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

The Dying God-or his priests-had blessed them, apparently, and now awaited their pleasure in Bastion. The one who had sacrificed his soul to the Dying God was doubly blessed, and some final consummation was anticipated, prob¬ably leading to Clip’s soul’s being thoroughly devoured by an entity who was cursed to suffer for eternity. Thus accursed, it was little wonder the creature welcomed company.

All things considered, it was well that their journey had been one of ease and accommodation. Nimander suspected that his troupe would have been rather more pleased to carve their way through hordes of frenzied fanatics, assuming they could manage such a thing.

Having confirmed that Clip’s comatose condition was unchanged, he climbed down from the wagon and returned to the scruffy mare he had been riding suite Morsko. The poor beast’s ribs had been like the bars of a cage under tattered vellum, its eyes listless and the tan coat patchy and dull. In the three days since, despite the steady riding, the animal had recovered somewhat under Nimandcr’i ministrations. He was not particularly enamoured of horses in general, but no creature deserved to suffer.

As he climbed into the worn saddle he saw Skintick standing, stepping up on to the wagon’s bench where Nenanda sat holding the reins, and shading his eyes to look southward across the empty plain.

‘See something?’

A moment, then, ‘Yes. Someone… walking.’

Up from the south? ‘But there’s nothing out there’

Kedeviss and Aranatha rose in their stirrups.

‘Let’s get going,’ Desra said from the wagon bed. ‘It’s too hot to be just sitting here.’

Nimander could see the figure now, tall for a human. Unkempt straggly grey hair fanned out round his head like an aura. He seemed to be wearing a long coat of chain, down to halfway between his knees and ankles, slitted in front. The hand-and-a-half grip of a greatsword rose above his left shoulder.

‘An old bastard,’ muttered Skintick, ‘to be walking like that.’

‘Could be he lost his horse,’ said Nenanda disinterestedly. ‘Desra is right-we should be going.’

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The Dying God-or his priests-had blessed them, apparently, and now awaited their pleasure in Bastion. The one who had sacrificed his soul to the Dying God was doubly blessed, and some final consummation was anticipated, prob¬ably leading to Clip’s soul’s being thoroughly devoured by an entity who was cursed to suffer for eternity. Thus accursed, it was little wonder the creature welcomed company.

All things considered, it was well that their journey had been one of ease and accommodation. Nimander suspected that his troupe would have been rather more pleased to carve their way through hordes of frenzied fanatics, assuming they could manage such a thing.

Having confirmed that Clip’s comatose condition was unchanged, he climbed down from the wagon and returned to the scruffy mare he had been riding suite Morsko. The poor beast’s ribs had been like the bars of a cage under tattered vellum, its eyes listless and the tan coat patchy and dull. In the three days since, despite the steady riding, the animal had recovered somewhat under Nimandcr’i ministrations. He was not particularly enamoured of horses in general, but no creature deserved to suffer.

As he climbed into the worn saddle he saw Skintick standing, stepping up on to the wagon’s bench where Nenanda sat holding the reins, and shading his eyes to look southward across the empty plain.

‘See something?’

A moment, then, ‘Yes. Someone… walking.’

Up from the south? ‘But there’s nothing out there’

Kedeviss and Aranatha rose in their stirrups.

‘Let’s get going,’ Desra said from the wagon bed. ‘It’s too hot to be just sitting here.’

Nimander could see the figure now, tall for a human. Unkempt straggly grey hair fanned out round his head like an aura. He seemed to be wearing a long coat of chain, down to halfway between his knees and ankles, slitted in front. The hand-and-a-half grip of a greatsword rose above his left shoulder.

‘An old bastard,’ muttered Skintick, ‘to be walking like that.’

‘Could be he lost his horse,’ said Nenanda disinterestedly. ‘Desra is right-we should be going.’

Striding like one fevered under the sun, the stranger came ever closer. Something about him compelled Nimander’s attention, a kind of dark fascination-for what, he couldn’t quite name. A cascade of images tumbled through his mind. As if he was watching an apparition bludgeoning its way out from some hoary legend, from a time when gods struggled, hands about each other’s throats, when blood fell as rain and the sky itself rolled and crashed against the shores of the Abyss. All this, riding across the dusty air between them as the old man came up to the road. All this, written in the deep lines of his gaunt visage, in the bleak wastelands of his grey eyes.

‘He is as winter,’ murmured Skintick.

Yes, and something… colder.

‘What city lies beyond?’ the man asked.

A startled moment when Nimander realized that the stranger had spoken Tiste Andii. ‘Heath.’

The man turned, faced west. ‘This way, then, lies Bastion and the Cinnamon Track.’

Nimander shrugged.

‘You are from Coral?’ the stranger asked, scanning the group. ‘Is he still camped there, then? But no, I recognize none of you, and that would not be possible. Even so, tell me why I should not kill you all.’

That got Nenanda’s attention, and he twisted in his seat to sneer down at the old man.

But Nimander’s blood has turned to ice. ‘Because, sir, you do not know US.’’

Pale eyes settled o him. ‘You have a point, actually. Very well, instead, I would travel with you, Ride, yes, in your wagon I have worn my boots through crossing this wretched plain Tell me, have you water, decent food?’

Nenanda twisted futher to glare at Nimander. ‘Turn this fool away. He can drink our dust.’

The old man regarded Neiianda for a moment, then came back to Nimander. ‘Tie a leash on this one and we should be fine.’ And he stepped up to the wagon and, setting a foot on a spoke of the rear wheel, pulled himself up. Where he paused, frowning as he studied the prostrate form of Clip. ‘Is he ill?’ he asked Desra. ‘Are you caught with plague? No, not that-your kind rarely succumb to such things. Stop staring, child, and tell me what is wrong with this one.’

‘None of your business,’ she snapped, as Nimander had known she would. ‘If you’re going to crowd in then sit there, to give him some shade.’

Thin brows lifted, then a faint smile flickered across his withered, cracked lips. And without another word he moved to where Desra had indicated and settled down, stretching out his legs. ‘Some water, darling, if you please.’