Toll the Hounds

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Fisher kel Tath

Eyes rolling white, the ox ran for its life. Cart skidding and bouncing, tilting on one wild wheel as the moaning beast hurtled round a corner and raced down a cobbled street.

Even the gods could not reach through that thick-boned pate of skull, down into the tender knot of terror in its murky brain. Once prodded awake, incessant need blurred the world beyond, reducing all to a narrow tunnel with salvation at the far, far end. Why, who could comprehend such extremity? Not mortal kin, much less a god with its eternally bemused brow — to regard such fitful interludes, blank-eyed and mind rushing past like a flash flood, what would be the value of that, after all?

The beast is what it is. Four-legged, two-legged. Panic will use as many limbs as are available to it, and a few more besides. Panic will ride a wheeled cart, and thunder on dung-smeared hoofs. Panic will scrabble up the very walls as one hor shy;rendous Hound after another slinks past.

The night air stinks and that stink fills the nostrils with all the frenzied flags of a ship floundering on shoals. Smoke and blood, bile and piss. But, mostly, blood.

And then there were the screams. Ringing out everywhere, so many of them cutting off in mid-shriek, or, even more chilling, in strangled gurgle. Mothers never before heard such a multitude of beseeching calls! And who could say if the ox was not bellowing for its own, for that sweet teat, the massive hulk looming overhead, with all its sure scents and briny warmth? Alas, the beast’s mam was long since sent off to pull the great cart beyond the veil, and even could she come lumbering back at the desperate call of her get, what might she achieve in the face of a Hound?

No, solitary flight this must remain. For each and all. Ox, horse, dog, cat, mouse and rat, lizard and gnat. And people of all sorts. Old men with limps, old men who never limped in their lives but did so now. Women of all ages, sizes and dispositions, who would have limped could it have earned the necessary sympathy. Yet when even the rooftops hold no succour, why bother riding this bouncing cart of headlong panic? Best to simply flop down in abject surrender, with but a few tugs to rearrange the lie of one’s dress or whatnot. Let the men soil themselves in their terror — they never washed enough as it was.

Nobles fled ignobly, the fallen fairly flew as if on winged feet, thieves blustered and bullies whined and wheedled, guards in their blind fear observed nothing and soldiers fled every clash of iron, tooth and claw. Fools with nothing stood their ground. Gamblers danced and whores bluffed — and inside a Temple of Shadow deliciously feminine acolytes squealed and darted from the path of a screaming Magus atop his charging mule, straight through the grand altar room, censers flying with tails of uncoiling serpentine smoke and heads with glowing coal eyes in myriad profusion. In the mule’s careering wake, winged bhokarala shrieked and flitted about flinging gobs of snot and segmented cones of hairy dung at every fleeing female, while spiders swarmed up from the old long-forgotten blood drain at the base of the altar stone, a veritable carpet of seething jerky stick-legs, glistening abdomens, patterned thoraxes and beady Dal Honese eyes by the thousands, nay tens of thousands! And was it any wonder the Magus and the mule pelted right across the chamber, the doors at the far end exploding open as if of their own accord?

Even as the High Priestess — stumbling out from behind a curtain like a woman tossed from the throes of manic lovemaking, with stubble-rubbed chin and puffy lips high and low and breasts all awry and great molten swells of pale flesh sway shy;ing to and fro — plunging, yes, into the midst of that crawling black carpet of spite and venom, and so no wonder she began a dance riotous in its frenzy but let’s face it, even Mogora was too shocked, too disbelieving, to sink a forest of fangs into such sweet meat — and the bhokarala swooped down to scoop up handfuls of yummy spiders and crunch crunch into their maws and if spiders could scream, why, they did so then, even as they foamed in swirling retreat back down the drain.

Mule and Magus drumrolled down the colonnade and out through another shattered set of doors, out into the moody alleyway with its huddled mass of hiding refugees, who now scattered at the arrival of this dread apparition, and the squall of bhokarala swirling out behind it.

Now, wing swift as a burning moth across the city, back to the ox as it lumbered along in heart-pounding, chest-heaving exhaustion — pursued by an angry cart and who knew what else — and found itself fast approaching the collapsed ruin of an enormous building of some sort. .

Serendipity serves as the quaintest description of the fickle mayhem delivered by the Hounds of Shadow. Shortly following the breach of the gate, Baran pelted westward in pursuit of Pallid, as that bone-white beast broke from the pack with untoward designs in another part of the stricken city.

Pallid was unaware that it was being hunted as it discovered a dozen city guards rushing down the centre of the street, heading for the destroyed gate. The monstrous beast lunged into their midst, lashing out with slavering jaws. Armour collapsed, limbs were torn away, weapons spun through the air. Screams erupted in a welter of slaughter.

Even as Pallid crushed in its jaws the head of the last guard, Baran arrived in an avalanche. The impact boomed like thunder as Pallid was struck in the side, the caged bell of its chest reverberating as both beasts skidded and then struck the wall of a large building.

The solid, fortified entranceway was punched inward. Stone shards tore through the three people unlucky enough to be stationed in the front room. The huge blocks framing the doors tumbled down, bouncing like knuckle bones, crushing one of the wounded men before he could even scream. The remaining two, lacerated and spilling blood, were pushed back by the broad front desk, and pinned against the far wall. Both died within moments, bones and organs macerated.

Rolling, snapping and growling, the two Hounds shattered that desk, and the grillework attached to it sailed upward to crack on the ceiling, which had already begun sagging as its supports and braces gave way. With terrible groans, the entire front of the structure dragged itself down, and now screams rose through the dust, muted and pitiful.

Another wall collapsed under the impact of the beasts, and beyond it was a corridor and bars lining cells, and two more guards who sought to flee down the aisle’s length — but this entire room was coming down, the iron bars snapping out from their frames, locks shattering. Prisoners vanished beneath splintered wooden beams, plaster and bricks.

Rearing back on to its hind legs, knocked over by another charge from Baran, Pallid smashed into one cell. The prisoner within it pitched down and rolled up against one side as the Hounds, locked once more, knocked down the back wall and, kicking and snarling, rolled into the space beyond — an alleyway already half filled with falling masonry as the entire gaol broke apart.

The lone prisoner scrambled back to his feet and rushed into the Hounds’ wake-

But not in time, as the floor above dropped down to fill the cell.

In the alley Pallid had managed to close its jaws about Baran’s shoulder, and with a savage surge sent the beast wheeling through the air to crunch into what remained of the wall on that side — and this too folded inward beneath the impact of Baran’s thrashing weight.

From the wreckage of the first cell, a section of plaster and mortared brick lifted up, and as it tumbled back the prisoner — covered in dust, bruised and bleeding — began to climb free.

Pallid, hearing these sounds — the gasps and coughs, the scrambling — wheeled round, eyes blazing.

And Barathol paused, legs still pinned, and stared into those infernal orbs, and knew that they were the last things he would ever see.

Pallid gathered its legs for its charge. Its smeared, torn lips stretched back to reveal its massive fangs, and then it sprang forward-

Even as a figure hurtled bodily into its side, striking it low, beneath its right shoulder, hard enough to twist the animal round as it flew in midair.

Barathol flung himself back and as much to one side as he could manage, as the Hound’s crimson-splashed head pounded side-on into the rubble, its flailing body following.

Picking himself up from the ground, Chaur looked over at Barathol, and then showed him a bright red smile, even as he dragged free the huge war-axe he had collected from the smithy — Barathol’s very own weapon. As Pallid clambered back upright, Chaur threw the axe in Barathol’s direction, and then picked up a chunk of stone.

Barathol shrieked, desperate to tear himself free, as the white Hound, snarling, spun to face Chaur with fury incandescent in its eyes.

From the rubble farther down the alley, Baran was working free, but it would not arrive in time. Not for Chaur.

Kicking, heedless of tearing flesh, Barathol fought on.

Chaur threw his stone the instant the white Hound charged.

It struck the beast’s snout dead-on.

A yelp of agony, and then the beast’s momentum slammed it into Chaur, sent him flying across the alley to crunch sickeningly against the opposite wall. When he fell to the grimy cobbles, he did not move.

Barathol dragged his legs loose, leaving trails of blood and pieces of meat. He rolled, grasping hold of the axe handle, and then heaved himself to his feet.

Pallid’s huge head turned.

Baran broke clear into the alley.

The white Hound looked over, and, with another snarl, the beast pivoted round and fled.

A moment later Baran flashed past.

Barathol sagged back on wobbly legs. Drawing in one cold breath after another, he turned his gaze once more upon the motionless body opposite. With a sob, he dragged himself to his feet and stumbled over.

In the strange, mysterious places within the brain, places that knew of themselves as Chaur, a black flood was seeping in, and one by one those places began to drown. Fitful sparks ebbed, and once gone did not light again. His state of unconsciousness slipped into something deeper, a kind of protective oblivion that mercifully hid from Chaur the fact that he was dying.

His expression was serene, save for the slow sag along one side of his face, and when Barathol rolled back his eyelids, the pupil of the eye on that side was vastly dilated.

Weeping, the blacksmith pulled Chaur’s head and upper body on to his thighs. The rest of the world, the explosions, the screams, the thunder of battle, all fell away, and it was some time before Barathol realized that someone was clambering out of the rubble that was the gaol. A staccato cascade of curses in Falari, Malazan, Dobri and Daru. Blinking, the blacksmith lifted his gaze.

‘Antsy — here, please, I need your help! Please. He’s hurt.’

The ex-Bridgeburner was covered in dust but otherwise unscathed. ‘I lost my damned sword. I lost my damned crossbow. I lost my damned sharpers. I lost my-’

‘Antsy! Hood’s breath, please help me — we need to find a healer. High Denul — there must be one in the city. There must be!’

‘Well, there’s Mallet, but he’s — shit, he’s dead. I forgot. Can’t believe I forgot.’ Antsy crouched down and studied Chaur for a moment, and then he shook his head. ‘He’s done for, Barathol. Cracked skull, bleeding into his brain — you can always tell, when one side of the face goes-’

‘I know all that, damn you. We need a healer! Think, Antsy — there must be someone.’

‘Maybe, but not close — we got to cross half the city, Barathol, and with them Hounds-’

‘Never mind the Hounds.’ The blacksmith gathered Chaur up into his arms and straightened.

Antsy stared. ‘You can’t carry him-’

‘Then help me!’

‘I’m trying! Let me think.’

At that moment they both heard the clumping of hoofs, the clack of wooden wheels on cobbles. And they turned to the alley mouth.

Behold, the ox. Too weary to run. Even the cart in its wake clumped in exhaustion. Stolid legs trembled. Mucus slathered down in a gleaming sheet that dragged dusty tendrils between the beast’s front hoofs. The painful clarity of panic was fading, dulling its eyes once more, and when the two man-things arrived and set down a third body on the bed of the cart, why, this was old business as far as the ox was concerned. At last, the world had recovered its sanity. There were tasks to be done, journeys to complete. Salvation sweeter than mam’s milk.

Tired but content, the beast fell in step beside the man-things.

The two cousins stood on the rooftop, looking out over the city. Conflagrations lit the night sky. A section of the Gadrobi District was aflame, with geysers of burning gas spouting high into the air. A short time earlier a strange atmospheric pressure had descended, driving down the fires — nothing was actually spreading, as far as could be determined, and the detonations had grown more infrequent. Even so, there was no one fighting the flames, which was, all things considered, hardly surprising.

In the courtyard below, Studious Lock was fussing about over the fallen com shy;pound guards, both of whom had been dragged out on to pallets. Miraculously, both still lived, although, having survived the assassins, there remained the grave chance that they would not survive Studlock’s ministrations. Scorch and Leff had set themselves the task of patrolling outside the estate, street by alley by street by alley, round and round, crossbows at the ready and in states of high excitement.

‘These Hounds,’ said Rallick, ‘are most unwelcome.’

‘It seems walls don’t stop them either. Any idea why they’re here?’

When Rallick did not reply, Torvald glanced over and saw that his cousin was staring up at the shattered moon.

Torvald did not follow his gaze. That mess unnerved him. Would those spinning chunks now begin raining down? Rallick had noted earlier that most of the fragments seemed to heading the other way, growing ever smaller. There was an shy;other moon that arced a slower path that seemed to suggest it was farther away, and while it appeared tiny its size was in fact unknown. For all anyone knew, it might be another world as big as this one, and maybe now it was doomed to a rain of death. Anyway, Torvald didn’t much like thinking about it.

‘Rallick-’

‘Never mind, Tor. I want you to stay here, within the walls. I doubt there will be any trouble — the Mistress has reawakened her wards.’

‘Tiserra-’

‘Is a clever woman, and a witch besides. She’ll be fine, and mostly will be wor shy;rying about you. Stay here, cousin, until the dawn.’

‘What about you?’

Rallick turned about then, and a moment later Torvald sensed that someone else had joined them, and he too swung round.

Vorcan stood, wrapped in a thick grey cloak. ‘The High Alchemist,’ she said to Rallick, ‘suggested we be close by. . in case we are needed. The time, I believe, has come.’

Rallick nodded. ‘Rooftops and wires, Mistress?’

She smiled. ‘You make me nostalgic. Please, take the lead.’

And yes, Torvald comprehended all the subtle layers beneath those gentle words, and he was pleased. Leave it to my cousin to find for himself the most dangerous woman alive. Well, then again, maybe I found myself the second most, especially if I forget to buy bread on my way home.

Edging round the corner of the wall, an alley behind them, a street before them, Scorch and Leff paused. No point in being careless now, even though there’d be no attack from any assassins any time soon, unless of course they did breed fast as botflies, and Scorch wasn’t sure if Leff had been joking with that, not sure at all.

The street was empty. No refugees, no guards, no murderous killers all bundled in black.

Most important of all: no Hounds.

‘Damn,’ hissed Leff, ‘where are them beasts? What, you smell badder and worster than anyone else, Scorch? Is that the problem here? Shit, I want me a necklace of fangs. And maybe a paw to hang at my belt.’

‘A paw? More like a giant club making you walk tilted over. Now, that’d be funny to see, all right. Worth getting a knock or two taking one of ’em down, just to see that. A Hound’s paw, hah hah.’

‘You said you wanted a skull!’

‘Wasn’t planning to wear it, though. To make me a boat, just flip it upside down, right? I could paddle round the lake.’

‘Skulls don’t float. Well, maybe yours would, being cork.’

They set out on to the street.

‘I’d call it Seahound, what do you think?’

‘More like Sinkhound.’

‘You don’t know anything you think you know, Leff. That’s your problem. Al shy;ways has been, always will be.’

‘Wish there’d been twenty more of them assassins.’

‘There were, just not attacking us. We was the diversion, that’s what Tor said.’

‘We diverted ’em, all right.’

At that moment a Hound of Shadow slunk into view, not twenty paces away. Its sides were heaving, strips of flesh hanging down trailing threads of blood. Its mouth was crusted with red foam. It swung its head and eyed them.

In unison, Scorch and Leff lifted their crossbows into vertical positions, and spat on the barbed heads. Then they slowly settled the weapons back down, trained on the Hound.

Nostrils flaring, the beast flinched back. A moment later and it was gone.

‘Shit!’

‘I knew you smelled bad, damn you! We almost had it!’

‘Wasn’t me!’

‘It’s no fun wandering around with you, Scorch, no fun at all. Every chance we get, you go and mess it all up.’

‘Not on purpose. I like doing fun stuff as much as you do, I swear it!’

‘Next time,’ muttered Leff. ‘We shoot first and argue later.’

‘Good idea. Next time. We’ll do it right the next time.’

Beneath a moon that haunted him with terrifying memories, Cutter rode Coll’s horse at a slow trot down the centre of the street. In one hand he gripped the lance, but it felt awkward, too heavy. Not a weapon he’d ever used, and yet something made him reluctant to abandon it.

He could hear the Hounds of Shadow, unleashed like demons in his poor city, and this too stirred images from the past, but these were bittersweet. For she was in them, a presence dark, impossibly soft. He saw once more every one of her smiles, rare as they had been, and they stung like drops of acid on his soul.

He had been so lost, from the very morning he awoke in the monastery to find her gone. Oh, he’d delivered his brave face, standing there beside a god and unwill shy;ing to see the sympathy in Cotillion’s dark eyes. He had told himself that it was an act of courage to let her go, to give her the final decision. Courage and sacrifice.

He no longer believed that. There was no sacrifice made in being abandoned. There was no courage in doing nothing. Regardless of actual age, he had been so much younger than her. Young in that careless, senseless way. When thinking felt hard, unpleasant, until one learned to simply shy away from the effort, even as blind emotions raged, one conviction after another raised high on the shining shield of truth. Or what passed for truth; and he knew now that whatever it had been, truth it was not. Blustery, belligerent stands, all those pious poses — they seemed so childish now, so pathetic. I could have embraced the purest truth. Still, nobody would listen. The older you get, the thicker your walls. No wonder the young have grown so cynical. No wonder at all.

Oh, she stood there still, a dark figure in his memories, the flash of eyes, the beginnings of a smile even as she turned away. And he could forget nothing.

At this moment, Challice, having ascended to the top of the estate tower — that ghoulish Gadrobi embarrassment — now stepped out on to the roof, momentarily buffeted by a gust of smoke. She held in her hands the glass globe in which shone the prisoner moon, and she paused, lifting her gaze, and stared in wonder at the destruction now filling a third of the sky.

But she had left him with bad habits. Terrible ones, and they had proceeded to shape his entire life. Cutter remembered the expression on Rallick’s face — the shock and the dismay — as he looked down at the knife buried in his shoulder. The recognition — yes, Cutter was Apsalar’s creation, through and through. Yes, another man had been lost.

It seemed wryly fitting that the moon was breaking into pieces in the night sky, but to find amusement in such a poignant symbol was proving a struggle. He did not possess Rallick’s hardness, the layers of scar tissue worn like armour. And, for all that she had given him, Cutter was not her perfect reflection. He could not si shy;lence the anguish he felt inside, the legacy of delivering murder, making the notion of justice as unpalatable as a prisoner’s gruel. And these were things she did not feel.

He rode on.

The Hounds knew him, he was sure of that, and if that meant anything on this night, then he had no reason to fear them.

The occasional refugee darted across his path. Like ousted rats, the desperate hunt for cover filled their minds, and the faces flashing past seemed empty of any shy;thing human. Survival was a fever, and it left eyes blank as those of a beached fish. Witnessing this, Cutter felt his heart breaking.

This is my city. Darujhistan. Of the Blue Fires. It does not deserve this.

No, he did not fear the Hounds of Shadow. But he now despised them. The devastation they were delivering was senseless, a pointless unleashing of destruc shy;tion. He did not think Cotillion had anything at all to do with that. This stank of Shadowthrone, the fickleness, the cruel indifference. He had freed his beasts to play. In blood and snapped bones. In flames and collapsed tenements. All this fear, all this misery. For nothing.

Awkward or not, the lance felt reassuring in his hand. Now, if only Shad shy;owthrone would show himself, why, he’d find a place to plant the damned thing.

There, within its tiny, perfect world, the moon shone pure, unsullied. There had been a time, she realized, when she too had been like that. Free of stains, not yet bowed to sordid compromise, feeling no need to shed this tattered skin, these glazed eyes.

Women and men were no different in the important things. They arrived with talents, with predispositions, with faces and bodies either attractive to others or not. And they all made do, in all the flavours of living, with whatever they possessed. And there were choices, for each and every one of them. For some, a few of those choices were easier than others, when the lure of being desirable was not a conceit, when it reached out an inviting hand and all at once it seemed to offer the simplest path. So little effort was involved, merely a smile and thighs that did not resist parting.

But there was no going back. These stains didn’t wash off. The moon shone pure and beautiful, but it remained for ever trapped.

She stared up into the sky, watched how fragments spun out from a fast-darkening core. The momentum seemed to have slowed, and indeed, she thought she could see pieces falling back, inward, whilst dust flattened out, as if trans shy;formed into a spear that pierced all that was left of the moon.

The dust dreams of the world it had once been.

But the dust, alas, does not command the wind.

Cutter knew now that he had — since her — taken into his arms two women as if they were capable of punishing him, each in turn. Only one had succeeded, and he rode towards her now, to stand before her and tell her that he had murdered her husband. Not because she had asked him to, because, in truth, she did not have that sort of hold over him, and never would. No, Gorlas Vidikas was dead for other reasons, the specifics of which were not relevant.

She was free, he would say. To do as she pleased. But whatever that would he, he would tell her, her future would not — could never — include him.

‘See, there he is, at her side. What gall! Kills her husband and now she hangs on his arm. Oh, made for each other, those two. And may Hood find them the deepest pit, and soon.’

He could face that down, if need be. But he would not subject her to such a fate. Not even for love could he do that.

He had returned to his city; only to lose it for ever.

This journey to Challice would be his last. By dawn he would be gone. Daru shy;jhistan would not miss him.

She looked down once more at the imprisoned moon cupped in her hands. And here, she realized, was her childhood in all its innocence. Frozen, timeless, and for ever beyond her reach. She need only let her gaze sink in, to find all that she had once been. Cursed with beauty, blessed with health and vigour, the glow of promise-

Dust of dreams, will you now command the wind?

Dust of dreams, is it not time to set you free?

It was easy, then, to climb up on to the low wall, to stare down at the garden flagstones far below. Easy, yes, to set it all free.

Together, they plummeted through the smoky air, and when they struck, the globe shattered, the tiny moon flung loose to sparkle briefly in the air. Before twinkling out.

Dreams will not linger, but their dust rides the winds for ever.

Kruppe is no stranger to sorrow. The round man need only look at his own waist-line to grasp the tragedies of past excesses, and understand that all the things that come to pass will indeed come to pass. Heart so heavy he must load it into a wheelbarrow (or nearly so), and with not a single sly wink to offer, he leaves the grim confines of the Phoenix Inn and commences the torrid trek to the stables, where he attends to his sweet-natured mule, deftly avoiding its snapping bites and lashing kicks.

The moon’s face has broken apart into a thousand glittering eyes. Nothing can hide and all is seen. All can see that there is nothing left to hide. Dread clash is imminent.

The vast pressure snuffs blazing fires as would a thumb and finger a candlewick, snuff! Here and there and elsewhere, too. But this blessing is borne with harsh, cruel burden. A god has died, a pact been sealed, and in a street where onlookers now gather at the very edges, a most honourable man sits hunched over his knees, head bowed low. The wind takes ethereal chains emerging from the sword in his hands, and tugs them, tears at them, shreds them into ghostly nothings that drift up only to vanish in the smoke enwreathing the city.

Will he rise again?

Can he answer this final challenge?

What sort of man is this? This white-maned Tiste Andii whose hands remain stained with a brother’s blood, a people’s vast loss?

Ah, but look closely. The core burns still, hot and pure, and it gathers unto it shy;self, bound by indomitable will. He will take the wounds of the heart, for Anoman shy;der Rake is the sort of man who sees no other choice, who accepts no other choice.

Still. For the moment, grant him a few more moments of peace.

The round man rides out into Darujhistan.

There are temptations, and to some they can prove, ah, overwhelming. If need be, the round man can prove a most blunt barrier.

Just ask the man with the hammer.

As a warrior walked alone — in his wake a Toblakai and a witch, on the flanks three, now four Hounds of Shadow — an ox and cart drew to a halt outside an estate. The two men leading it separated, one heading to the back of the cart to set a trembling hand upon a chest — terrified that he might find it still, silent — and a moment later a faint sob broke free, but it was one of relief. The other man hurried up to the postern gate and tugged on a braided cord.

He ducked upon hearing the heavy flap of feathered wings overhead, and glared upward, but saw nothing but a thick, impenetrable layer of smoke. He twitched as he waited, muttering under his breath.

The door creaked open.

‘Master Baruk! I am glad it’s you and not one of your damned servants — getting past them is impossible. Listen, we have a hurt man — bad hurt — who needs healing. We’ll pay-’

‘Sergeant-’

‘Just Antsy these days, sir.’

‘Antsy, I am so sorry, but I must refuse you-’

At that, Barathol came round the cart and marched up, his hands curling into fists for a moment, before loosening as he reached towards the huge axe slung across his back. But these gestures were instinctive — he was not even aware of them, and when he spoke it was in a tone of despairing fury. ‘His skull is fractured! He’ll die without healing — and I will not accept that!’

Baruk held up both hands. ‘I was about to leave — I cannot delay any longer. Certain matters demand my immediate attention-’

‘He needs-’

‘I am sorry, Barathol.’

And the alchemist was backing through the gate once more. The panel clicked shut,

Antsy snatched and tugged at his moustache in agitation, and then reached out to restrain Barathol, who seemed about to kick down that door. ‘Hold on, hold on — I got another idea. It’s desperate, but I can’t think of anything else. Come on, it’s not far.’

Barathol was too distraught to say anything — he would grasp any hope, no matter how forlorn. Face ashen, he went back to the ox, and when Antsy set out, he and the ox and the cart bearing the body of Chaur followed.

In the stricken man’s mind, few sparks remained. The black tide was very nearly done. Those flickers that knew themselves as Chaur had each lost touch with the others, and so wandered lost. But then, some of them had known only solitary ex shy;istences throughout their lives — crucial sparks indeed — for ever blind to pathways that might have awakened countless possibilities.

Until one, drifting untethered, so strangely freed, now edged forward along a darkened path it had never before explored, and the track it burned remained vi shy;brant in its wake. And then, in a sudden flaring, that spark found another of its kind.

Something stirred then, there in the midst of an inner world fast dying.

Awareness.

Recognition.

A tumbling complexity of thoughts, connections, relationships, meanings.

Flashing, stunned with its own existence, even as the blackness closed in on all sides.

Cutting down an alley away from Baruk’s estate, Antsy, ten paces in the lead, stumbled suddenly on something. Swearing, he glanced back at the small object lying on the cobbles, and then bent down to collect it, stuffing the limp thing into his cloak.

He swore again, something about a stink, but what’s a dead nose gonna know or care? And then he resumed walking.

They arrived at an estate that Barathol recognized. Coll’s. And Antsy returned to help lead the suddenly uneasy ox down the side track, to that primordial thicket behind the garden wall. Beneath the branches the gloom was thick with flying moths, their wings a chorus of dry whispering. Fog crawled between the boles of twisted trees. The air was rich with a steamy, earthy smell.

Tears ran down Barathol’s cheeks, soaked his beard. ‘I told him to stay on the ship,’ he said in a tight, distraught voice. ‘He usually listens to me. He’s not one to disobey, not Chaur. Was it Spite? Did she force him out?’

‘What was he doing at the gaol?’ Antsy asked, just to keep his friend talking for reasons even he could not explain. ‘How did he even find it, unless someone led him there? It’s all a damned mystery.’

‘He saved my life,’ said Barathol. ‘He was coming to break me out — he had my axe. Chaur, you fool, why didn’t you just leave it all alone?’

‘He couldn’t do that,’ said Antsy.

‘I know.’

They arrived at the edge of the clearing, halting just beyond a low, uneven stone wall almost buried beneath vines. The gateway was an arch of rough stone veined with black roots. The house beyond showed a blackened face.

‘Let’s do this, then,’ said Antsy in a growl, coming round to the back of the cart. ‘Before the ox bolts-’

‘What are we doing?’

‘We’re carrying him up the path. Listen, Barathol, we got to stay on that path, you understand? Not one step off it, not one. Understand?’

‘No-’

‘This is the Finnest House, Barathol. It’s an Azath.’

The ex-sergeant seemed to be standing within a cloud of rotting meat. Moths swarmed in a frenzy.

Confused, frightened, Barathol helped Antsy lift Chaur’s body from the cart bed, and with the Falari in the lead and walking backwards — one tender step at a time — they made their way up the flagstone path.

‘You know,’ Antsy said between gasps — for Chaur was a big man, and, limp as he was, it was no easy thing carrying him — ‘I was thinking. If the damned moon can just break apart like that, who’s to say that can’t happen to our own world? We could just be-’

‘Be quiet,’ snapped Barathol. ‘I don’t give a shit about the moon — it’s been trying to kill me for some time. Careful, you’re almost there.’

‘Right, set him down then, easy, on the stones. . aye, that’ll do.’

Antsy stepped up to the door, reached for the knife at his belt and then swore. ‘I lost my knife, too. I can’t believe this!’ He made a fist and pounded against the wood.

The sound that made was reminiscent of punching a wall of meat. No rever shy;beration, no echoes.

‘Ow, that hurt.’

They waited.

Sighing, Antsy prepared to knock a second time, but then something clunked on the other side of the barrier, and a moment later the door swung back with a loud squeal.

The tall, undead monstrosity filled the doorway. Empty, shadow-drowned eye sockets regarded them — or not; it was impossible to tell.

Antsy shifted from one foot to the other. ‘You busy, Raest? We need to make use of the hallway floor behind you-’

‘Oh yes, I am very busy.’

The Falari blinked. ‘Really?’

‘Dust breeds. Cobwebs thicken. Candle wax stains precious surfaces. What do you want?’

Antsy glanced back at Barathol. ‘Oh, a corpse with a sense of humour, what do you know? And surprise, it’s so droll.’ He faced the Jaghut again and smiled. ‘In case you ain’t noticed, the whole city has gone insane — that’s why I figured you might he suffering some-’

‘I am sorry,’ cut in Raest, ‘is something happening?’

Antsy’s eyes bulged slightly. ‘The Hounds of Shadow are loose!’

Raest leaned forward as if to scan the vicinity, and then settled back once more. ‘Not in my yard.’

Antsy clawed through his hair. ‘Trust me, then, it’s a bad night — now, if you’d just step back-’

‘Although, come to think of it, I did have a visitor earlier this evening.’

‘What? Oh, well, I’m happy for you, but-’

Raest lifted one desiccated hand and pointed.

Antsy and Barathol turned. And there, in the yard, there was a fresh mound of raw earth, steaming. Vines were visibly snaking over it. ‘Gods below,’ the Falari whispered, making a warding gesture with one hand.

‘A T’lan Imass with odd legs,’ said Raest. ‘It seemed to harbour some dislike towards me.’ The Jaghut paused. ‘I can’t imagine why.’

Antsy grunted. ‘It should’ve stayed on the path.’

‘What do T’lan Imass know of footpaths?’ Raest asked. ‘In any case, it’s still too angry for a conversation.’ Another pause. ‘But there’s time. Soldier, you have been remiss. I am therefore disinclined to yield the floor, as it were.’

‘Like Hood I have!’ And Antsy reached beneath his tunic and tugged out a bedraggled, half-rotted shape. ‘I found you your damned white cat!’

‘Oh, so you have. How sweet. In that case,’ Raest edged back, ‘do come in.’

Barathol hesitated. ‘What will this achieve, Antsy?’

‘He won’t die,’ the ex-sergeant replied. ‘It’s like time doesn’t exist in there. Trust me. We can find us a proper healer tomorrow, or a month from now — it don’t matter. S’long as he’s breathing when we carry him across the threshold. So, come on, help me.’ He then realized he was still clutching the dead cat, and so he went up to the Jaghut and thrust the ghastly thing into most welcoming arms.

‘I shall call it Tufty,’ said Raest.

The black tide ceased its seemingly inexorable crawl. A slow, shallow breath held half drawn. A struggling heart hovered in mid-beat. And yet that spark of aware shy;ness, suddenly emboldened, set out on a journey of exploration and discovery. So many long-dark pathways. .

Dragnipur has drunk deep, so deep.

Dragnipur, sword of the father and slayer of the same. Sword of Chains, Gate of Darkness, wheeled burden of life and life ever flees dissolution and so it must! Weapon of edges, caring naught who wields it. Cut indifferent, cut blind, cut when to do so is its very purpose, its perfect function.

Dragnipur.

Dread sisterly feuds dwindled in significance — something was proffered, some shy;thing was almost within reach. Matters of final possession could be worked out later, at leisure in some wrought-iron, oversized bathtub filled to the brim with hot blood.

Temporary pact. Expedience personified, Spite quelled, Envy in abeyance.

In their wake a crater slowly sagged, edges toppling inward, heat fast dissipat shy;ing. The melted faces of buildings turned glassy in rainbow hues. For now the brilliance of these colours was but hinted at in this moon-glow. But that reflected light had begun a thousand new games, hinting at something far deadlier. Still to come, still to come.

Everywhere in the city, fires ebbed.

The pressure of Dragnipur Unsheathed starves the flames of destruction. Dark shy;ness is anathema to such forces, after all.

Yes, salvation found, in a weapon let loose.

The sisters were mad, but not so mad as to fail to grasp the pleasing irony of such things.

Quell the violence.

Invite murder.

He was in no condition to resist them — not both of them — extraordinary that such an alliance had not occurred long before this night. But sibling wounds are the festering kind, and natures at war are normally blind to every pacifying gesture. What was needed was the proper incentive.

Alas, it did not occur to either twin that their father understood all too well the potential danger of his daughters forged together in alliance. And in shaping them — as carefully, as perfectly as he shaped Dragnipur itself — he had done what he could to mitigate the risk.

And so, as they walked side by side up the street, in Spite’s mind she had already begun scheming her fateful stab into her sister’s back. While Envy amused herself with virtually identical thoughts, roles reversed, naturally.

First things first, however.

They would kill Anomander Rake.

For Dragnipur has drunk deep, so very deep. .

‘Karsa, please.’

Ashes drifted in the air, amidst foul smoke. Distant screams announced tragic scenes. The last night of the Gedderone Fete was sinking into misery and suffering.

‘There is nothing to be done, Samar Dev. But we will do this — we will witness. We will withstand the cost of that, if we can.’

She had not expected such uncertainty in the Toblakai. Always a stranger to humility, or so he seemed to her. He had not even drawn his flint sword.

They were twenty-five paces behind Traveller. They could see an angled gate arching over the broad street as it sloped upward, a hundred paces ahead. But the warrior they tracked had slowed his steps. There was something — someone — in the centre of the street in front of Traveller. And silent crowds on both sides — crowds that flinched back as the Hounds lumbered into view; flinched, but did not flee.

Something held them in place, something stronger than fear.

Samar Dev sensed the pressure sliding past, like a wind sweeping round her, drawing inward once more — straight into that huddled figure, who now, at last, stirred.

Traveller stood, six or so paces away from the stranger, and watched in silence as the man slowly straightened.

Tiste Andii.

Silver-haired. In his hands, a sword trailing ghostly chains. . oh. . spirits below, oh, no-

Traveller spoke. ‘He said you would stand in my way.’ That voice carried, strong as waves surging against a dark shore.

Samar Dev’s heart stuttered.

When Anomander Rake replied, his words were cold, solid and unyielding, ‘What else did he tell you?’

Traveller shook his head. ‘Where is he?’ he demanded. ‘I can feel — he’s close. Where is he?’

Not Cotillion. A different ‘he’ this time. The one Traveller seeks. The one he has ever sought.

‘Yes,’ said Rake. ‘Close.’

Thick, flapping sounds, drifting in from the smoky night sky. She looked up in alarm and saw Great Ravens. Landing upon roof ledges. Scores, hundreds, silent but for the beat of air beneath crooked wings. Gathering, gathering, along the arched gate and the sections of wall to either side. Landing everywhere, so long as it’s a place from which they can see.

‘Then stand aside,’ commanded Traveller.

‘I cannot.’

‘Dammit, Rake, you are not my enemy.’

The Son of Darkness tilted his head, as if receiving a compliment, an unex shy;pected gift.

‘Rake. You have never been my enemy. You know that. Even when the Empire. .’

‘I know, Dassem. I know.’

‘He said this would happen.’ There was dismay in that statement, and resig shy;nation.

Rake made no reply.

‘He said,’ continued Dassem, ‘that you would not yield.’

‘No, I will not yield.’

‘Please help me, Rake, help me to understand. . why?’

‘I am not here to help you, Dassem Ultor.’ And Samar Dev heard genuine regret in that admission. The Son of Darkness closed both hands about the long grip of Dragnipur and, angling the pommel upward and to his right, slowly widened his stance. ‘If you so want Hood,’ he said, ‘come and get him.’

Dassem Ultor — the First Sword of the Malazan Empire — who was supposed to be dead. As if Hood would even want this one — Dassem Ultor, the one they had known as Traveller, unsheathed his sword, the water-etched blade flashing as if lapped by molten silver. Samar Dev’s sense of a rising wave now burgeoned in her mind. Two forces. Sea and stone, sea and stone.

Among the onlookers to either side, a deep, soft chant had begun.

Samar Dev stared at those arrayed faces, the shining eyes, the mouths moving in unison. Gods below, the cult of Dessembrae. These are cultists — and they stand facing their god.

And that chant, yes, it was a murmuring, it was the cadence of deep water rising. Cold and hungry.

Samar Dev saw Anomander Rake’s gaze settle briefly on Dassem’s sword, and it seemed a sad smile showed itself, in the instant before Dassem attacked.

To all who witnessed — the cultists, Samar Dev, Karsa Orlong, even unto the five Hounds of Shadow and the Great Ravens hunched on every ledge — that first clash of weapons was too fast to register. Sparks slanted, the night air rang with savage parries, counterblows, the biting crunch of edges against cross-hilts. Even their bodies were but a blur.

And then both warriors staggered back, opening up the distance between them once more.

‘Faces in the Rock,’ hissed Karsa Orlong.

‘Karsa-’

‘No. Only a fool would step between these two.’

And the Toblakai sounded. . shaken.

Dassem launched himself forward again. There were no war cries, no bellowed curses, not even the grunts bursting free as ferocious swings hammered forged iron. But the swords had begun singing, a dreadful, mournful pair of voices rising in eerie syncopation. Thrusts, slashes, low-edged ripostes, the whistle of a blade cutting through air where a head had been an instant earlier, bodies writhing to evade counterstrokes, and sparks rained, poured, from the two combatants, bounced like shattered stars across the cobbles.

They did not break apart this time. The frenzied flurry did not abate, but went on, impossibly on. Two forces, neither yielding, neither prepared to draw a single step back.

And yet, for all the blinding speed, the glowing shower spraying out like the blood of iron, Samar Dev saw the death blow. She saw it clear. She saw its unde shy;niable truth — and somehow, somehow, it was all wrong.

Rake wide-legged, angling the pommel high before his face with Dragnipur’s point downward — as if to echo his opening stance — and higher still, and Dassem, his free hand joining the other upon his sword’s grip, throwing his entire weight into a crossways slash — the warrior bodily lifting as if about to take to the air and close upon Rake with an embrace, and his swing met the edge of Dragnipur at a full right angle — a single moment shaping a perfect cruciform fashioned by the two weapons’ colliding, and then the power of Dassem’s blow slammed Dragnipur back-

Driving its inside edge into Anomander Rake’s forehead, and then down through his face,

His gauntleted hands sprang away from the handle, yet Dragnipur remained jammed, seeming to erupt from his head, as he toppled backward, blood streaming down to flare from the tip as the Son of Darkness crashed down on his back.

Even this impact did not dislodge Dragnipur. The sword shivered, and now there was but one song, querulous and fading in the sudden stillness.

Blood boiled, turned black. The body lying on the cobbles did not move. Anomander Rake was dead.

Dassem Ultor slowly lowered his weapon, his chest heaving.

And then he cried out, in a voice so filled with anguish that it seemed to tear a jagged hole in the night air. This unhuman scream was joined by a chorus of shrieks as the Great Ravens exploded into flight, lifting like a massive feathered veil that whirled above the street, and then began a spinning descent. Cultists flinched away and crouched against building walls, their wordless chant drowned beneath the caterwauling cacophony of this black, glistening shroud that swept down like a curtain.

Dassem staggered back, and then pitched drunkenly to one side, his sword dragging in his wake, point skirling a snake track across the cobbles. He was brought up short by a pitted wall, and he sagged against it, burying his face in the shelter of a crooked arm that seemed to be all that held him upright.

Broken. Broken. They are broken.

Oh, gods forgive them, they are broken.

Karsa Orlong shocked her then, as he twisted to one side and pointedly spat on to the street. ‘Cheated,’ he said. ‘Cheated!’

She stared at him, aghast. She did not know what he meant — but no, she did. Yes, she did. ‘Karsa, what just happened?’ Wrong. It was wrong. ‘I saw — I saw-’

‘You saw true,’ he said, baring his teeth, his gaze fixed upon that fallen body. ‘As did Traveller, and see what it has done to him.’

The area surrounding the corpse of Anomander Rake churned with Great Ravens — although not one drew close enough to touch the cooling flesh — and now the five Hounds of Shadows, not one spared of wounds, closed in to push the birds aside, as if to form a protective circle around Anomander Rake.

No, not him. The sword. .

Unease stirred awake in Samar Dev. ‘This is not over.’

A beast can sense weakness. A beast knows the moment of vulnerability, and op shy;portunity. A beast knows when to strike.

The moon died and, in dying, began its torturous rebirth. The cosmos is indif shy;ferent to the petty squabbles of what crawls, what whimpers, what bleeds and what breathes. It has flung out its fates on the strands of immutable laws, and in the skirling unravelling of millions of years, tens of millions, each fate will out. In its time, it will out.

Something massive had arrived from the depths of the blackness beyond and struck the moon a short time back. An initial eruption from the impact had briefly showered the moon’s companion world with fragments, but it was the shock wave that delivered the stricken moon’s death knell, and this took time. Deep in the core, vast tides of energy opened immense fissures. Concussive forces shattered the crust. Energy was absorbed until nothing more could be borne. The moon blew apart.

Leave it to the flit of eager minds to find prophetic significance. The cosmos does not care. The fates will not crack a smile.

From a thousand sources, now, reflected sunlight danced wild upon the blue, green and ochre world far below. Shadows were devoured, darkness flushed away. Night itself broke into fragments.

In the city of Darujhistan, light was everywhere, like a god’s fingers. Brushing, prodding, poking, driving down into alleys that had never seen the sun. And each assault shattered darkness and shadow both. Each invasion ignited, in a procla shy;mation of power.

Dearest serendipity, yet not an opportunity to be ignored, no. Not on this night. Not in the city of Darujhistan.

Pallid and Lock, their bone-white hides sprayed in crimson, their skin hanging in strips in places, with horrid puncture wounds red-rimmed black holes in their necks and elsewhere, padded side by side down the main avenue running parallel to the lake shore. Hurting, but undaunted.

Light bloomed, ran like water across their path.

Light tilted shafts down between buildings, and some of these flashed, and from those flashes more Hounds emerged.

Behold, the Hounds of Light have arrived.

What, the world shifts unexpectedly? Without hint, without inkling? How terrible, how unexpected! How perfectly. . natural. Rules abound, laws carved into stones, but they are naught but delusions. Witness the ones who do not care. See the mocking awareness in their fiery eyes. Rail at the unknown, even as jaws open wide for the warbling throat.

But give the round man no grief. He spreads wide pudgy hands. He shrugs. He saves his sly smile for. . why, for thee!

Venasara and Cast were the first to join Pallid and Lock. Cast was almost twice the weight of Lock, while Venasara still bore the signs of the ordeals of raising a squabble of young. Ultama soon arrived, long-limbed, sleek, broad head held low at the end of a sinewy neck. Ultama’s oversized upper canines jutted down. The exposed portions of the fangs, dagger-length, gleamed white.

At an intersection ahead waited Jalan, Grasp and Hanas, the youngest three of the pack, hackles high and eyes flashing with vicious excitement.

Gait and then Ghennan were the last to arrive, the lord and the lady of the pack, more silver than white, with scarred muzzles misshapen by centuries of dread battle. These two wore thick collars of black leather scattered with pearls and opals — although far fewer than had once adorned these proud bands.

Ten in number. Each one a match for any Hound of Shadow.

Of whom there were, ah, but five.

No one stepped into the path of these beasts. They were coming to claim a prize for their master.

Dragnipur. A sword of perfect justice.

Such perfect justice.

High in the sky above the city, tilting, sliding and dipping to avoid each shaft of infernal light, an undead dragon tracked the Hounds of Light.

Tulas Shorn was not pleased, even as something flowed sweet as a stream through its mind. A kind of blessing, alighting with faint, lilting notes of wonder.

Tulas Shorn had never known that Hood, Lord of the Slain, could prove so. . generous.

Or perhaps it was nothing more than Shorn’s damned cousin’s talent for antic shy;ipating the worst.

As an Elder might observe, there is nothing worse than a suspicious dragon.

Do not grieve. Hold close such propensities for a while longer. The time will come.

Some gifts are evil. Others are not, but what they are remains to be discovered.

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 drumroll 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 penulti shy;mate pinnacle of this profound night, as bold Kruppe nudges his ferocious war-mule 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 bris shy;tling attention.

Rider sees rider. Magus grows dangerously still, eyes hooded. Kruppe waves one plump hand in greeting.

Bhokarala launch a midair conference that results in one beast landing awkwardly on the cobbles to the left of the High Priest, whilst the others find windowsills, 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 in shy;evitably 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 he 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 squat shy;ting 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!’

‘Mlawhlaoblossblayowblagmilebbingoblaiblblafblablallblayarblablabnablah shy;blallblah!’

‘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 di shy;aphanous 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 glis shy;tening 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 was 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 for shy;ward, 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 draw shy;ing 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 sight shy;lessly. 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 bat shy;tered 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 counterattack. It was all he could do to simply 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 a 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.

It was, of sorts, a gift.

‘Kallor,’ he said, ‘listen to me. Take this as you will, or not at all. I–I am sorry. That you are driven to this. And. . and may you one day show your true self. May you, one day, be redeemed in the eyes of the world.’

Kallor cried out, as if struck, and he staggered back. He recovered with bared teeth. ‘My true self? Oh, you damned fool! You see only what you want to see! In this last moment of your pathetic, useless life! May your soul rage for eternity in the heart of a star, Tiste Andii! May you yearn for what you can never have! For all in shy;fernal eternity!’

Spinnock had flinched back at the tirade. ‘Do you now curse me, High King?’ he asked in a whisper.

Kallor’s face looked ready to shatter. He dragged a forearm across his eyes. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Of course not. I will kill you clean. For what you have shown me this night — I have never before faced such a defence.’ And then he paused, edging forward again, his eyes burning in their pits. ‘You had chances, Spinnock Durav. To strike back. You could have wounded me — yes, you could have. .’

‘I was not here to do that, Kallor.’

The High King stared, and a glint of comprehension lit in his face. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You only needed to delay me.’

Spinnock closed his eyes once more and settled his head back. ‘For a time. You may never accept this, but it was for your own good. It’s a mess over there. In that city. My Lord wanted you kept away.’

Kallor snarled. ‘How generous in his mercy is your Lord.’

‘Yes,’ sighed Spinnock, ‘he was ever that.’

Silence, then.

Not a sound. A dozen laboured heartbeats. Another dozen. Finally, some odd unease forced Spinnock to open his eyes yet again, to look upon Kallor.

Who stood, head bowed.

‘Yes,’ said Spinnock, in true sorrow, ‘he is gone.’

Kallor did not lift his gaze. He did not move at all.

‘And so,’ continued Spinnock, ‘I have stood here. In his stead. One last time.’ He paused. ‘And yes, it makes my death seem. . easier-’

‘Oh shut up, will you? I am thinking.’

‘About what?’

Kallor met his eyes and bared his teeth. ‘That bastard. The bold, brazen bastard!’

Spinnock studied the High King, and then he grunted. ‘Well, that’s it, then.’

‘I don’t ever want to see you again, Spinnock Durav. You are bleeding out. I will leave you to that. I hear it’s quieter, easier — but then, what do I know?’

The Tiste Andii watched him set off then, up the road, to that fair city that even now bled with its own terrible wounds.

Too late to do anything, even if he’d wanted to. But, Spinnock Durav now sus shy;pected, Kallor might well have done nothing. He might have stood aside. ‘High King,’ he whispered, ‘all you ever wanted was a throne. But trust me, you don’t want Rake’s. No, proud warrior, that one you would not want. I think, maybe, you just realized that.’

Of course, when it came to Kallor, there was no way to know.

The Great Ravens were descending now, thumping heavily on to the blood-splashed, muddy surface of the road.

And Spinnock Durav looked skyward then, as the dark forms of two dragons sailed past, barely a stone’s throw above the ground.

Racing for Kallor.

He saw one of the dragons suddenly turn its head, eyes flashing back in his di shy;rection, and the creature pitched to one side, coming round.

A moment later the other dragon reached Kallor, catching him entirely un shy;awares, talons lashing down to grasp the High King and lift him into the air. Wings thundering, the dragon carried its charge yet higher. Faint screams of fury sounded from the man writhing in that grasp.

Dragon and High King dipped behind a hill to the north.

One of the Great Ravens drew up almost at Spinnock’s feet.

‘Crone!’ Spinnock coughed and spat blood. ‘I’d have thought. . Darujhistan. .’

‘Darujhistan, yes. I’d have liked to. To honour, to witness. To remember, and to weep. But our Lord. . well, he had thoughts of you.’ The head tilted. ‘When we saw you, lying there, Kallor looming as he so likes to do, ah, we thought we were too late — we thought we had failed our Lord — and you. We thought — oh, never mind.’

The Great Raven was panting.

Spinnock knew that this was not exhaustion he was seeing in the ancient bird. You can shed no tears, yet tears take you none the less. The extremity, the terrible distress.

The dragon that had returned now landed on the grasses to the south of the track. Sembling, walking towards Spinnock and Crone and the haggle of Crone’s kin.

Korlat.

Spinnock would have smiled up at her, but he had lost the strength for such things, and so he could only watch as she came up to him, using one boot to shunt a squawking Crone to one side. She knelt and reached out a hand to brush Spinnock’s spattered cheek. Her eyes were bleak. ‘Brother. .’

Crone croaked, ‘Just heal him and be done with it — before he gasps out his last breath in front of us!’

She drew out a quaint flask. ‘Endest Silann mixed this one. It should suffice.’ She tugged loose the stopper and gently set the small bottle’s mouth between Spinnock’s lips, and then tilted it to drain the contents, and he felt that potent liquid slide down his throat. Sudden warmth flowed through him.

‘Sufficient, anyway, to carry you home.’ And she smiled.

‘My last fight in his name,’ said Spinnock Durav. ‘I did as he asked, did I not?’

Her expression tightened, revealed something wan and ravaged. ‘You have much to tell us, brother. So much that needs. . explaining.’

Spinnock glanced at Crone.

The Great Raven ducked and hopped a few steps away. ‘We like our secrets,’ she cackled, ‘when it’s all we have!’

Korlat brushed his cheek again. ‘How long?’ she asked. ‘How long did you hold him back?’

‘Why,’ he replied, ‘I lit the torches. . dusk was just past. .’

Her eyes slowly widened. And she glanced to the east, where the sky had begun, at last, to lighten.

‘Oh, Spinnock. .’

A short time later, when she went to find his sword where it was lying in the grasses, Spinnock Durav said, ‘No, Korlat. Leave it.’

She looked at him in surprise.

But he was not of a mind to explain.

Above the Gadrobi Hills, Kallor finally managed to drag free his sword, even as the dragon’s massive head swung down, jaws wide. His thrust sank deep into the soft throat, just above the jutting avian collar bones. A shrill, spattering gasp erupted from the Soletaken, and all at once they were plunging earthward.

The impact was thunder and snapping bones. The High King was flung away, tumbling and skidding along dew-soaked grass. He gained his feet and spun to face the dragon.

It had sembled. Orfantal, on his face an expression of bemused surprise, was struggling to stand. One arm was broken. Blood gushed down from his neck. He seemed to have forgotten Kallor, as he turned in the direction of the road, and slowly walked away.

Kallor watched.

Orfantal managed a dozen steps before he fell to the ground.

It seemed this was a night for kllling Tiste Andii.

His shoulders were on fire from the dragon’s puncture wounds, which might well have proved fatal to most others, but Kallor was not like most others. Indeed, the High King was unique.

In his ferocity. In his stubborn will to live.

In the dry furnace heat of the hatred that ever swirled round him.

He set out once more for the city.

As dawn finally parted the night.

Kallor.