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

Merchants had begun hiring mercenary troops, setting out to hunt him down. But those he could not buy off he destroyed. His knights were terrible in battle.

The Captain’s kingdom had been on the move for seven years now, rolling in a vast circle that encompassed most of the Lamatath. This territory he claimed as his own, and to this end he had recently dispatched emissaries to all the bordering cities-Darujhistan, Kurl and Saltoan to the north, New Callows to the southwest, Bastion and Sarn to the northeast-Elingarth to the south was in the midst of civil war, so he would wait that out.

In all, the Captain was pleased with his kingdom. His slaves were breeding, pro-viding what would be the next generation drawing his palace. Hunting parties car-ried in bhederin and antelope to supplement the finer foodstuffs looted from passing caravans. The husbands and wives of his soldiers brought with them all the neces-sary skills to maintain his court and his people, and they too were thriving.

So like a river, meandering over the land, this kingdom of his. The ancient, half-mad spirits were most pleased.

Though he never much thought about it, the nature of his tyranny was, as far as he was concerned, relatively benign. Not with respect to foreigners, of course, but then who gave a damn for them? Not his blood, not his adopted kin, not his responsibility. And if they could not withstand his kingdom’s appetites, then whose fault was that? Not his.

Creation demands destruction. Survival demands that something else fails to survive. No existence was truly benign.

Still, the Captain often dreamed of finding those who had nailed him to the ground all those years ago-his memories of that time were maddeningly vague. He could not make out their faces, or their garb. He could not recall the details of.their camp, and as for who and what he had been before that time, well, he had no memory at all. Reborn in a riverbed. He would, when drunk, laugh and proclaim that he was but eleven years old, eleven from that day of rebirth, that day of beginning anew,

He noted the lone rider coming in from the southwest, the man pushing his horse hard, find the Captain frowned-the fool had better have a good reason for the beast in that manner. He didn’t appreciate his soldiers posturing and to make bold impressions. He decided that, if the reason was insufficient, he would have the man executed in the traditional manner-trampled into bloody ruin beneath the hoofs of his horses.

The rider drew up alongside the palace, a servant on the side platform taking the reins of the horse as the man stepped aboard. An exchange of words with the Master Sergeant, and then the man was climbing the steep steps to the ledge sur-rounding the balcony. Where, his head level with the Captain’s knees, he bowed.

‘Sire, Fourth Troop, adjudged ablest rider to deliver this message.’

‘Go on,’ said the Captain.

‘Another raiding party was found, sire, all slain in the same manner as the first one. Near a Kindaru camp this time.’

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Merchants had begun hiring mercenary troops, setting out to hunt him down. But those he could not buy off he destroyed. His knights were terrible in battle.

The Captain’s kingdom had been on the move for seven years now, rolling in a vast circle that encompassed most of the Lamatath. This territory he claimed as his own, and to this end he had recently dispatched emissaries to all the bordering cities-Darujhistan, Kurl and Saltoan to the north, New Callows to the southwest, Bastion and Sarn to the northeast-Elingarth to the south was in the midst of civil war, so he would wait that out.

In all, the Captain was pleased with his kingdom. His slaves were breeding, pro-viding what would be the next generation drawing his palace. Hunting parties car-ried in bhederin and antelope to supplement the finer foodstuffs looted from passing caravans. The husbands and wives of his soldiers brought with them all the neces-sary skills to maintain his court and his people, and they too were thriving.

So like a river, meandering over the land, this kingdom of his. The ancient, half-mad spirits were most pleased.

Though he never much thought about it, the nature of his tyranny was, as far as he was concerned, relatively benign. Not with respect to foreigners, of course, but then who gave a damn for them? Not his blood, not his adopted kin, not his responsibility. And if they could not withstand his kingdom’s appetites, then whose fault was that? Not his.

Creation demands destruction. Survival demands that something else fails to survive. No existence was truly benign.

Still, the Captain often dreamed of finding those who had nailed him to the ground all those years ago-his memories of that time were maddeningly vague. He could not make out their faces, or their garb. He could not recall the details of.their camp, and as for who and what he had been before that time, well, he had no memory at all. Reborn in a riverbed. He would, when drunk, laugh and proclaim that he was but eleven years old, eleven from that day of rebirth, that day of beginning anew,

He noted the lone rider coming in from the southwest, the man pushing his horse hard, find the Captain frowned-the fool had better have a good reason for the beast in that manner. He didn’t appreciate his soldiers posturing and to make bold impressions. He decided that, if the reason was insufficient, he would have the man executed in the traditional manner-trampled into bloody ruin beneath the hoofs of his horses.

The rider drew up alongside the palace, a servant on the side platform taking the reins of the horse as the man stepped aboard. An exchange of words with the Master Sergeant, and then the man was climbing the steep steps to the ledge sur-rounding the balcony. Where, his head level with the Captain’s knees, he bowed.

‘Sire, Fourth Troop, adjudged ablest rider to deliver this message.’

‘Go on,’ said the Captain.

‘Another raiding party was found, sire, all slain in the same manner as the first one. Near a Kindaru camp this time.’

‘The Kindaru? They are useless. Against thirty of my soldiers? That cannot be.’

‘Troop Leader Uludan agrees, sire. The proximity of the Kindaru was but coincidental-or it was the raiding party’s plan to ambush them.’

Yes, that was likely. The damned Kindaru and their delicious horses were get-ting hard to find of late. ‘Does Uludan now track the murderers?’

‘Difficult, sire. They seem to possess impressive lore and are able to thor-oughly hide their trail. It may be that they are aided by sorcery.’

‘Your thought or Uludan’s?’

A faint flush of the man’s face. ‘Mine, sire.’

‘I did not invite your opinion, soldier.’

‘No, sire. I apologize.’

Sorcery-the spirits within should have sensed such a thing anywhere on his territory. Which tribes were capable of assembling such skilled and no doubt nu-merous warriors? Well, one obvious answer was the Barghast-but they did not travel the Lamatath. They dwelt far to the north, along the edges of the Rhivi Plain, in fact, and north of Capustan. There should be no Barghast this far south. And if, somehow, there were… the Captain scowled. ’Twenty knights shall ac-company you back to the place of slaughter. You then lead them to Uludan’s troop. Find the trail no matter what.’

‘We shall, sire.’

‘Be sure Uludan understands.’

‘Yes, sire.’

And understand he would. The knights were there not just to provide a heav-ier adjunct to the troop. They were to exact whatever punishment the sergeant deemed necessary should Uludan fail.

The Captain had just lost sixty soldiers. Almost a fifth of his total number of light cavalry.