Toll the Hounds (The Malazan Book of the Fallen 8)
‘Captain, sir. The fool claims that the slaves are now free.’
Staring into the soldier’s blue eyes, the grizzled expression now widened by dis-belief, by utter amazement, the Captain felt a pang of pity. ‘He is the one, isn’t he?’
‘Sir?’
‘The enemy. The slayer of my subjects. I feel it. The truth I see it, I feel it. I taste it!’
The sergeant said nothing.
‘He wants my throne,’ the Captain whispered, holding up his bleeding hands. ‘Was that all this was for, do you think? All I’ve done, just for him?’
‘Captain,’ the sergeant said in a harsh growl. ‘He has ensorcelled you. We will cut him down.’
‘No. You do not understand. They’re gone!’
‘Sir-’
‘Make camp, Sergeant. Tell him-tell him he is to be my guest at dinner. My guest. Tell him… tell him… my guest, yes, just that.’
The sergeant, a fine soldier indeed, saluted and set off.
Another gesture with one stained, dripping, mangled hand. Two maids crept out to help him to his feet. He looked down at one. A Kindaru, round and plump and snouted like a fox-he saw her eyes fix upon the bleeding appendage at the end of the arm she supported, and she licked her lips.
I am dying.
Not centuries. Before this day is done. Before this day is done, I will be dead, ‘Make me presentable,’ he gasped. ‘There shall be no shame upon him, do you see? I want no pity. He is my heir. He has come. At last, he has come.’
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‘Captain, sir. The fool claims that the slaves are now free.’
Staring into the soldier’s blue eyes, the grizzled expression now widened by dis-belief, by utter amazement, the Captain felt a pang of pity. ‘He is the one, isn’t he?’
‘Sir?’
‘The enemy. The slayer of my subjects. I feel it. The truth I see it, I feel it. I taste it!’
The sergeant said nothing.
‘He wants my throne,’ the Captain whispered, holding up his bleeding hands. ‘Was that all this was for, do you think? All I’ve done, just for him?’
‘Captain,’ the sergeant said in a harsh growl. ‘He has ensorcelled you. We will cut him down.’
‘No. You do not understand. They’re gone!’
‘Sir-’
‘Make camp, Sergeant. Tell him-tell him he is to be my guest at dinner. My guest. Tell him… tell him… my guest, yes, just that.’
The sergeant, a fine soldier indeed, saluted and set off.
Another gesture with one stained, dripping, mangled hand. Two maids crept out to help him to his feet. He looked down at one. A Kindaru, round and plump and snouted like a fox-he saw her eyes fix upon the bleeding appendage at the end of the arm she supported, and she licked her lips.
I am dying.
Not centuries. Before this day is done. Before this day is done, I will be dead, ‘Make me presentable,’ he gasped. ‘There shall be no shame upon him, do you see? I want no pity. He is my heir. He has come. At last, he has come.’
The maids, both wide-eyed with fear now, helped him inside.
And still the ants swarmed.
The horses stood in a circle facing inward, tails flicking at flies, heads lowered as they cropped grass. The oxen stood nearby, still yoked, and watched them. Kede-viss, who leaned with crossed arms against one of the wagon’s wheels, seemed to be watching the grey-haired foreigner with the same placid, empty regard.
Nimander knew just how deceptive that look could be. Of them all-these pal-try few left-she saw the clearest, with acuity so sharp it intimidated almost everyone subject to it. The emptiness-if the one being watched finally turned to meet those eyes-would slowly fade, and something hard, unyielding and im-mune to obfuscation would slowly rise in its place. Unwavering, ever sharpening until it seemed to pierce the victim like nails being hammered into wood. And then she’d casually look away, unmindful of the thumping heart, the pale face and the beads of sweat on the brow, and the one so assailed was left with but one of two choices: to fear this woman, or to love her with such savage, demanding desire that it could crush the heart.
Nimander feared Kedeviss. And loved her as well. He was never good with choices.
If Kallor sensed that regard-and Nimander was certain he did-he was indif-ferent to it, preferring to divide his attention between the empty sky and the empty landscape surrounding them. When he wasn’t sleeping or eating. An un-pleasant guest, peremptory and imperious. He would not cook, nor bother cleans-ing his plate afterwards. He was a man with six servants.
Nenanda was all for banishing the old man, driving him away with stones and pieces of dung, but Nimander found something incongruous in that image, as if it was such an absurd impossibility that it had no place even in his imagination.
‘He’s weakening,’ Desra said at his side.
‘We’re soon there, I think,’ Nimander replied. They were just south of Sarn, which had once been a sizeable city. The road leading to it had been settled all along its length, ribbon farms behind stalls, shops and taverns. The few residents left were an impoverished lot,, skittish as whipped dogs, hacking at hard ground that had been fallow too long-at least until they saw the travellers on the main road, whereupon they dropped their hoes and hurried away.
The supplies left at the T-intersection had been meticulously packed into wooden crates, the entire pile covered in a tarp with its corners staked. Ripe fruits, candied sugar-rock dusted in salt, heavy loads of dark bread, strips of dried eel, watered wine and three kinds of cheese-where, all this had come from, given the wretched state of the forms they’d passed, was a mystery.
‘He would kill us as soon as look at us,’ Desra said, her eyes now on Kallor.
‘Skintick agrees.’
‘What manner of man is he?’
Nimander shrugged. ‘An unhappy one. We should get going.’
‘Wait,’ said Desra. ‘I think we should get Aranatha to look at Clip.’
‘Aranatha?’ He looked round, found the woman sitting, legs folded under her like a fawn’s, plucking flowers from the sloped bank of the road. ‘Why? What can she do?’