Toll the Hounds (The Malazan Book of the Fallen 8)
Page 130
‘Go now,’ he said to the rider, ‘and find Sergeant Teven and send him to me at once.’
‘Yes, sire.’
As the man climbed back down, the Captain leaned hack in his throne, staring down at the dusty backs of the yoked slaves. Kindaru there, yes. And Sinbarl and the last seven or so Gandaru, slope-browed cousins of the Kindaru soon to be en-tirely extinct. A shame, that-they were strong bastards, hard-working, never com-plaining. He’d set aside the two surviving women and they now rode a wagon, bellies swollen with child, eating fat grubs, the yolk of snake eggs and other bizarre foods the Gandaru were inclined towards. Were the children on the way pure Gandaru? He did not think so-their women rutted anything with a third leg, and far less submissively than he thought prudent. Even so, one or both of those children might well be his.
Not as heirs, of course. His bastard children held no special rights. He did not even acknowledge them. No, he would adopt an heir when the time came-and, if the whispered promises of the spirits were true, that could be centuries away.
His mind had stepped off the path, he realized.
Sixty slain soldiers. Was the kingdom of Skathandi at war? Perhaps so.
Yet the enemy clearly did not dare face him here, with his knights and the en-tire mass of his army ready and able to take the field of battle. Thus, whatever army would fight him was small-
Shouts from ahead.
The Captain’s eyes narrowed. From his raised vantage point he could see with-out obstruction that a lone figure was approaching from the northwest. A skin of white fur flapped in the breeze like the wing of a ghost-moth, spreading out from the broad shoulders. A longsword was strapped to the man’s back, its edges oddly rippled, the blade itself a colour unlike any metal the Captain knew.
As the figure came closer, as if expecting the massed slaves to simply part be-fore him, the Captain’s sense of scale was jarred. The warrior was enormous, eas-ily half again as tall as the tallest Skathandi-taller even than a Barghast. A face seemingly masked-no, tattooed, in a crazed broken glass or tattered web pattern. Beneath that barbaric visage, the torso was covered in some kind of shell armour, pretty but probably useless.
Well, the fool-huge or not-was about to be trampled or pushed aside. Motion was eternal. Motion was-a sudden spasm clutched at the Captain’s mind, digging fingers into his brain-the spirits, thrashing in terror-shrieking-
A taste of acid on his tongue-
Gasping, the Captain gestured.
lsquo;Go now,’ he said to the rider, ‘and find Sergeant Teven and send him to me at once.’
‘Yes, sire.’
As the man climbed back down, the Captain leaned hack in his throne, staring down at the dusty backs of the yoked slaves. Kindaru there, yes. And Sinbarl and the last seven or so Gandaru, slope-browed cousins of the Kindaru soon to be en-tirely extinct. A shame, that-they were strong bastards, hard-working, never com-plaining. He’d set aside the two surviving women and they now rode a wagon, bellies swollen with child, eating fat grubs, the yolk of snake eggs and other bizarre foods the Gandaru were inclined towards. Were the children on the way pure Gandaru? He did not think so-their women rutted anything with a third leg, and far less submissively than he thought prudent. Even so, one or both of those children might well be his.
Not as heirs, of course. His bastard children held no special rights. He did not even acknowledge them. No, he would adopt an heir when the time came-and, if the whispered promises of the spirits were true, that could be centuries away.
His mind had stepped off the path, he realized.
Sixty slain soldiers. Was the kingdom of Skathandi at war? Perhaps so.
Yet the enemy clearly did not dare face him here, with his knights and the en-tire mass of his army ready and able to take the field of battle. Thus, whatever army would fight him was small-
Shouts from ahead.
The Captain’s eyes narrowed. From his raised vantage point he could see with-out obstruction that a lone figure was approaching from the northwest. A skin of white fur flapped in the breeze like the wing of a ghost-moth, spreading out from the broad shoulders. A longsword was strapped to the man’s back, its edges oddly rippled, the blade itself a colour unlike any metal the Captain knew.
As the figure came closer, as if expecting the massed slaves to simply part be-fore him, the Captain’s sense of scale was jarred. The warrior was enormous, eas-ily half again as tall as the tallest Skathandi-taller even than a Barghast. A face seemingly masked-no, tattooed, in a crazed broken glass or tattered web pattern. Beneath that barbaric visage, the torso was covered in some kind of shell armour, pretty but probably useless.
Well, the fool-huge or not-was about to be trampled or pushed aside. Motion was eternal. Motion was-a sudden spasm clutched at the Captain’s mind, digging fingers into his brain-the spirits, thrashing in terror-shrieking-
A taste of acid on his tongue-
Gasping, the Captain gestured.
A servant, who sat behind him in an upright coffin-shaped box, watching through a slit in the wood, saw the signal and pulled hard on a braided rope. A horn blared, followed by three more. \
And, for the first time in seven years, the kingdom of Skathandi ground to a halt.
The giant warrior strode for the head of the slave column. He drew his sword. As he swung down with that savage weapon, the slaves began screaming.
From both flanks, the ground shook as knights charged inward.
More frantic gestures from the Captain. Horns sounded again and the knights shifted en masse, swung out wide to avoid the giant.
‘The sword’s downward stroke had struck the centre spar linking the yoke harnessess. Edge on blunt end, splitting the spar for half its twenty-man length. Bolts scattered, chains rushed through iron loops to coil and slither on to the ground.
The Captain was on his feet, tottering, gripping the bollards of the balcony rail. He could see, as his knights drew up into ranks once more, all heads turned towards him, watching, waiting for the command. But he could not move. Pain lanced up his legs from the misshapen bones of his feet. He held on to the ornate posts with his feeble hands. Ants swarmed in his skull.
The spirits were gone.
Fled.
He was alone. He was empty.
Reeling back, falling into his throne.
He saw one of his sergeants ride out, drawing closer to the giant, who now stood leaning on his sword. The screams of the slaves sank away and those sud-denly free of their bindings staggered to either side, some falling to their knees as if subjecting themselves before a new king, a usurper. The sergeant reined in and, eyes level with the giant’s own, began speaking.
The Captain was too far away. He could not hear, and he needed to-sweat poured from him, soaking his fine silks. He shivered as fever rose through him. He looked down at his hands and saw blood welling from the old wounds-opened once more-and from his feet as well, pooling in the soft padded slippers. He remembered, suddenly, what it was like to think about dying, letting go, sur-rendering. There, yes, beneath the shade of the cottonwoods-
The sergeant collected his reins and rode at the canter for the palace.
He drew up, dismounted in a clatter of armour and reached up to remove his visored helm. Then he ascended the steps.