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

Seerdomin shot the god a quick glance. ‘You did not know…’

‘Is knowing necessary, Segda Travos?’

‘I no longer use that name. Segda Travos is dead. I am Seerdomin.’

‘Warrior Priest of the Pannion Seer. I see the warrior within you, but not the priest.’

‘It seems I am not much of a warrior any more,’ Seerdomin observed. ‘I was coming to save her.’

‘And now, my friend, you must fight her.’

‘What?’

Itkovian pointed.

Seerdomin twisted round where he knelt. A storm was building, seeping up into the dome of offerings, and he saw how the blackness engulfed those blazing stars, drowning them one by one. Beneath the savage churning clouds there was a figure. Dancing, and with each wild swing of an arm more midnight power spun outward, up into the growing storm cloud. She seemed to be a thousand or more paces away, yet grew larger by the moment.

He could see her mouth, gaping like a pit, from which vile liquid gushed out, splashing down, spraying as she twirled.

Salind, Gods, what has happened to you?

‘She wants me,’ Itkovian said. ‘It is her need, you see.’

‘Her need?’

‘Yes. For answers. What more can a god fear, but a mortal demanding an-swers?’

‘Send her away!’

‘I cannot. So, warrior, will you defend me?’

‘I cannot fight that!’

‘Then, my friend, I am lost.’

Salind came closer, and as she did so she seemed to lose focus in Seerdomin’s eyes, her limbs smearing the air, her body blurring from one position to the next. Her arms seemed to multiply, and in each one, he now saw, she held a weapon. Brown-stained iron, knotted wood trailing snags of hair, daggers of obsidian, scythes of crimson bronze.

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Seerdomin shot the god a quick glance. ‘You did not know…’

‘Is knowing necessary, Segda Travos?’

‘I no longer use that name. Segda Travos is dead. I am Seerdomin.’

‘Warrior Priest of the Pannion Seer. I see the warrior within you, but not the priest.’

‘It seems I am not much of a warrior any more,’ Seerdomin observed. ‘I was coming to save her.’

‘And now, my friend, you must fight her.’

‘What?’

Itkovian pointed.

Seerdomin twisted round where he knelt. A storm was building, seeping up into the dome of offerings, and he saw how the blackness engulfed those blazing stars, drowning them one by one. Beneath the savage churning clouds there was a figure. Dancing, and with each wild swing of an arm more midnight power spun outward, up into the growing storm cloud. She seemed to be a thousand or more paces away, yet grew larger by the moment.

He could see her mouth, gaping like a pit, from which vile liquid gushed out, splashing down, spraying as she twirled.

Salind, Gods, what has happened to you?

‘She wants me,’ Itkovian said. ‘It is her need, you see.’

‘Her need?’

‘Yes. For answers. What more can a god fear, but a mortal demanding an-swers?’

‘Send her away!’

‘I cannot. So, warrior, will you defend me?’

‘I cannot fight that!’

‘Then, my friend, I am lost.’

Salind came closer, and as she did so she seemed to lose focus in Seerdomin’s eyes, her limbs smearing the air, her body blurring from one position to the next. Her arms seemed to multiply, and in each one, he now saw, she held a weapon. Brown-stained iron, knotted wood trailing snags of hair, daggers of obsidian, scythes of crimson bronze.

Above her stained, weeping mouth, her eyes blazed with insane fire.

‘Redeemer,’ whispered Seerdomin.

‘Yes?’

‘Answer me one question. I beg you.’

‘Ask.’

And he faced the god. ‘Are you worth it?’

‘Am I worth the sacrifice you must make? No, I do not think so.’

‘You will not beg to be saved?’ Itkovian smiled. ‘Will you?’

No. I never have. He rose to his feet, found that the tulwar remained in his hand. He hefted the weapon and eyed Salind. Can I defy her need! Can I truly stand against that! ‘If not for your humility, Redeemer, I would walk away. If not for your… uncertainty, your doubts, your humanity.’

And, awaiting no reply from the god, he set out into her path.

The sudden hush within the Scour Tavern finally penetrated Spinnock Durav’s drunken haze. Blinking, he tilted his head, and found himself looking up at his Lord.

Who said, ‘It is time, my friend.’

‘You now send me away?’ Spinnock asked.

‘Yes. I now send you away.’

Spinnock Dura? reeled upright. His face was numb. The world seemed a sickly place, and it wanted in. He drew a deep breath. ‘My request pains you-why?’

He could have told him then. He could have spoken of this extraordinary blessing of love. For a human woman. He could have told Anomander Rake of his failure, and in so doing he would have awakened the Son of Darkness to his sordid plight.

Had he done all of this, Anomander Rake would have reached a hand to rest light on his shoulder, and he would have said, Then you must stay, my friend. For love, you must stay-go to her, now. Now, Spinnock Durav . It is the last gift within our reach. The last-did you truly believe I would stand in the way of that! That I would decide that my need was greater?

Did you think I could do such a thing, when I come to you here and now be-cause of my own love? For you? For our people?

Go to her, Spinnock Durav. Go.

But Spinnock Durav said nothing. Instead, he bowed before his Lord. ‘I shall do as you ask.’

And Anomander Rake said, ‘It is all right to fail, friend. I do not demand the impossible of you. Do not weep at that moment. For me, Spinnock Durav, find a smile to announce the end. Fare well.’

The killing seemed without end. Skintick’s sword arm ached, the muscles lifeless and heavy, and still they kept coming on-faces twisted eager and desperate, ex-pressions folding round mortal wounds as if sharp iron was a blessing touch, an exquisite gift. He stood between Kedeviss and Nenanda, and the three had been driven back to the second set of doors. Bodies were piled in heaps, filling every space of the chamber’s floor, where blood and fluids formed thick pools. The walls on all sides were splashed high.