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

Screams, all through the city. Buildings crashing down. Echoing howls. Recall-ing the fireball he’d seen, he looked skyward. No stars in sight-the sky was filled with smoke, huge bulges underlit by wildfires in the city. ‘Gods below!’

Harllo ran down the road. His knees were cut and deeply scored by his climb up the slope of scree, and blood ran down his shins. Stitches bit into his sides and every muscle was on fire. And Venaz was so close behind him that he could hear his harsh gasps-but Venaz was older, his legs were longer, and it would be soon now, no matter how tired he sounded.

To have come so far, and everything was about to end… but Harllo would not weep. Would not plead or beg for his life. Venaz was going to beat him to death. It was us simple as that. There was no Bainisk to stand in the way, there were no rules of the camp. Harllo was not a mole any more; he was of no use to anyone,

People like him, big and small, died all the time. Killed by being ignored, killed because nobody cared what happened to them. He’d walked the streets of Darn jhistan often enough to see for himself, to see that the only thing between those huddled shapes and himself was a family that didn’t even want him, no matter how hard he worked. They were Snell’s parents, and Snell was what they’d made between them, and nothing in the world could cut through those tethers.

That was why they let Snell play with Harllo, and if he played using fists and feet and something went bad, well, that stuff happened all the time, didn’t it? That’s why they never came to get him. And the one man who did, Gruntle, who always looked down at him with sad eyes, he was dead now, too, and it was this fact that eased Harllo’s mind. He was happy to go where Gruntle had gone. He would take hold of that giant scarred hand and know that, finally, he was safe.

‘I got you! I got you!’

A hand snagged at the back of his shirt, missed.

Harllo threw himself forward-maybe one last spurt-away, fast as he could-

The hand caught a handful of tunic, and Harllo stumbled, and then a thin sweaty arm wrapped tight round his neck, lifting him from his feet.

The forearm pressed against his throat. He could not breathe. And all at once Harllo did not want to die.

He flailed, but Venaz was too big, too strong.

Harllo was forced down to the stony surface of the road, then pushed over on his back as Venaz straddled him and closed both hands round his neck.

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Screams, all through the city. Buildings crashing down. Echoing howls. Recall-ing the fireball he’d seen, he looked skyward. No stars in sight-the sky was filled with smoke, huge bulges underlit by wildfires in the city. ‘Gods below!’

Harllo ran down the road. His knees were cut and deeply scored by his climb up the slope of scree, and blood ran down his shins. Stitches bit into his sides and every muscle was on fire. And Venaz was so close behind him that he could hear his harsh gasps-but Venaz was older, his legs were longer, and it would be soon now, no matter how tired he sounded.

To have come so far, and everything was about to end… but Harllo would not weep. Would not plead or beg for his life. Venaz was going to beat him to death. It was us simple as that. There was no Bainisk to stand in the way, there were no rules of the camp. Harllo was not a mole any more; he was of no use to anyone,

People like him, big and small, died all the time. Killed by being ignored, killed because nobody cared what happened to them. He’d walked the streets of Darn jhistan often enough to see for himself, to see that the only thing between those huddled shapes and himself was a family that didn’t even want him, no matter how hard he worked. They were Snell’s parents, and Snell was what they’d made between them, and nothing in the world could cut through those tethers.

That was why they let Snell play with Harllo, and if he played using fists and feet and something went bad, well, that stuff happened all the time, didn’t it? That’s why they never came to get him. And the one man who did, Gruntle, who always looked down at him with sad eyes, he was dead now, too, and it was this fact that eased Harllo’s mind. He was happy to go where Gruntle had gone. He would take hold of that giant scarred hand and know that, finally, he was safe.

‘I got you! I got you!’

A hand snagged at the back of his shirt, missed.

Harllo threw himself forward-maybe one last spurt-away, fast as he could-

The hand caught a handful of tunic, and Harllo stumbled, and then a thin sweaty arm wrapped tight round his neck, lifting him from his feet.

The forearm pressed against his throat. He could not breathe. And all at once Harllo did not want to die.

He flailed, but Venaz was too big, too strong.

Harllo was forced down to the stony surface of the road, then pushed over on his back as Venaz straddled him and closed both hands round his neck.

The face glaring down at him was flushed with triumph. Sweat ran muddy streaks down it; something had cut one cheek and white threads of cave-worms clustered round the wound-they’d lay eggs and that cut would become a huge welt, until it burst and the grubs crawled out, and the scar left behind would never go away and Venaz would be ugly for the rest of his life.

‘Got you got you got you,’ Venaz whispered, his eyes bright. ‘And now you die. Now you die. Got you and now you die.’

Those hands squeezed with savage strength.

He fought, he scratched, he kicked, but it was hopeless. He felt his face swell, grow hot. The darkness flushed red.

Something cracked hard and Venaz was reeling back, his grip torn loose. Hands closed on Harllo’s upper arms and dragged him a short distance away. Gasping, he stared up at a strange face-another boy-who now stepped past him, advancing on Venaz.

Who had scrambled upright, nose streaming blood. ‘Who the shit are-’

The stranger flung himself at Venaz, and both went down.

Coughing, tears streaming, Harllo forced himself on to his hands and knees. The two boys were about the same size, and they were of that age when a real fight had a deadly edge. They fought as would rabid dogs. Clawing into faces, seeking eye sockets, or inside the mouth to tear aside one entire cheek. They bit, gouged, used their elbows and knees as they rolled about on the roadside.

Something snapped, like a green sapling, and someone howled in terrible pain.

Harllo climbed to his feet, and he found he was holding a large round stone in his hands.

Venaz had broken the stranger’s left arm, and he was now working himself on top, fists raining down into the other boy’s face-who did what he could to protect it with his one working arm, but half of those fists got through, smashing into the face beneath.

Harllo stepped up behind Venaz, who was straddling the stranger. He looked down, seeing him as the stranger must have done when Harllo was the one lying on the ground, being murdered. He raised the rock, and then drove it down on to the top of Venaz’s skull.

The impact made him lose his grip on the stone and he saw it roll off to one side, leaving a shallow dent in Venaz’s head.

Venaz seemed to be in the midst of a coughing fit, a barely human stuttering sound bursting from his throat. He pushed himself off the other boy and rose wob-bling to his feet. When he turned to stare at Harllo, he was smiling, the teeth bright shards between gushing streams of blood from his nose. His eyes had filled and were now opaque. He lost his balance and reeled to one side, only to lose his footing on the edge of the road and plunge into the grassy ditch.