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

In this lone room, barring the insects who lived in terror, there was pure, un-mitigated joy, delicious satisfaction, and the sweetest love.

It all collapsed at around the same time as the floor. Rotted crossbeams, boards and thick plaster descended on to Widow Lebbil and it was as much the shock as the weight of the wreckage that killed her instantly.

Poor Saborgan, losing his grip on the wailing Empress, suffered the stunning implosion of a cane driven up his anus-oh, even to recount is to wince!-which proved a most fatal intrusion indeed. As for the Empress herself, well, after a mo-ment of horrific terror her geas shattered, releasing her at last to return to her home, the realm of the Cockroach Kings (oh, very well, the round man just made up that last bit. Forgive?). Who knows where she went? The only thing for certain is that she danced every step of the way.

The vague boom of a collapsing floor in a squalid tenement building somewhere overhead went unnoticed by Seba Krafar, Master of the Assassins’ Guild, as he staggered down the subterranean corridor, seeking the refuge of his nest.

Would the disasters never end? It had all started with that damned Rallick Nom cult, and then, almost before the dust settled on that, their first big contract ran up against the most belligerent, vicious collection of innkeepers imaginable. And the one that followed?

He suspected he was the only survivor. He’d left his crossbowmen to cover his retreat and not one of them had caught up with him; and now, with gas storage caverns igniting one after another, well, he found himself in an abandoned warren of tunnels, rushing through raining dust, coughing, eyes stinging.

All ruined. Wrecked. He’d annihilated the entire damned Guild.

He would have to start over.

All at once, the notion excited him. Yes, he could shape it himself-nothing to inherit. A new structure. A new philosophy, even.

Such… possibilities.

He staggered into his office, right up to the desk, which he leaned on with both hands on its pitted surface. And then frowned at the scattering of scrolls, and saw documents strewn everywhere on the floor-what in Hood’s name?

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In this lone room, barring the insects who lived in terror, there was pure, un-mitigated joy, delicious satisfaction, and the sweetest love.

It all collapsed at around the same time as the floor. Rotted crossbeams, boards and thick plaster descended on to Widow Lebbil and it was as much the shock as the weight of the wreckage that killed her instantly.

Poor Saborgan, losing his grip on the wailing Empress, suffered the stunning implosion of a cane driven up his anus-oh, even to recount is to wince!-which proved a most fatal intrusion indeed. As for the Empress herself, well, after a mo-ment of horrific terror her geas shattered, releasing her at last to return to her home, the realm of the Cockroach Kings (oh, very well, the round man just made up that last bit. Forgive?). Who knows where she went? The only thing for certain is that she danced every step of the way.

The vague boom of a collapsing floor in a squalid tenement building somewhere overhead went unnoticed by Seba Krafar, Master of the Assassins’ Guild, as he staggered down the subterranean corridor, seeking the refuge of his nest.

Would the disasters never end? It had all started with that damned Rallick Nom cult, and then, almost before the dust settled on that, their first big contract ran up against the most belligerent, vicious collection of innkeepers imaginable. And the one that followed?

He suspected he was the only survivor. He’d left his crossbowmen to cover his retreat and not one of them had caught up with him; and now, with gas storage caverns igniting one after another, well, he found himself in an abandoned warren of tunnels, rushing through raining dust, coughing, eyes stinging.

All ruined. Wrecked. He’d annihilated the entire damned Guild.

He would have to start over.

All at once, the notion excited him. Yes, he could shape it himself-nothing to inherit. A new structure. A new philosophy, even.

Such… possibilities.

He staggered into his office, right up to the desk, which he leaned on with both hands on its pitted surface. And then frowned at the scattering of scrolls, and saw documents strewn everywhere on the floor-what in Hood’s name?

‘Master Krafar, is it?’

The voice spun him round.

A woman stood with her back resting against the wall beside the doorway. A cocked crossbow was propped beside her left boot, quarrel head resting on the packed earthen floor. Her arms were crossed.

Seba Krafar scowled. ‘Who in Hound’s name are you?’

‘You don’t know me? Careless. My name is Blend. I’m one of the owners of K’rul’s.’

‘That contract’s cancelled-we’re done with you. No more -’

‘I don’t care. It’s simple-I want the name. The one who brought you the con-tract. Now, you can give it to me without any fuss, and I will walk out of here and that’s the last you’ll see of me, and all your worries will be at an end. The Guild removed from the equation. Consider it a gift, but now it’s time for you to earn it.’

He studied her, gauging his chances. She didn’t look like much. There was no way she’d reach that crossbow in time-two quick strides and he’d be right in her face. With two knives in her gut. And then he’d send a note to Humble Measure and claim one more down-leaving what, two or three left? He’d get paid well for that, and Hood knew he needed the coin if he was going to start over.

And so he attacked.

He wasn’t sure what happened next. He had his knives out, she was right there in front of him, and then her elbow smashed into his face, shattering his nose and blinding him with pain. And somehow both thrusts he sent her way, one seeking the soft spot just beneath her sternum, the other striking lower down, both failed. One blocked, the other missing entirely, dagger point driving into the wall she’d been leaning against.

The blow to his face turned his knees to water, but only for the briefest of mo-ments, for Seba Krafar was a bull of a man, a brawler. Damage was something to shake off and then just get on with it, and so, shoulder hunching, he attempted a slanting slash, trying to gut the bitch right then and there.

Something hard hammered his wrist, sending the dagger flying, and bones cracked in his arm. As he stumbled back, tugging the other knife from the wall, he attempted a frantic thrust to keep her off him. She caught his wrist and her thumb was like an iron nail, impaling the base of his palm. The knife dropped from senseless fingers. She then took that arm and twisted it hard round, pushing his shoulder down and so forcing his head to follow.

Where it met a rising knee.

An already broken nose struck again, struck even harder, in fact, is not some-thing that can be shaken off. Stunned, not a sliver of will left in his brain, he landed on his back. Some instinct made him roll, up against the legs of his desk, and he heaved himself upright once more.