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

‘She will pay! And for you-1 know you now-and it is too late!’

Aranatha sighed. ‘Husband, Blood Sworn to Nightchill,’ she intoned, ‘child of Thelomen Tartheno Toblakai, Bellurdan Skullcrusher, I summon you.’ And she held out her hand, in time for something to slap hard into its grip. A battered, misshapen puppet dangled, one arm snapped off, both legs broken away at the knees, a face barely discernible, seemingly scorched by fire. Aranatha faced Ni-mander. ‘Here is your Dying God.’

Around them the scene began dissolving, crumbling away.

‘He does not speak,’ Nimander said, eyeing the mangled puppet.

‘No ,’ she said . ‘Curious .’

‘ Are you certain you have him, Aranatha?’ She met his eyes, and then shrugged .

‘What did he mean, that he knew you? And how-how did you know his name?’ She blinked, and then frowned down at the puppet she still held out in our hand. ‘Nimander,’ she whispered in a small voice, ‘so much blood…’

Reaching out to Clip, Skintick dragged the man close, studied the face, the star-ing eyes, and saw something flicker to life. ‘Clip?’

The warrior shifted his gaze, struggling to focus, and then he scowled. His words came out in an ugly croak. ‘Fuck. What do you want?’

Sounds, motion, and then Nimander was there, kneeling on the other side of Clip. ‘We seem,’ he said, ‘to have succeeded.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know, Skin. Right now, I don’t know anything.’

Skintick saw Aranatha standing just near a massive block of stone-the altar. She was holding a doll or puppet of some sort. ‘Where’s Desra?’ he suddenly asked, looking round.

‘Over here.’

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‘She will pay! And for you-1 know you now-and it is too late!’

Aranatha sighed. ‘Husband, Blood Sworn to Nightchill,’ she intoned, ‘child of Thelomen Tartheno Toblakai, Bellurdan Skullcrusher, I summon you.’ And she held out her hand, in time for something to slap hard into its grip. A battered, misshapen puppet dangled, one arm snapped off, both legs broken away at the knees, a face barely discernible, seemingly scorched by fire. Aranatha faced Ni-mander. ‘Here is your Dying God.’

Around them the scene began dissolving, crumbling away.

‘He does not speak,’ Nimander said, eyeing the mangled puppet.

‘No ,’ she said . ‘Curious .’

‘ Are you certain you have him, Aranatha?’ She met his eyes, and then shrugged .

‘What did he mean, that he knew you? And how-how did you know his name?’ She blinked, and then frowned down at the puppet she still held out in our hand. ‘Nimander,’ she whispered in a small voice, ‘so much blood…’

Reaching out to Clip, Skintick dragged the man close, studied the face, the star-ing eyes, and saw something flicker to life. ‘Clip?’

The warrior shifted his gaze, struggling to focus, and then he scowled. His words came out in an ugly croak. ‘Fuck. What do you want?’

Sounds, motion, and then Nimander was there, kneeling on the other side of Clip. ‘We seem,’ he said, ‘to have succeeded.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know, Skin. Right now, I don’t know anything.’

Skintick saw Aranatha standing just near a massive block of stone-the altar. She was holding a doll or puppet of some sort. ‘Where’s Desra?’ he suddenly asked, looking round.

‘Over here.’

The foul smoke was clearing. Skintick lifted himself into a sitting position and squinted in the direction of the voice. In the wall behind the altar and to the left, al-most hidden between columns, there was a narrow door, through which Desra now emerged. She was soaked in blood, although by the way she moved, none of it was her own. ‘Some sort of High Priest, I suppose,’ she said. ‘Trying to protect a corpse, or what I think is a corpse.’ She paused, and then spat on to the floor. ‘Strung up like one of those scarecrows, but the body parts… all wrong, all sewn together-’

‘The Dying God,’ said Aranatha, ‘sent visions of what he wanted. Flawed. But what leaked out tasted sweet.’

From the corridor Kedeviss and Nenanda arrived. They both looked round, their faces flat, their eyes bludgeoned.

‘I think we killed them all,’ said Kedeviss. ‘Or the rest fled. This wasn’t a fight-this was a slaughter. It made no sense-’

‘Blood,’ said Nimander, studying Clip-who remained lying before him-with something like suspicion. ‘You are back with us?’

Clip swung his scowl on to Nimander. ‘Where are we?’

‘A city called Bastion.’

A strange silence followed, but it was one that Skintick understood. The wake of our honor. It settles, thickens, forms a hard skin-something lifeless, smooth. We’re waiting for it to finish all of that, until it can take our weight once more.

And then we leave here.

‘We still have far to go,’ said Nimander, straightening.

In Skintick’s eyes, his kin-his friend-looked aged, ravaged, his eyes haunted and bleak. The others were no better. None of them had wanted this. And what they had done here… it had all been for Clip.

‘Blood,’ said Clip, echoing Nimander, and he slowly climbed to his feet. He glared at the others. ‘Look at you. By Mother Dark, I’d swear you’ve been rolling in the waste pits of some abattoir. Get cleaned up or you won’t have my company for much longer.’ He paused, and his glare hardened into something crueller. ‘I smell murder. Human cults are pathetic things. From now on, spare me your lust for killing innocents. I’d rather not be reminded of whatever crimes you committed in the name of the Son of Darkness. Yes,’ he added, baring his teeth, ‘he has so much to answer for.’

Standing over him, weapons whirling, spinning. Seerdomin watched Her with his one remaining eye, waiting for the end to all of this, an end he only faintly regret-ted. The failure, his failure, yes, that deserved some regret. But then, had he truly believed he could stop this apparition?

He said I was dying.

I’m dying again.

All at once, she was still. Her eyes like hooded lanterns, her arms settling as if the dance had danced its way right out of her and now spun somewhere unseen. She stared down at him without recognition, and then she turned away.