Toll the Hounds (The Malazan Book of the Fallen 8)

All at once the distant moaning changed pitch, became screams. Terrible, raw-the sounds of slaughter. Nenanda was suddenly at the door, his sword out.

‘Wait!’ cried Kedeviss. ‘Listen! That’s not him. That’s them! He’s murdering them all-do you want to help, Nenanda? Do you?’

Nenanda seemed to slump. He stepped back, shaken, lost.

The shrieks did not last long. And when the last one wavered, sank into silence, even the Dying God’s cries had stilled. Beyond the door of the inn, there was nothing, as if the village-the entire outside world-had been torn away.

Inside, none slept. Each had pulled away from the others, coveting naught but their own thoughts, listening only to the all too familiar voice that was a soul’s conversation with itself. On the faces of his kin, Nimander saw, there was dull shock, a bleakness to the staring, unseeing eyes. He felt the surrender of Aranatha’s will, her power, as the threat passed, as she withdrew once more so far inward that her expression grew slack, almost lifeless, the shy, skittering look not ready to awaken once more.

Desra stood at the window, the inside shutters pulled to either side, staring out upon an empty main street as the night crawled on, leaving Nimander to wonder at the nature of her internal dialogue. if such a thing existed, If she wus not just a creature of of sensation, riding currents of Instinct, every choice reframed into simple demands of neccessity.

‘Their is cruelty in your thoughts’

Phaed. leave me alone, ghost.

‘Don’t get me wrong. I approve. Desra is a slut. She has a slut’s brain, the kind that confuses giving with taking, gift with loss, invitation with surrender. She is power’s whore, Nimander, and so she stands there, waiting to see him, waiting to see this strutting murderer that she would take to her bed. Confusions, yes. Death with life. Desperation with celebration. Fear with need and lust with love.’

Go away.

‘But you don’t really want that, because then it would leave you vulnerable to that other voice in your head. The sweet woman murmuring all those endearing words-do I recall ever hearing such when she was alive?’

Stop.

‘In the cage of your imagination, blissfully immune to all that was real-the cruel indifferences, yes-you make so much of so little, Nimander. A chance smile. A look. In your cage she lies in your arms, and this is the purest love, isn’t it? Unsullied, eternal-’

Stop, Phaed. You know nothing. You were too young, too self-obsessed, to see anything of anyone else, unless it threatened you.

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All at once the distant moaning changed pitch, became screams. Terrible, raw-the sounds of slaughter. Nenanda was suddenly at the door, his sword out.

‘Wait!’ cried Kedeviss. ‘Listen! That’s not him. That’s them! He’s murdering them all-do you want to help, Nenanda? Do you?’

Nenanda seemed to slump. He stepped back, shaken, lost.

The shrieks did not last long. And when the last one wavered, sank into silence, even the Dying God’s cries had stilled. Beyond the door of the inn, there was nothing, as if the village-the entire outside world-had been torn away.

Inside, none slept. Each had pulled away from the others, coveting naught but their own thoughts, listening only to the all too familiar voice that was a soul’s conversation with itself. On the faces of his kin, Nimander saw, there was dull shock, a bleakness to the staring, unseeing eyes. He felt the surrender of Aranatha’s will, her power, as the threat passed, as she withdrew once more so far inward that her expression grew slack, almost lifeless, the shy, skittering look not ready to awaken once more.

Desra stood at the window, the inside shutters pulled to either side, staring out upon an empty main street as the night crawled on, leaving Nimander to wonder at the nature of her internal dialogue. if such a thing existed, If she wus not just a creature of of sensation, riding currents of Instinct, every choice reframed into simple demands of neccessity.

‘Their is cruelty in your thoughts’

Phaed. leave me alone, ghost.

‘Don’t get me wrong. I approve. Desra is a slut. She has a slut’s brain, the kind that confuses giving with taking, gift with loss, invitation with surrender. She is power’s whore, Nimander, and so she stands there, waiting to see him, waiting to see this strutting murderer that she would take to her bed. Confusions, yes. Death with life. Desperation with celebration. Fear with need and lust with love.’

Go away.

‘But you don’t really want that, because then it would leave you vulnerable to that other voice in your head. The sweet woman murmuring all those endearing words-do I recall ever hearing such when she was alive?’

Stop.

‘In the cage of your imagination, blissfully immune to all that was real-the cruel indifferences, yes-you make so much of so little, Nimander. A chance smile. A look. In your cage she lies in your arms, and this is the purest love, isn’t it? Unsullied, eternal-’

Stop, Phaed. You know nothing. You were too young, too self-obsessed, to see anything of anyone else, unless it threatened you.

And she was not a threat!’

You never wanted me that way-don’t be absurd, ghost. Don’t invent-

‘I invent nothing! You were just too blinded to see what was right in front of you! And did she die at the spear of a Tiste Edur? Did she truly? Where was I at that moment, Nimander? Do you recall seeing me at all?’

No, this was too much.

But she would not relent. ‘Why do you think the idea of killing Sandalath was so easy for me? My hands were already stained-

Stop!

Laughter, ringing through his head.

He willed himself to say nothing, waited for those chilling peals of mirth to dwindle, grow ever fainter.

When she spoke again in his mind there was no humour at all in her tone. ‘Nenanda wants to replace you. He wants the command you possess, the respect-the others hold for you. He will take it, when he sees his chance. Do not trust him, Nimander. Strike first. A knife in the back-just as you acted to stop me, so you must do again, and this time you cannot fail. There will be no Withal there to finish the task. You will have to do it yourself.’

Nimander lifted his gaze, looked upon Nenanda, the straight back, the hand resting on pommel. No, you are lying.

‘Delude yourself if you must-but not for much longer. The luxury must be short-lived. You will need to show your… decisiveness, and soon.’

And how many more kin do you want lo sec dead. Phaed?

‘My games are done with. You ended them once and for all. You and the swordsmith. Hate me if you will, but I have talents, and I gift them to yon. Nimander-you were the only one to ever listen to me, the only one to whom I opened my heart-’

Heart! That vile pool of spite you so loved to swim in-that was your heart I

‘You need me. I give strength where you are weakest. Oh, make the bitch murmur of love, fill her mouth with all the right words. If it helps. But she cannot help you with the hard choices a leader must make. Nenanda believes he can do better-see it in his eyes, so quick to challenge.’

‘It’s growing light,’ Desra said from the window. She turned. ‘I think we should go out. To the tavern. It may be he is wounded. It may be he needs our help.’