Toll the Hounds

  Toll The Hounds

  A Tale of the Malazan Book of the Fallen

  Steven Erikson

  This novel is dedicated to the memory of my father,

  R. S. Lundin, 1931–2007.

  You are missed.

  Acknowledgements

  Gratitude as always goes to my advance readers: Bowen, Rick, Mark and Chris, with special thanks to Bill and Hazel for their kind words and support over the course of what proved to be a difficult year. Appreciation also goes to the staff of the Black Stilt Café and the Pacific Union Café for their generous loan of office space.

  Love to Clare and Bowen, for everything.

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  Cutter, an assassin

  Scillara, his companion

  Iskaral Pust, High Priest of Shadow, the Magi, God of the Bhokarala

  Sister Spite, a Soletaken

  Mogora, Iskaral’s occasional wife

  Barathol Mekhar, a tourist

  Chaur, a gentle man

  Mappo Runt, a Trell

  Picker, a retired Bridgeburner and partner in K’rul’s Bar

  Blend, a retired Bridgeburner and partner in K’rul’s Bar

  Antsy, a retired Bridgeburner and partner in K’rul’s Bar

  Mallet, a retired Bridgeburner and healer

  Bluepearl, a retired Bridgeburner

  Fisher, a bard, a regular at K’rul’s Bar

  Duiker, once the Malazan Empire’s Imperial Historian

  Bellam Nom, a young man

  Rallick Nom, an awakened assassin

  Torvald Nom, a cousin of Rallick

  Tiserra, Torvald’s wife

  Coll, a Council Member in Darujhistan

  Estraysian D’Arle, a Council Member in Darujhistan

  Hanut Orr, a Council Member in Darujhistan, nephew of the late Turban Orr

  Shardan Lim, a Council Member in Darujhistan

  Murillio, a consort

  Kruppe, a round little man

  Meese, proprietor of the Phoenix Inn

  Irilta, a regular at the Phoenix Inn

  Scurve, barkeep at the Phoenix Inn

  Sulty, server at the Phoenix Inn

  Challice, wife of Vidikas, daughter of Estraysian D’Arle

  Gorlas Vidikas, newest Council Member in Darujhistan, past Hero of the Fete

  Krute of Talient, an agent of the Assassins’ Guild

  Gaz, a killer

  Thordy, Gaz’s wife

  Master Quell, Trygalle Trade Guild navigator and sorceror

  Faint, a shareholder

  Reccanto Ilk, a shareholder

  Sweetest Sufferance, a shareholder

  Glanno Tarp, a shareholder

  Amby Bole, a retired Mott Irregular and newfound shareholder

  Jula Bole, a retired Mott Irregular and newfound shareholder

  Precious Thimble, a retired Mott Irregular and newfound shareholder

  Gruntle, a caravan guard on extended leave

  Stonny Menackis, owner of duelling school

  Harllo, a child

  Bedek, Harllo’s ‘uncle’

  Myrla, Harllo’s ‘aunt’

  Snell, a child

  Bainisk, a worker in the mines

  Venaz, a worker in the mines

  Scorch, a newly hired bodyguard

  Leff, a newly hired bodyguard

  Madrun, a newly hired compound guard

  Lazan Door, a newly hired compound guard

  Studlock (or Studious Lock), a castellan

  Humble Measure, a mysterious presence in Darujhistan’s criminal underworld

  Chillbais, a demon

  Baruk, a member of the T’orrud Cabal

  Vorcan, Mistress of the Assassins’ Guild

  Seba Krafar, Master of the Assassins’ Guild

  Apsal’ara, one of the Slain in Dragnipur

  Kadaspala, one of the Slain in Dragnipur

  Derudan, a witch of Tennes

  K’rul, an Elder God

  Draconus, one of the Slain within Dragnipur

  Korlat, a Tiste Andii Soletaken

  Orfantal, a Tiste Andii Soletaken, Korlat’s brother

  Kallor, a challenger

  Lady Envy, a bystander

  Anomander Rake, Son of Darkness, Knight of Darkness, Ruler of Black Coral

  Spinnock Durav, a Tiste Andii

  Endest Silann, a Tiste Andii wizard

  Caladan Brood, a warlord

  Hood, the God of Death

  Ditch, one of the Slain in Dragnipur

  Samar Dev, a witch

  Karsa Orlong, a Teblor Toblakai warrior

  Traveller, a stranger

  Shadowthrone, the God of Shadow

  Cotillion, The Rope, Patron God of Assassins

  Prophet Seech, the High Priest of the Fallen One, once a middling artist named Munug

  Silanah, an Eleint

  Crone, a Great Raven

  Raest, a Jaghut Tyrant (retired)

  Clip, Mortal Sword of Darkness

  Nimander Golit, a Tiste Andii

  Skintick, a Tiste Andii

  Nenanda, a Tiste Andii

  Aranatha, a Tiste Andii

  Kedeviss, a Tiste Andii

  Desra, a Tiste Andii

  Sordiko Qualm, a High Priestess

  Salind, a High Priestess

  Seerdomin, a resident of Black Coral

  Gradithan, a thug

  Monkrat, a mage

  Baran, a Hound of Shadow

  Gear, a Hound of Shadow

  Blind, a Hound of Shadow

  Rood, a Hound of Shadow

  Shan, a Hound of Shadow

  Pallid, a new Hound of Shadow

  Lock, a new Hound of Shadow

  Edgewalker, a wanderer

  Dog walkers, two witnesses

  PROLOGUE

  Speak truth, grow still, until the water is

  clear between us.

  Meditations of the Tiste Andii

  ‘I have no name for this town,’ the ragged man said, hands plucking at the frayed hems of what had once been an opulent cloak. Coiled and tucked into his braided belt was a length of leather leash, rotting and tattered. ‘It needs a name, I think,’ he continued, voice raised to be heard above the vicious fighting of the dogs, ‘yet I find a certain failing of imagination, and no one seems much interested.’

  The woman standing now at his side, to whom he companionably addressed these remarks, had but newly arrived. Of her life in the time before, very little remained. She had not owned a dog, yet she had found herself staggering down the high street of this decrepit, strange town clutching a leash against which a foul-tempered brute tugged and lunged at every passer-by. The rotted leather had finally parted, freeing the beast to bolt forward, launching an attack upon this man’s own dog.

  The two animals were now trying to kill each other in the middle of the street, their audience none but their presumed owners. Dust had given way to blood and tufts of hide.

  ‘There was a garrison, once, three soldiers who didn’t know each other,’ the man said. ‘But one by one they left.’

  ‘I never owned a dog before,’ she replied, and it was with a start that she realized that these were the first words she had uttered since . . . well, since the time before.

  ‘Nor I,’ admitted the man. ‘And until now, mine was the only dog in town. Oddly enough, I never grew fond of the wretched beast.’

  ‘How long have you . . . er, been here?’

  ‘I have no idea, but it seems like for ever.’

  She looked round, then nodded. ‘Me too.’

  ‘Alas, I believe your pet has died.’

  ‘Oh! So it has.’ She frowned down at the broken leash in her hand. ‘I suppose I won’t be needing a new one, then.’

  ‘Don’t be too c
ertain of that,’ the man said. ‘We seem to repeat things here. Day after day. But listen, you can have mine – I never use it, as you can see.’

  She accepted the coiled leash. ‘Thank you.’ She took it out to where her dead dog was lying, more or less torn to pieces. The victor was crawling back towards its master leaving a trail of blood.

  Everything seemed knocked strangely askew, including, she realized, her own impulses. She crouched down and gently lifted her dead dog’s mangled head, working the loop over until it encircled the torn neck. Then she lowered the bloody, spit-lathered head back to the ground and straightened, holding the frayed leash loose in her right hand.

  The man joined her. ‘Aye, it’s all rather confusing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And we thought life was confusing.’

  She shot him a glance. ‘So we are dead?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Then I don’t understand. I was to have been interred in a crypt. A fine, solid crypt – I saw it myself. Richly appointed and proof against thieves, with casks of wine and seasoned meats and fruit for the journey—’ She gestured down at the rags she was wearing. ‘I was to be dressed in my finest clothes, wearing all my jewellery.’

  He was watching her. ‘Wealthy, then.’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked back down at the dead dog on the end of the leash.

  ‘Not any more.’

  She glared across at him, then realized that such anger was, well, pointless. ‘I have never seen this town before. It looks to be falling apart.’

  ‘Aye, it’s all falling apart. You have that right.’

  ‘I don’t know where I live – oh, that sounds odd, doesn’t it?’ She looked round again. ‘It’s all dust and rot, and is that a storm coming?’ She pointed down the main street towards the horizon, where heavy, strangely luminous clouds now gathered above denuded hills.

  They stared at them for a time. The clouds seemed to be raining tears of jade.

  ‘I was once a priest,’ the man said, as his dog edged up against his feet and lay there, gasping, with blood dripping from its mouth. ‘Every time we saw a storm coming, we closed our eyes and sang all the louder.’

  She regarded him in some surprise. ‘You were a priest? Then . . . why are you not with your god?’

  The man shrugged. ‘If I knew the answer to that, the delusion I once possessed – of enlightenment – would in truth be mine.’ He suddenly straightened. ‘Look, we have a visitor.’

  Approaching with a hitched gait was a tall figure, so desiccated that its limbs seemed little more than tree roots, its face naught but rotted, weathered skin stretched over bone. Long grey hair drifted out unbound from a pallid, peeling scalp.

  ‘I suppose,’ the woman muttered, ‘I need to get used to such sights.’

  Her companion said nothing, and they both watched as the gaunt, limping creature staggered past, and as they turned to follow its progress they saw another stranger, cloaked in frayed dark grey, hooded, of a height to match the other.

  Neither seemed to take note of their audience, as the hooded one said, ‘Edgewalker.’

  ‘You have called me here,’ said the one named Edgewalker, ‘to . . . mitigate.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘This has been a long time in coming.’

  ‘You might think that way, Edgewalker.’

  The grey-haired man – who was clearly long dead – cocked his head and asked, ‘Why now?’

  The hooded figure turned slightly, and the woman thought he might be looking down on the dead dog. ‘Disgust,’ he replied.

  A soft rasping laugh from Edgewalker.

  ‘What ghastly place is this?’ hissed a new voice, and the woman saw a shape – no more than a smeared blur of shadows – whisper out from an alley, though he seemed to be hobbling on a cane, and all at once there were huge beasts, two, four, five, padding out around the newcomer.

  A grunt from the priest beside the woman. ‘Hounds of Shadow. Could my god but witness this!’

  ‘Perhaps it does, through your eyes.’

  ‘Oh, I doubt that.’

  Edgewalker and his hooded companion watched the shadowy form approach. Short; wavering, then growing more solid. Black-stick cane thumping on the dirt street, raising puffs of dust. The Hounds wandered away, heads lowered as they sniffed the ground. None approached the carcass of the woman’s dog, nor the gasping beast at the feet of her newfound friend.

  The hooded one said, ‘Ghastly? I suppose it is. A necropolis of sorts, Shadowthrone. A village of the discarded. Both timeless and, yes, useless. Such places,’ he continued, ‘are ubiquitous.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ said Shadowthrone. ‘Look at us, waiting. Waiting. Oh, if I were one for decorum and propriety!’ A sudden giggle. ‘If any of us were!’

  All at once the Hounds returned, hackles raised, gazes keen on something far up the main street.

  ‘One more,’ whispered the priest. ‘One more and the last, yes.’

  ‘Will all this happen again?’ the woman asked him, as sudden fear ripped through her. Someone is coming. Oh, gods, someone is coming. ‘Tomorrow? Tell me!’

  ‘I would imagine not,’ the priest said after a moment. He swung his gaze to the dog carcass lying in the dust. ‘No,’ he said again, ‘I imagine not.’

  From the hills, thunder and jade rain slashing down like the arrows from ten thousand battles. From down the street, the sudden rumble of carriage wheels.

  She turned at that latter sound and smiled. ‘Oh,’ she said in relief, ‘here comes my ride.’

  He had once been a wizard of Pale, driven by desperation into betrayal. But Anomander Rake had not been interested in desperation, or any other excuse Ditch and his comrades might have proffered. Betrayers of the Son of Darkness kissed the sword Dragnipur, and somewhere among this legion toiling in the perpetual gloom there were faces he would recognize, eyes that could meet his own. And what would he see in them?

  Only what he gave back. Desperation was not enough.

  These were rare thoughts, no more or less unwelcome than any others, mocking him as in their freedom they drifted in and out; and when nowhere close, why, they perhaps floated through alien skies, riding warm winds soft as laughter. What could not escape was Ditch himself and that which he could see on all sides. This oily mud and its sharp black stones that cut through the rotted soles of his boots; the deathly damp air that layered a grimy film upon the skin, as if the world itself was fevered and slick with sweat. The faint cries – strangely ever distant to Ditch’s ears – and, much nearer, the groan and crunch of the massive engine of wood and bronze, the muted squeal of chains.

  Onward, onward, even as the storm behind them drew closer, cloud piling on cloud, silver and roiling and shot through with twisting spears of iron. Ash had begun to rain down on them, unceasing now, each flake cold as snow, yet this was a sludge that did not melt, instead churning into the mud until it seemed they walked through a field of slag and tailings.

  Although a wizard, Ditch was neither small nor frail. There was a roughness to him that had made others think of thugs and alley-pouncers, back in the life that had been before. His features were heavy, angular and, indeed, brutish. He had been a strong man, but this was no reward, not here, not chained to the Burden. Not within the dark soul of Dragnipur.

  The strain was unbearable, yet bear it he did. The way ahead was infinite, screaming of madness, yet he held on to his own sanity as a drowning man might cling to a frayed rope, and he dragged himself onward, step by step. Iron shackles made his limbs weep blood, with no hope of surcease. Figures caked in mud plodded to either side, and beyond them, vague in the gloom, countless others.

  Was there comfort in shared fate? The question alone invited hysterical laughter, a plunge into insanity’s precious oblivion. No, surely there was no such comfort, beyond the mutual recognition of folly, ill luck and obstinate stupidity, and these traits could not serve camaraderie. Besides, one’s companions to either si
de were in the habit of changing at a moment’s notice, one hapless fool replacing another in a grainy, blurred swirl.

  Heaving on the chains, to keep the Burden in motion, this nightmarish flight left no energy, no time, for con27 versation. And so Ditch ignored the hand buffeting his shoulder the first time, the second time. The third time, however, was hard enough to send the wizard staggering to one side. Swearing, he twisted round to glare at the one now walking at his side.

  Once, long ago, he might have flinched back upon seeing such an apparition. His heart would have lurched in terror.

  The demon was huge, hulking. Its once royal blood availed it no privilege here in Dragnipur. Ditch saw that the creature was carrying the fallen, the failed, gathering to itself a score or more bodies and the chains attached to them. Muscles strained, bunched and twisted as the demon pulled itself forward. Scrawny bodies hanging limp, crowded like cordwood under each arm. One, still conscious though her head lolled, rode its broad back like a newborn ape, glazed eyes sliding across the wizard’s face.

  ‘You fool,’ Ditch snarled. ‘Throw ‘em into the bed!’

  ‘No room,’ piped the demon in a high, childish voice.

  But the wizard had used up his sympathy. For the demon’s sake, it should have left the fallen behind, but then, of course, they would all feel the added weight, the pathetic drag on the chains. Still, what if this one fell? What if that extraordinary strength and will gave way? ‘Curse the fool!’ Ditch growled. ‘Why doesn’t he kill a few more dragons, damn him!’

  ‘We fail,’ said the demon.

  Ditch wanted to howl at that. Was it not obvious to them all? But that quavering voice was both bemused and forlorn, and it struck through to his heart. ‘I know, friend.

  Not long now.’

  ‘And then?’

  Ditch shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Who does?’

  Again the wizard had no answer.

  The demon persisted. ‘We must find one who does. I am going now. But I will return. Do not pity me, please.’

  A sudden swirl, grey and black, and now some bear-like beast was beside him, too weary, too mindless, to even lunge at him – as some creatures still did.

  ‘You’ve been here too long, friend,’ Ditch said to it.

  Who does?

  An interesting question. Did anyone know what would happen when the chaos caught them? Anyone here in Dragnipur?