippers! Of course! You! Yes, you! Gather your kin and attack the fat fool! Attack! Your god commands you! Attack!’
‘Mlawhlaoblossblayowblagmilebbingoblaiblblafblablallblayarblablabnablahblallblah!’ ‘What?’
‘Bla?’
‘Bla?’
‘Yarb?’
‘Bah! You’re stupid and useless and ugly!’
‘Blabluablablablahllalalabala, too!’
Iskaral Pust scowled at it.
The bhokaral scowled back.
‘Rat poison!’ Pust hissed. And then smiled.
The bhokaral offered him a dung sausage. And then smiled.
*
Oh, so much for reasoned negotiation.
Iskaral Pust’s warbling battle cry was somewhat strangled as he leaned forward, perched high in the stirrups, hands reaching like a raptor’s talons, and the mule reluctantly stumped forward.
Kruppe watched this agonizingly slow charge. He sighed. ‘Really now. It comes to this? So be it.’ And he kicked his war-mule into motion.
The beasts closed, step by step. By step.
Iskaral Pust clawed the air, weaving and pitching, head bobbing. Overhead, the bhokarala screamed and flew in frenzied circles. The High Priest’s mule flicked its tail.
Kruppe’s war-mule edged to the right. Pust’s beast angled to its right. Their heads came alongside, and then their shoulders. Whereupon they halted.
Snarling and spitting, Iskaral Pust launched himself at Kruppe, who grunted a surprised oof! Fists flew, thumbs jabbed, jaws snapped – the High Priest’s crazed attack – and the Eel threw up his forearms to fend it off, only to inadvertently punch Pust in the nose with one pudgy hand. Head rocked back, a stunned gasp. Attack renewed.
They grappled. They toppled, thumping on to the cobbles in a flurry of limbs.
The bhokarala joined in, diving from above with screeches and snarls, swarming the two combatants before beginning to fight with each other. Fists flying, thumbs jabbing, jaws snapping. Spiders swept in from all sides, tiny fangs nipping everything in sight.
The entire mass writhed and seethed.
The two mules walked a short distance away, then turned in unison to watch the proceedings.
Best leave this egregious scene for now.
Honest.
When the two women appeared some distance down a side avenue, dressed in diaphanous robes, and approached side by side with elegant grace – like noble-born sisters out for a late night stroll – the Great Ravens scattered, shrieking, and the Hounds of Shadow drew up, hackles rising and lips stretching back to reveal glistening fangs.
Even at this distance, Samar Dev could feel the power emanating from them. She stepped back, her chest tightening. ‘Who in Hood’s name are they?’
When Karsa did not reply she glanced over to see that he was watching a lone horseman coming up from the lakefront. This rider held a lance and the moment her eyes alit upon that weapon she drew a sharp
, ragged breath. Gods, now what?
The horse’s hoofs echoed like a cracked temple bell.
Ignoring the rider, the Hounds of Shadow set out in the direction of the two women. The five enormous beasts moved warily, heads held low.
At this moment, High Alchemist Baruk stood beside his carriage in the estate compound. It might have seemed to the servants and guards watching that he was studying the crazed night sky, but none of these worthies was positioned to see anything of his face.
The man was weeping.
He did not see the shattered moon. Nor the wreaths of low smoke drifting past. In truth, he saw nothing that anyone else could possibly see, for his vision was turned inward, upon memories of friendship, upon burdens since accepted, and, through it all, there was a rising flood of something – he could not be certain, but he believed it was humility.
In the course of a life, sacrifices are made, dire legacies accepted. Burdens are borne upon a humble back, or they ride the shoulders of bitter martyrs. These are the choices available to the spirit. There was no doubt, none at all, as to which one had been chosen by the Son of Darkness.
A great man was dead. So much cruelly taken away on this sour night.
And he had lost a friend.
It availed him nothing that he understood, that he accepted that so many other choices were made, and that he had his own role still to play out in this tragic end.
No, he simply felt broken inside.
Everything seemed thin, fragile. All that he felt in his heart, all that he saw with his eyes. So very fragile.
Yes, the moon died, but a rebirth was coming.
Could he hold to that?
He would try.
For now, however, all he could manage were these tears.
Baruk turned to his carriage, stepped inside. The door was shut behind him as he settled on the cushioned bench. He looked across to his guest, but could say nothing. Not to this one, who had lost so much more than he had. So much more.
The gates were opened and the carriage set out, its corner lanterns swinging.
Cutter dismounted, leaving the horse to wander where it would. He walked forward, indifferent to the presence of the Hounds – they seemed intent on something else in any case – and indifferent as well to the Great Ravens as they drove onlookers away with beaks eager to stab and slash. His eyes were on the body lying on the cobbles.
He walked past a woman who stood beside a towering warrior who was drawing loose a two-handed flint sword as he stared at something in the direction from whence Cutter had just come.
None of these details could drag Cutter’s attention from the body, and that gleaming black sword so brutally driven into the head and face. He walked until he stood over it.
The woman moved up beside him. ‘That weapon in your hands – it’s not—’
‘We are in trouble,’ Cutter said.
‘What?’
He could not believe what he was seeing. Could not accept that the Lord of Moon’s Spawn was lying here, one eye closed, the other open and staring sightlessly. Killed by his own sword. Killed . . . taken. By Dragnipur. ‘How did this happen? Who could have . . .’
‘Dassem Ultor.’
He finally looked at her. She was Seven Cities, that much he could see at once. Older than Cutter by a decade, maybe more. ‘The name’s familiar, but . . .’ He shrugged.
She pointed to one side and Cutter turned.
A man was crouched, slumped against a wall, a sword propped up beside him. He had buried his face in his arms. Cutter’s eyes went back to that sword. I’ve seen that thing before . . . but where? When?
‘He was known to us,’ said the woman, ‘as Traveller.’
Memories rushed through Cutter, leaving in their wake something cold, lifeless. ‘It’s not the same,’ he whispered. ‘Vengeance. Or grief. Your choice.’ He drew an uneven breath. ‘That sword – it was forged by Anomander Rake. It was his weapon. Before Dragnipur. He left it with his brother, Andarist. And then I . . . I . . . Beru fend . . .’
The giant warrior now twisted round. ‘If you would protect that body,’ he said in a growl, ‘then ready that spear.’
The two women had halted a street away, their path blocked by a half-circle of Hounds, with less than twenty paces separating the parties.
Seeing those women, Cutter frowned. ‘Spite,’ he muttered. ‘Did you guess? Or was it just some damned itch?’
‘Samar Dev,’ snapped the giant. ‘Witch! Get Traveller on his feet! I will need him!’
‘Damn you!’ screamed the woman beside Cutter. ‘What is it?’
But there was no need for an answer. For she saw now, as did Cutter.
More Hounds, these ones pale as ghosts, a pack twice the number of the Hounds of Shadow. Loping up the street from Lakefront, moments from a charge.
‘It’s the sword,’ said the woman named Samar Dev. ‘They’ve come for the sword.’
Cutter felt his limbs turn to ice, even as the lance in his hands flared with heat.
‘Give me room,’ said the giant, lumbering forward into a clear space.
Against ten Hounds? Are you mad?
Cutter moved out to the left of the warrior. The witch rushed over to Traveller.
The lance trembled. It was getting too hot to hold, but what else did he have? Some damned daggers – against these things? Gods, what am I even doing here?
But he would stand. He would die here, beside a giant – who was just as doomed. And for what? There is nothing . . . there is nothing in my life. To explain any of this. He glared at the white Hounds. It’s just a sword. What will you even do with it? Chew the handle? Piss on the blade? He looked across at the huge warrior beside him. ‘What’s your name at least?’
The giant glanced at him. ‘Yes,’ he said with a sharp nod. ‘I am Karsa Orlong of the Teblor. Toblakai. And you?’
‘Crokus. Crokus Younghand.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘I was once a thief.’
‘Be one again,’ said Karsa, teeth bared, ‘and steal me a Hound’s life this night.’
Shit. ‘I’ll try.’
‘That will do,’ the Toblakai replied.
Thirty paces away now. And the white Hounds fanned out, filled the street in a wall of bleached hide, rippling muscle and rows of fangs.
A gust of charnel wind swept round Cutter; something clattered, rang sharp on cobbles, and then a hand swept down—
The Hounds of Light charged.
As, on the side street to the left, the daughters of Draconus unleashed their warrens in a howling rush of destruction that engulfed the five beasts before them.
*
Scything blade of notched iron, driving Spinnock Durav back. Blood sprayed with each blow, links of ringed armour pattered on the ground. So many tiny broken chains, there was a trail of them, marking each step of the warrior’s rocking, reeling retreat. When his own sword caught Kallor’s frenzied blows, the reverberation ripped up Spinnock’s arm, seeming to mash his muscles into lifeless pulp.
His blood was draining away from countless wounds. His helm had been battered off, that single blow leaving behind a fractured cheekbone and a deaf ear.
Still he fought on; still he held Kallor before him.
Kallor.
There was no one behind the High King’s eyes. The berserk rage had devoured the ancient warrior. He seemed tireless, an automaton. Spinnock Durav could find no opening, no chance to counter-attack. It was all he could do simply to evade each death blow, to minimize the impacts of that jagged edge, to turn the remaining fragments of his hauberk into the blade’s inexorable path.
Spreading bruises, cracked bones, gaping gouges from which blood welled, soaking his wool gambon, he staggered under the unceasing assault.
It could not last.
It had already lasted beyond all reason.
Spinnock blocked yet another slash, but this time the sound his sword made was strangely dull, and the grip suddenly felt loose, the handle shorn from the tine – the
pommel was gone. With a sobbing gasp, he ducked beneath a whistling blade and then pitched back—
But Kallor pressed forward, giving him no distance, and that two-handed sword lashed out yet again.
Spinnock’s parry jolted his arm and his weapon seemed to blow apart in his hand, tined blade spinning into the air, the fragments of the grip a handful of shards falling from his numbed fingers.
The back-slash caught him across his chest.
He was thrown from his feet, landing hard on the slope of the ditch, where he sagged back, blood streaming down his front, and closed his eyes.
Kallor’s rasping breaths drew closer.
Sweat dripped on to Spinnock’s face, but still he did not open his eyes. He had felt it. A distant death. Yes, he had felt it, as he feared he might. So feared that he might. And, of all the deeds he had managed here at these crossroads, all that he had done up until this moment, not one could match the cost of the smile that now emerged on split, bleeding lips.
And this alone stayed Kallor’s sword from its closing thrust. Stayed it . . . for a time.
‘What,’ Kallor asked softly, ‘was the point, Spinnock Durav?’
But the fallen warrior did not answer.
‘You could never win. You could never do anything but die here. Tell me, damn you, what was the fucking point?’
The question was a sob, the anguish so raw that Spinnock was startled into opening his eyes, into looking up at Kallor.
Behind the silhouette with its halo of tangled, sweat-matted hair, the heaving shoulders, he saw Great Ravens, a score or more, flying up from the south.
Closer and closer.
With an effort, Spinnock focused on Kallor once more. ‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Not yet, Kallor, but you will. Someday, you will.’
‘He does not deserve you!’
Spinnock frowned, blinked to clear his eyes. ‘Oh, Kallor . . .’
The High King’s face was ravaged with grief, and all that raged in the ancient man’s eyes – well, none of it belonged. Not to the legend that was Kallor. Not to the nightmares roiling round and round his very name. Not to the lifeless sea of ashes in his wake. No, what Spinnock saw in Kallor’s eyes were things that, he suspected, no one would ever see again.
Toll the Hounds Page 115
