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

One was dead.

The other, at this moment, profoundly… vulnerable.

Things noticed.

Things were coming, and coming fast.

xX

And this night, why, it is but half done.

He slid down the last of the trail and he asked of me,

‘Do you see what you expected?’

And this was a question breaking loose, rolling free.

Out from under stones and scattered

Into thoughts of what the cruel fates would now decree.

He settled back in the dust and made his face into pain,

‘Did you see only what you believed?’

And I looked down to where blood had left its stain

The charge of what’s given, what’s received

Announcing the closing dirge on this long campaign.

‘No,’ I said, ‘you are not what I expected to see.’

Young as hope and true as love was my enemy,

‘The shields were burnished bright as a sun-splashed sea,

And drowning courage hath brought me to this calamity.

Expectation has so proved the death of me.’

He spoke to say, ‘You cannot war against the man you were,

br />

One was dead.

The other, at this moment, profoundly… vulnerable.

Things noticed.

Things were coming, and coming fast.

xX

And this night, why, it is but half done.

He slid down the last of the trail and he asked of me,

‘Do you see what you expected?’

And this was a question breaking loose, rolling free.

Out from under stones and scattered

Into thoughts of what the cruel fates would now decree.

He settled back in the dust and made his face into pain,

‘Did you see only what you believed?’

And I looked down to where blood had left its stain

The charge of what’s given, what’s received

Announcing the closing dirge on this long campaign.

‘No,’ I said, ‘you are not what I expected to see.’

Young as hope and true as love was my enemy,

‘The shields were burnished bright as a sun-splashed sea,

And drowning courage hath brought me to this calamity.

Expectation has so proved the death of me.’

He spoke to say, ‘You cannot war against the man you were,

And I cannot slay the man I shall one day become,

Our enemy is expectation flung backward and fore,

The memories you choose and the tracks I would run.

Slayer of dreams, sower of regrets, all that we are.’

– Soldier At The End Of His Days (Fragment), Des’ban of Nemil

They did not stop for the night. With the city’s fitful glow to the north, throbbing crimson, Traveller marched as would a man possessed. At times, as she and Karsa rode on ahead to the next rise to fix their gazes upon that distant conflagration, Samar Dev feared that he might, upon reaching them, simply lash out with his sword. Cut them both down. So that he could take Havok for himself, and ride hard for Darujhistan.

Something terrible was happening in that city. Her nerves were on fire. Her skull seemed to creak with some kind of pervasive pressure, building with each unwind step. She felt febrile, sick to her stomach, her mouth dry as dust, and she held on to Karsa Orlong’s muscled girth as if he was a mast on a storm-wracked ship. He had said nothing for some time now, and she did not have the courage to break that grim silence.

Less than a league away, the city flashed and rambled.

When Traveller reached them, however, it was as if they did not exist. He was muttering under his breath. Vague arguments, hissed denials, breathless lists of bizarre, disconnected phrases, each one worked out as if it was a justification for something he had done, or something he was about to do. At times those painful phrases sounded like justifications for both. Future blended with the past, a swirling vortex with a tortured soul at its very heart. She could not bear to listen.

Obsession was a madness, a fever. When it clawed its way to the surface, it was terrible to behold. It was impossible not to see the damage it did, the narrowness of the treacherous path one was forced to walk, as if between walls of thorns, jutting knife blades. One misstep and blood was drawn, and before long the poor creature was a mass of wounds, streaked and dripping, blind to everything but what waited somewhere ahead.

And what if he found what he sought? What if he won through in his final battle-whatever that might be? What then for Traveller?

It will kill him.

His reason for living… gone.

Gods below, I will not bear witness to such a scene. I dare not.

For I have my own obsessions…

Traveller marched on in dark argument. She and Karsa rode Havok, but even this frightening beast was starting, shying as if something was bodily pushing against it. Head tossed, hoofs stamped the packed ground.

Finally, after the horse almost reared, Karsa uttered a low snarl and reined in. ‘Down, Witch,’ he said-as Traveller once more stalked past-‘we will walk from here.’

‘But Havok-’

‘Can fend for himself. When I need him, we shall find each other once more.’

They dismounted. Samar stretched her back. ‘I’m exhausted. My head feels like a wet pot in a kiln-about to explode. Karsa-’

‘Stay here if you will,’ he said, eyes on Traveller’s back. ‘I will go on.’

‘Why? Wherever he’s going, it’s his battle, not yours. You cannot help him. You must not help him, Karsa-you see that, don’t you?’

He grimaced. ‘I can guard his back-’

‘Why? We have journeyed together out of convenience. And that’s done, now. Can’t you feel it? It’s done. Take one wrong step-cross his path-and he will drag out that sword.’ She brought her hands up and pressed hard against her eyelids. Flashes of fire ignited her inner world. No different from what she was seeing in the city before them. She dropped her hands and blinked blearily at the To-blakai. ‘Karsa, in the name of mercy, let’s turn away. Leave him to… whatever’s in Darujhistan.’