Toll the Hounds

by Steven Erikson

  Draconus scowled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He means,’ said Hood, ‘we now come to the final act in this bargain. He has been true to his word, but now what comes is out of his hands. He wrought a promise, yes, but will that suffice?’

  ‘Shame on you, Hood,’ said Iskar Jarak, gathering up the reins. ‘There is not a fool out there who would betray the Son of Darkness, not in this, not even now – though he has left us, though he has returned to his Mother’s realm.’

  ‘You chastise me, Iskar Jarak?’

  ‘I do.’

  The Jaghut snorted. ‘Accepted,’ he said.

  Barathol sat on the cobbles, feeling as if every bone in his body was fractured, as if every muscle was bruised. He wanted to throw up, but struggled against the impulse, lest the convulsions kill him. He glanced yet again at that sprawled corpse with the sword embedded in its face and skull. He could see the broad, deep puncture wounds on one thigh, where the Hound had picked it up. No blood leaked from them.

  Antsy came over and crouched down. ‘Look at what we run into here. There’s beast blood everywhere, and you, y’damned idiot, you stood down one of them monsters – with a damned axe!’

  ‘Help me up, will you?’

  Antsy stared, then sighed. ‘We’d need the ox for that – you’re big as a bhederin. Fine, I’ll squat here and you try using me like I was a ladder, but don’t blame me if my knees buckle.’

  Another carriage had drawn up a short time earlier, and before it stood the High Alchemist Baruk – the one who’d turned them away – and beside him a warrior with Barghast blood, an enormous hammer strapped to his back. This one walked up to stare down at the dead Tiste Andii.

  Barathol pulled himself upright, Antsy grunting under his weight, and then straightened with a soft word of thanks. He glanced over to study the others still remaining. The Toblakai warrior and the woman who seemed to be his companion. The two other Toblakai, young women – possibly even children – who might have been sisters, and a large dog bearing more scars than seemed possible. Great Ravens still lined the roof edges, or huddled like black, demonic gnomes on the street itself, silent as wraiths.

  The dawn’s golden sunlight streamed through the smoke hanging over the city, and he could hear nothing of the normal wakening bustle that should have already begun filling Darujhistan’s streets.

  Beyond this immediate gathering, others were appearing. Citizens, guards, blank-faced and empty of words, numb as refugees, none drawing too close but seemingly unwilling to leave.

  The High Alchemist was standing a respectful distance away from the Barghast and the dead Tiste Andii, watching with sorrow-filled eyes. He then spoke, ‘Caladan Brood, what he sought must—’

  ‘Wait,’ rumbled the Barghast. ‘It must wait.’ He bent down then, reached out and grasped hold of the blackbladed sword. And, with little ceremony, he worked the weapon loose, and then straightened once more.

  It seemed everyone present held their breath.

  Caladan Brood stared down at the weapon in his hands. Then, Barathol saw, the warrior’s mouth twisted into a faint snarl, filed teeth gleaming. And he turned round and walked to the carriage, where he opened the side door and tossed the sword inside. It clanged, thumped. The door clicked shut.

  The Barghast glared about, and then pointed. ‘That ox and cart.’

  ‘Caladan—’

  ‘I will have my way here, Baruk.’ His bestial eyes found Barathol. ‘You, help me with him.’

  Barathol bit back every groan as he took hold of the Tiste Andii’s feet, watching as Brood forced his hands beneath the corpse’s shoulders, down under the arms. Together, they lifted the body.

  Antsy had brought the cart close and he now stood beside the ox, his expression miserable.

  They laid the body of Anomander Rake on the slatted bed with its old blood stains. Brood leaned over it for a long moment. And then he drew himself upright once more and faced the High Alchemist. ‘I shall build him a barrow. West of the city.’

  ‘Caladan, please, that can wait. We have to—’

  ‘No.’ He moved to where Antsy stood and with one hand pushed the Falari away from the ox, grasping hold of the yoke. ‘I will do this. None other need be burdened with this journey. It shall be Caladan Brood and Anomander Rake, together one last time.’

  And so the ox began its fateful walk. A warrior at its side, the corpse of another in the cart.

  The procession was forced to halt but once, not ten paces from where it started, as a short, round man in a red waistcoat had positioned himself directly in its path. Caladan Brood looked up, frowned.

  The short, round man then, with surprising grace, bowed, before backing to one side.

  Brood said nothing, simply tugging the ox into motion once again.

  It was said that he had saved Darujhistan. Once, years ago, and now again. The Lord of Moon’s Spawn, who on this night brought darkness down, darkness and cold, down upon the raging fires. Who somehow crushed the life from a growing conflagration of destruction. Saving the lives of everyone. It was said he single-handedly banished the demon Hounds. It was said, upon the instant of his death, the heart of the moon broke. And proof of that still lingered in the sky.

  Who killed him? No one was sure. Rumours of Vorcan’s return fuelled speculation of some vicious betrayal. A Malazan contract. A god’s blind rage. But clearly it was fated, that death, for did not the worshippers of Dessembrae emerge from their temple last night? Was that not a time for the Lord of Tragedy? Oh, but it was, yes, it surely was.

  And so, unbidden, people came out on to the streets. They lined the route taken by Caladan Brood to await his passing, the warrior, the ox, the cart. And when he did, he was watched in silence; and when the procession had passed, the people fell into his wake, becoming a river of humanity.

  On this morning, Darujhistan was like no other city. No hawkers called out their wares. Market stalls remained shut. No fisher boats slipped their moorings and set out on the mirror waters of the lake. Looms stayed motionless, spindles unspun. And, from every temple, bells began their toll. Discordant, sonorous, building like a broken echo, as if the city itself had found a voice, and that voice, so filled with the chaos of grief, would now speak for every citizen, for the priests and priestesses, for the very gods in their temples.

  Amidst the clanging bells, Great Ravens rose into the smoky sky, wheeling above rooftops, forming a caterwauling, grisly escort. At first there were but hundreds, and then there were thousands. Swirling in a mass, as if drawn to deliver darkness to Darujhistan, as if to shroud the body below.

  And, just beyond Worrytown, ascending the first of the Gadrobi Hills, a lone swordsman paused and half turned a ravaged face to the fretful music of those bells, those birds, and whatever might have been there, in his eyes, well, there was no one to witness it.

  And so he set his back to Darujhistan and resumed his journey. That he had nowhere to go, at least for the moment, was without relevance. Solitude finds its own path, for the one who will not share burdens. And loneliness is no fit companion for the eternally lost, but it is the only one they know.

  At this moment, another lone figure, clad in chain, sat in a tavern in Worrytown. The notion of witnessing the procession in the city was proving too . . . unpalatable. Kallor despised funerals. Celebrations of failure. Wallowing in pathos. Every living soul standing there forced to stare into mortality’s grinning face – no, that was not for Kallor.

  He preferred kicking that piss-grinning, shit-reeking bastard face, right between the fucking eyes.

  The tavern was empty, since it seemed no one else shared his sentiments, and that was fine with him. It had always been fine with him.

  Or so he told himself, as he stared down into his stolen tankard of bad ale, and listened to those infernal bells and those oversized vultures. And that chorus was hauntingly familiar. Death, ruin, grief. ‘Hear that?’ he said to his tankard, ‘they’re playing our song.’

  Blend
walked into K’rul’s Bar and found it empty, save for the hunched figure of the historian, who sat at his chosen table, staring at the stained, pitted wood. She walked over and looked down at him. ‘Who died?’

  Duiker did not look up. ‘Not who, Blend. More like what. What died? More, I think, than we’ll ever know.’

  She hesitated. ‘Have you checked on Picker?’

  ‘She walked out of here a quarter-bell ago.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Said she’d be back.’

  ‘That’s it? That’s all she said?’

  ‘Something else. Something about “them damned torcs”.’ He finally glanced up, his eyes bleak as ever. ‘Sit down, Blend. Please. I don’t like being alone, not right now. She’ll be back.’

  At that moment a bell began ringing overhead and both Malazans ducked at the deafening clangour.

  ‘Gods below!’ swore Blend. ‘Who’s up in the belfry?’

  Duiker was frowning. ‘The only other person here is Scillara. I suppose . . .’ and then he fell silent, and the wasted misery in his eyes deepened.

  Blend sat down. ‘She’d better get tired soon, or I’ll have to go up there.’

  They sat, weathering the clanging. Blend studied Duiker, wondering at his ever-deepening despondency. And then a realization struck her. ‘I thought we unshipped that bell.’

  ‘We did, Blend. It’s in the cellar.’

  ‘Oh.’

  No wonder he looked so wretched.

  ‘Plan on cutting off its head?’ Samar Dev asked.

  Karsa Orlong was standing over the Hound he had killed. At her question he grunted. ‘I could use a kitchen knife to finish the job. See how my blade cut through that spine? Like chopping down a tree.’

  She found she was trembling, decided it was exhaustion. ‘They’re your daughters, aren’t they?’

  Karsa glanced over at the two Toblakai girls, who stood watching, silent, expectant. ‘I raped a mother and a daughter.’

  ‘Ah, well, isn’t that nice.’

  ‘It was my right.’

  ‘Funny, that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That idea of “rights”. The way that claiming a right so often results in someone else losing theirs. At which point it all comes down to who’s holding the biggest sword.’

  ‘I won that right when I killed their men. This was tribal war, witch.’ He paused. ‘And I was young.’

  ‘Gods below, you’re actually telling me you have regrets?’

  The Toblakai turned away from the dead Hound and faced his daughters. ‘I have many,’ he answered. ‘But, not these two.’

  ‘And if they feel differently about it, Karsa?’

  ‘Why should they? I gave them life.’

  ‘I think,’ Samar Dev said, ‘that I shall never understand you.’ She eyed the girls. ‘Do they know what we’re saying? Of course not, they couldn’t have learned any Seven Cities language. I’ve not seen you speak to them, Karsa. What are you waiting for?’

  ‘I am waiting,’ he replied, ‘for when I can think of something to say.’

  At that moment another woman emerged from an alley mouth and, gaze fixed on Karsa Orlong, walked over. ‘Toblakai,’ she said, ‘I have a message to deliver to you.’ She was speaking Malazan.

  ‘I don’t know you,’ Karsa said to her in the same language.

  ‘The feeling’s mutual,’ she snapped, ‘but let’s not let that get in the way.’ She hesitated. ‘Do you want this message private, or maybe I should just shout it so everybody can hear.’

  Karsa shot Samar Dev an amused look. ‘Did I ever tell you, witch, that I liked Malazans?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, sighing.

  ‘You need not shout, Malazan. Nor will we hide in some corner. So, tell me this mysterious message, but first, tell me who it is from.’

  ‘All right. It’s from Hood, I think.’

  Samar Dev snorted. ‘Let me guess. “Keep up the good work, yours truly”.’

  The Malazan woman regarded her. ‘Well now, after all this is done, permit me to buy you a drink.’

  Samar Dev’s brows rose.

  ‘The message,’ Karsa growled.

  ‘Right. It’s this. You must not leave Darujhistan.’

  ‘And if I do?’

  ‘Then you will have lost your one opportunity to fulfil a vow you once made.’

  ‘I have made many vows.’

  ‘I’m shocked to hear that.’

  Karsa was smiling, but something deadly had awakened in it. ‘Will you tell me more?’

  The woman hesitated again. ‘I’m reconsidering. This really needs to be private – no offence, Witch – he called you that, yes? It’s just that—’

  ‘Tell me,’ Karsa demanded.

  Samar Dev was impressed to see that the Malazan woman did not flinch from Karsa’s dangerous smile. ‘Toblakai, you will be needed.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Why, to kill a god.’

  ‘Which god?’

  The Malazan woman stared, discomfited for the first time since arriving. ‘You were supposed to run away when I told you that. Any sane person would.’

  ‘Then you found the wrong warrior,’ said Samar Dev, her mouth dry. ‘And you were right, I wish I hadn’t heard that. I’m going to walk away now, so you can finish delivering your message.’

  ‘Go to K’rul’s Bar,’ said the Malazan. ‘Tell them Picker sent you. Breakfast, decent wine, and if Blend offers to prepare you a bath and maybe soap you down some, be nice to her.’

  ‘Generous of you, I think.’

  ‘That’s me,’ Picker said.

  Samar Dev set out in search of K’rul’s Bar. A breakfast sounded very fine indeed, as did the notion of decent wine. As for the bath, well, if it was indeed offered, why, she suspected she’d be too weary to resist.

  Tens of thousands now followed the ox cart and its burden as it made its way down from Lakefront and into the Gadrobi District. Bells rang; the Great Ravens wheeled, adding their wretched cries. And already, from the hills beyond Two-Ox Gate, clouds of dust rose into the morning sky.

  Caladan Brood did not need to hew each stone, or drive spade into stony soil. The warren of Tennes had been awakened, and the flesh of Burn was given new shape and new purpose. In this chosen place, a hill was being transformed. And by the time Brood led the ox up to the barrow’s passage entrance, and took the body of Anomander Rake into his arms, the chamber within was ready. And when he then emerged, pausing as if startled upon seeing the tens of thousands of silent mourners forming a ring round the hill’s base, an enormous capstone had risen into view, splitting the grassy ground.

  And when with one hand Caladan Brood had guided it into place, he drew his hammer. To seal the barrow for ever.

  Anomander Rake was interred in darkness. Weaponless, accompanied by no gifts, no wealth, no treasured possessions. His flesh was not treated against the ravages of decay. The blood and gore covering his face was not even washed away. None of these gestures belonged to the Tiste Andii, for whom the soul’s departure leaves the flesh blind, insensate and indifferent.

  Dying delivers one into the river of darkness, that passes into and out of the ruined city of Kharkanas, the womb long dead, long abandoned. Into the river, and the river must travel on, ever on.

  Caladan Brood sealed the barrow, and upon the capstone of bleached dolomite he set a symbol, carved deep into the stone’s face. An ancient Barghast glyph, its meaning precise and yet a thing of countless layers – although this is known only to those who in life come to face it directly.

  A single Barghast glyph.

  Which said Grief.

  When Baruk had vanished inside his carriage and the conveyance had rumbled off on its way to the High Alchemist’s venerable estate; when the huge Toblakai warrior and Picker had concluded their conversation, and each had gone their own way, the former trailed by his daughters and the limping dog; when the place where two warriors had met in mortal combat bore nothing but a sc
attering of masonry, sun-darkened swaths of spilled blood and the motionless forms of dead Hounds of Light – when all this had come to pass, two figures emerged from the shadows.

  One was barely visible despite the harsh sunlight: ghostly, leaning on a cane. And after a time of silence, this one spoke in a rasping voice. To begin with, a single word: ‘Well?’

  And his companion replied in kind. ‘Well.’

  The cane tapped a few times on the cobbles.

  The companion then said, ‘It’s out of our hands now, until the end.’

  ‘Until the end,’ agreed Shadowthrone. ‘You know, Cotillion, I never much liked Caladan Brood.’

  ‘Really? I never knew.’

  ‘Do you think . . .’

  ‘I think,’ said Cotillion, ‘that we need not worry on that count.’

  Shadowthrone sighed. ‘Are we pleased? It was . . . delicate . . . the timing. Are we pleased? We should be.’

  ‘The damned Hounds of Light,’ said Cotillion, ‘that was unexpected. Two, yes. But ten? Gods below.’

  ‘Hmph! I was more worried by my Magus’s temporary sanity.’

  ‘Is that what you call it?’

  ‘He had a chance – a slim one, but he had a chance. Imagine that one wielding Dragnipur.’

  Cotillion regarded his companion. ‘Are you suggesting he would not have relinquished it? Ammanas, really. That was all your play. I’m not fooled by his seemingly going rogue on you. You vowed you’d not try to steal the sword. But of course you never mentioned anything about one of your High Priests doing it for you.’

  ‘And it would have been mine!’ Shadowthrone hissed in sudden rage. ‘If not for that confounded fat man with the greasy lips! Mine!’

  ‘Iskaral Pust’s, you mean.’

  Shadowthrone settled down once more, tapped his cane. ‘We’d have seen eye to eye, eventually.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Well, who cares what you think, anyway?’

  ‘So where is he now?’

  ‘Pust? Back in the temple, poring through the archives of the Book of Shadows.’