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

Nimander thought about that. A curious idea. Andarist had once explained that skykeeps-such as the one Anomander Rake claimed as his own-were not a creation of sorcery, and indeed the floating fortresses were held aloft through arcane manipulations of technology. K’Chain Clic’Mallc, Kallor had said. Clearly, he had made the same connec-ion as had Skintick.

‘Why would a god need a machine?’ Nimander asked. ‘How should I know? Anyway, it’s broken now.’

They came to a broad intersection. Public buildings commanded each corner, the architecture peculiarly utilitarian, as if the culture that had bred it was singularly devoid of creative flair. Glyphs made a mad scrawl on otherwise unadorned walls, some of the symbols now striking Nimander as resembling that destroyed mechanism.

The main thoroughfare continued on another two hundred paces, they could see, opening out on to an expansive round. At the far end rose the most imposing structure they had seen yet.

‘There it is,’ Skintick said. ‘The Abject… altar. It’s where the singing is coming from, I think.’

Nimander nodded.

‘Should we take a closer look?’

He nodded again. ‘Until something happens.’

‘Does being attacked by a raving mob count?’ Skintick asked.

Figures were racing into the round, naked but with weapons in their hands that they waved about over their heads, their song suddenly ferocious, as they began marching towards the two Tiste Andii.

‘Here was I thinking we were going to be left alone,’ Nimander said. ‘If we run, we’ll just lead them back to the inn.’

‘True, but holding the gate should be manageable, two of us at a time, spelling each other.’

Nimander was the first to hear a sound behind him and he spun round, sword hissing from the scabbard. Kallor.

The old warrior walked towards them. ‘You kicked them awake,’ he said.

‘We were sightseeing,’ said Skintick, ‘and though this place is miserable we kept our opinions to ourselves. In any case, we were just discussing what to do now.’

‘You could stand and fight.’

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Nimander thought about that. A curious idea. Andarist had once explained that skykeeps-such as the one Anomander Rake claimed as his own-were not a creation of sorcery, and indeed the floating fortresses were held aloft through arcane manipulations of technology. K’Chain Clic’Mallc, Kallor had said. Clearly, he had made the same connec-ion as had Skintick.

‘Why would a god need a machine?’ Nimander asked. ‘How should I know? Anyway, it’s broken now.’

They came to a broad intersection. Public buildings commanded each corner, the architecture peculiarly utilitarian, as if the culture that had bred it was singularly devoid of creative flair. Glyphs made a mad scrawl on otherwise unadorned walls, some of the symbols now striking Nimander as resembling that destroyed mechanism.

The main thoroughfare continued on another two hundred paces, they could see, opening out on to an expansive round. At the far end rose the most imposing structure they had seen yet.

‘There it is,’ Skintick said. ‘The Abject… altar. It’s where the singing is coming from, I think.’

Nimander nodded.

‘Should we take a closer look?’

He nodded again. ‘Until something happens.’

‘Does being attacked by a raving mob count?’ Skintick asked.

Figures were racing into the round, naked but with weapons in their hands that they waved about over their heads, their song suddenly ferocious, as they began marching towards the two Tiste Andii.

‘Here was I thinking we were going to be left alone,’ Nimander said. ‘If we run, we’ll just lead them back to the inn.’

‘True, but holding the gate should be manageable, two of us at a time, spelling each other.’

Nimander was the first to hear a sound behind him and he spun round, sword hissing from the scabbard. Kallor.

The old warrior walked towards them. ‘You kicked them awake,’ he said.

‘We were sightseeing,’ said Skintick, ‘and though this place is miserable we kept our opinions to ourselves. In any case, we were just discussing what to do now.’

‘You could stand and fight.’

‘We could,’ agreed Nimander, glancing back at the mob. Now fifty paces away and closing fast. ‘Or we could beat a retreat.’

‘They’re brave right now,’ Kallor observed, stepping past and drawing his two-handed sword. As he walked he looped the plain, battered weapon over his head, a few passes, as if loosening up his shoulders. Suddenly he did not seem very old at all.

Skintick asked, ‘Should we help him?’

‘Did he ask for help, Skin?’

‘No, you’re right, he didn’t.’

They watched as Kallor marched directly into the face of the mob.

And all at once that mob blew apart, people scattering, crowding out to the skies as the singing broke up into walls of dlsmay Kallor hesitated for but a mo ment, before resuming his march. In the center of a corridor now that had opened up to let him pass.

‘He just wants to see that altar,’ Skintick said, ‘and he’s not the one they’re bothered with. Too bad,’ he added, ’it might have been interesting to see the old badger fight.’

‘Let’s head back,’ Nimander said, ‘while they’re distracted.’

‘If they let us.’

They turned and set off at an even, unhurried pace. After a dozen or so strides Skintick half turned. He grunted, then said, ‘They’ve left us to it. Nimander, the message seems clear. To get to that altar, we will have to go through them.’

‘So it seems.’

‘Things will get messy yet.’ Yes, they would.

‘So, do you think Kallor and the Dying God will have a nice conversation? Observations on the weather. Reminiscing on the old tyrannical days when everything was all fun and games. Back when the blood was redder, its taste sweeter. Do you think?’

Nimander said nothing, thinking instead of those faces in that mob, the black stains smeared round their mouths, the pits of their eyes. Clothed in rags, caked with filth, few children among them, as if the kelyk made them all equal, regardless of age, regardless of any sort of readiness to manage the world and the demands of living. They drank and they starved and the present was the future, until death stole away that future. A simple trajectory. No worries, no ambitions, no dreams.

Would any of that make killing them easier? No. ‘I do not want to do this,’ Nimander said. ‘No,’ Skintick agreed. ‘But what of Clip?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘This kelyk is worse than a plague, because its victims invite it into their lives, and then are indifferent to their own suffering. It forces the question-have we any right to seek to put an end to it, to destroy it?’