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

In the realm of Dragnipur, every force had ceased fighting. Every force, every lace-Draconus, Hood, Iskar Jarak, the Chained, the burning eyes of the soldiers of chaos-all turned to stare at the sky above the wagon.

And at the lone figure standing tall on the mound of bodies.

Where something extraordinary had begun.

The tattooed pattern had lifted free of the tumbled, wrinkled canvas of skins – as if the layer that had existed for all to see was now revealed as but one side, one facet, one single dimension, of a far greater manifestation. Which now rose, unfold-ing, intricate as a perfect cage, a web of gossamer, glistening like wet strokes of ink suspended in the air around Anomander Rake. He slowly raised his arms.

Lying almost at Rake’s feet, Kadaspala twisted in a frenzy of joy. Revenge and revenge and yes, revenge.

Stab! Dear child! Now stab, yes and stab and stab-Ditch, all that remained of him, stared with one eye. He saw an elongated, tattoo-swarmed arm lifting clear, saw the knife in its hand, hovering like a rearing serpent behind Rake’s back. And none of this surprised him.

The child-god’s one purpose. The child-god’s reason to exist.

And he was its eye. There to look upon its soul inward and outward. To feel its heart, and that heart overflowed with life, with exultation. To be born and to live was such a gift! To see the sole purpose, to hold and drive the knife deep-

And then?

And then … it all ends.

Everything here. All of them. These bodies so warm against me. All, betrayed by the one their very lives have fed. Precious memories, host of purest regrets-but what, above all else, must always be chained to each and every soul? Why, regrets, of course. For ever chained to one’s own history, one’s own life story, for ever drag-ging that creaking, tottering burden…

To win free of those chains of regret is to shake free of humanity itself. And so become a monster.

Sweet child god, will you regret this?

‘No.’

Why not!

There… there will be no time.’

Yes, no time. For anyone. Anything. This is your moment of life-your birth, your deed, your death. By this you must measure yourself, in this handful of breaths.

Your maker wants you to kill.

You are born now. Your deed awaits. Your death hovers just beyond it. Child god, what will you dot

And he felt the god hesitate. He felt it awaken to its own self, and to the freedom that such awakening offered. Yes, its maker had sought to shape it. Sire to child, an unbroken stream of hate and vengeance. To give its own imminent death all the meaning it demanded.

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In the realm of Dragnipur, every force had ceased fighting. Every force, every lace-Draconus, Hood, Iskar Jarak, the Chained, the burning eyes of the soldiers of chaos-all turned to stare at the sky above the wagon.

And at the lone figure standing tall on the mound of bodies.

Where something extraordinary had begun.

The tattooed pattern had lifted free of the tumbled, wrinkled canvas of skins – as if the layer that had existed for all to see was now revealed as but one side, one facet, one single dimension, of a far greater manifestation. Which now rose, unfold-ing, intricate as a perfect cage, a web of gossamer, glistening like wet strokes of ink suspended in the air around Anomander Rake. He slowly raised his arms.

Lying almost at Rake’s feet, Kadaspala twisted in a frenzy of joy. Revenge and revenge and yes, revenge.

Stab! Dear child! Now stab, yes and stab and stab-Ditch, all that remained of him, stared with one eye. He saw an elongated, tattoo-swarmed arm lifting clear, saw the knife in its hand, hovering like a rearing serpent behind Rake’s back. And none of this surprised him.

The child-god’s one purpose. The child-god’s reason to exist.

And he was its eye. There to look upon its soul inward and outward. To feel its heart, and that heart overflowed with life, with exultation. To be born and to live was such a gift! To see the sole purpose, to hold and drive the knife deep-

And then?

And then … it all ends.

Everything here. All of them. These bodies so warm against me. All, betrayed by the one their very lives have fed. Precious memories, host of purest regrets-but what, above all else, must always be chained to each and every soul? Why, regrets, of course. For ever chained to one’s own history, one’s own life story, for ever drag-ging that creaking, tottering burden…

To win free of those chains of regret is to shake free of humanity itself. And so become a monster.

Sweet child god, will you regret this?

‘No.’

Why not!

There… there will be no time.’

Yes, no time. For anyone. Anything. This is your moment of life-your birth, your deed, your death. By this you must measure yourself, in this handful of breaths.

Your maker wants you to kill.

You are born now. Your deed awaits. Your death hovers just beyond it. Child god, what will you dot

And he felt the god hesitate. He felt it awaken to its own self, and to the freedom that such awakening offered. Yes, its maker had sought to shape it. Sire to child, an unbroken stream of hate and vengeance. To give its own imminent death all the meaning it demanded.

Fail in this, and that death will have no meaning at all.

‘Yes. But, if I die without achieving what I am made to do -’

The god could sense the power that had lifted clear now rushing down from this extraordinary Tiste Andii with the silver hair, rushing down along the trac-

cries of the countless bodies-travelling the strands of the vast web, Down, and down, into that Gate.

What was he doing?

And Ditch smiled as he answered. Friend, know this for certain. Whatever Anomander Rake now attempts to do, he does not do it for himself.

And that statement stunned this child god.

Not for himself? Was such a thing possible? Did one not ever choose, first and foremost, for oneself?

For most, yes, that is true. And when these ones pass, they are quickly forgotten. ‘Their every achievement grows tarnished. The recognition comes swift, that they were not greater than anyone else. Not smarter, not braver. Their motives, ah, such sordid things after all. For most, I said, but not this one. Not Anomander Rake.

7 see. Then, my mortal friend, I… I shall do no less.’

And so, that long arm writhed round, twisting, and the knife stabbed down, down into Kadaspala’s chest.

The blind Tiste Andii shrieked, and his blood poured over the packed bodies.

Slain by his own child. And the web drank deep its maker’s blood.

Someone crawled alongside Ditch. He struggled to focus with his one dying and dying eye. A broad face, the skin flaking off in patches, long thick hair of black slashed through with red. She held a flint knife in one hand.

‘Take it,’ he whispered. ‘Take it quick-’

And so she did.

Agonizing pain, fire stabbing deep into his skull, and then… everything began to fade.

And the child god, having killed, now dies.

Only one man wept for it, red tears streaming down. Only one man even knew what it had done.

Was it enough?

Apsal’ara saw Anomander Rake pause, and then look down. He smiled. ‘Go, with my blessing.’

‘Where?’