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

Yes, perhaps you do.

‘Nimander.’

‘Yes?’

‘Thank you. For this gift of creation.’

‘Next time you meet Gothos,’ Nimander said as his friend pushed him through the portal, ‘punch him in the face for me, will you?’

‘Yes, another good idea. I will miss you. You and your good ideas.’He fell through on to a thick powdery slope, hastily reaching up to grip the window’s edge to keep from sliding. Behind and below voices cried out in sudden hunger. He could feel their will churning up to engulf him.

A heavy scrape from the window and out came the final stone, end first, grinding as it was forced through. Catching Nimander by surprise. The weight pushed against his fingers where he held tight and he swore in pain as the tips were crushed, pinned-tearing one hand free left nails behind, droplets of blood spattering. He scrabbled for another handhold, then, voicing a scream, he tore loose his other arm.

Gods, how was he going to manage this? With two mangled hands, with no firm footing, with a mob surging frantic up the slope behind him?

Inexorable, the stone ground its way out. He brought a shoulder beneath it, felt the massive weight settling. His arms began to tremble.

Far enough now, yes, and he reached with one hand, began pushing to one side the nearest end of the blood-slick chunk of obsidian. He could see the clever angles now, the planes and how everything would somehow, seemingly impossibly, slide into perfect position. Push, some more-not much-almost in place-

Thousands, hundreds of thousands-a storm of voices, screams of desperation, of dismay, of terrible horror-too much! Please, stop! Stop!

He was weakening-he would not make it-he could not hold on any longer-with a sob he released his grip and in the last moment, tottering, he pushed with both hands, setting the stone-and then he was falling back, down, swallowed in cascading ash, stones, scouring chunks of rough pumice. Down the slope he tumbled, buried beneath ever more rubble. Hot. Suffocating. Blind. Drowning and one flailing hand was grasped, hard, by one and then two hands-small a woman’s hands.

His shoulder flared in pain as that grip tightened, pulled him round. The collapsing hillside tugged at him, eager to take him-he understood its need, he sympathized, yes, and wanted to relent, to let go, to vanish in the crushing darkness.

The hands dragged him free. Dragged him by one bloody arm. The storm of voices raged anew, closer now and closing fast. Cold fingertips scrabbled against his boots, nails clawing at his ankles and oh he didn’t care, let them take him, let them-

He tumbled down on to damp earth. Gloom, silence but for harsh breaths, a surprised grunt from nearby.

br />

Yes, perhaps you do.

‘Nimander.’

‘Yes?’

‘Thank you. For this gift of creation.’

‘Next time you meet Gothos,’ Nimander said as his friend pushed him through the portal, ‘punch him in the face for me, will you?’

‘Yes, another good idea. I will miss you. You and your good ideas.’He fell through on to a thick powdery slope, hastily reaching up to grip the window’s edge to keep from sliding. Behind and below voices cried out in sudden hunger. He could feel their will churning up to engulf him.

A heavy scrape from the window and out came the final stone, end first, grinding as it was forced through. Catching Nimander by surprise. The weight pushed against his fingers where he held tight and he swore in pain as the tips were crushed, pinned-tearing one hand free left nails behind, droplets of blood spattering. He scrabbled for another handhold, then, voicing a scream, he tore loose his other arm.

Gods, how was he going to manage this? With two mangled hands, with no firm footing, with a mob surging frantic up the slope behind him?

Inexorable, the stone ground its way out. He brought a shoulder beneath it, felt the massive weight settling. His arms began to tremble.

Far enough now, yes, and he reached with one hand, began pushing to one side the nearest end of the blood-slick chunk of obsidian. He could see the clever angles now, the planes and how everything would somehow, seemingly impossibly, slide into perfect position. Push, some more-not much-almost in place-

Thousands, hundreds of thousands-a storm of voices, screams of desperation, of dismay, of terrible horror-too much! Please, stop! Stop!

He was weakening-he would not make it-he could not hold on any longer-with a sob he released his grip and in the last moment, tottering, he pushed with both hands, setting the stone-and then he was falling back, down, swallowed in cascading ash, stones, scouring chunks of rough pumice. Down the slope he tumbled, buried beneath ever more rubble. Hot. Suffocating. Blind. Drowning and one flailing hand was grasped, hard, by one and then two hands-small a woman’s hands.

His shoulder flared in pain as that grip tightened, pulled him round. The collapsing hillside tugged at him, eager to take him-he understood its need, he sympathized, yes, and wanted to relent, to let go, to vanish in the crushing darkness.

The hands dragged him free. Dragged him by one bloody arm. The storm of voices raged anew, closer now and closing fast. Cold fingertips scrabbled against his boots, nails clawing at his ankles and oh he didn’t care, let them take him, let them-

He tumbled down on to damp earth. Gloom, silence but for harsh breaths, a surprised grunt from nearby.

Rolling on to his back, coughing through a mouth caked in ash. Eyes burning-

Desra knelt over him, her head down, her face twisted in pain as she held her arms like two broken wings in her lap. Skintick, rushing close to crouch beside him.

‘I thought-she-’

‘How long?’ Nimander demanded. ‘How could you have waited so long? Clip-’

‘What? It’s been but moments, Nimander. Desra-she came in, she saw into the ice-saw you-’

Fire burned his fingers, flicked flames up his hands and into his wrists, sizzlingfierce along the hones. Fresh blood dripped from dust-caked wounds where nails had been. ‘Desra,’ he moaned. ‘Why?’

She looked up, fixed him with hard eyes. ‘We’re not finished with you yet, Nimander,’ she said in a rasp. ‘Oh no, not yet.’

‘You damned fool,’ Gothos said. ‘I was saving that one for later. And now he’s free.’

Nimander twisted round. ‘You cannot just collect people! Like shiny stones!’

‘Why not? My point is, I needed that one. There is now an Azath in the blood of dragons-’

‘The spilled blood-the blood of dead dragons-’

‘And you think the distinction is important? Oh, me and my endless folly!’ With sharp gestures he raised his hood once more, then turned to settle down on a stool, facing the hearth, his position a perfect match to the moment Nimander, Skintick and Kallor had first entered this place. ‘You idiot, Nimander. Dragons don’t play games. Do you understand me? Dragons play no games. Ah, I despair, or I would if I cared enough. No, instead, I will make some ashcakes. Which I will not share.’

‘It’s time to leave,’ Skintick said.

Yes, that much was obvious.

‘They’re coming now,’ Kallor said.

Kedeviss looked but could not see any movement in the gloom of the ruin’s entrance.

‘It’s too late to travel-we’ll have to camp here. Make us a fine meal, Aranatha. Nenanda, build a fire. A house of sticks to set aflame-that’ll make Gothos wince, I hope. Yes, entice him out here tonight, so that I can kill him.’