Toll the Hounds

‘Is that why they’re after you?’



He turned, studied her. ‘And who would be after me?’



‘Someone. That much seems obvious. Am I wrong?’



Aranatha spoke from the wagon, ‘You are not, sister. But then, he has always been hunted. You can see it in his eyes.’



‘Be glad that you remain marginally useful to me,’ Kallor said, turning away once more.



Kedeviss saw Nenanda glaring at the warrior’s back.



How much time had passed? Days, perhaps weeks. Nimander stood, watching the mason build his tower. Shaping stone with fists, with round hammerstones found somewhere, with leather-wrapped wooden mallets to edge the pumice fac-ing he had decided to add to ‘lighten the walls’.



To accommodate the giant, the tower needed to be huge, four storeys or more to the ceiling. ‘Made with the blood of dragons, the glass of what flowed, the pumice of what foamed with dying breaths. A tower, yes, but also a monument, a grave marker. What will come of this? I know not. You were clever, Nimander, with this idea. Too clever to stay here. You must leave, when the tower vanishes, you must be within it. I will stay.’



They repeated that argument again and again, and each time Nimander prevailed, not through brilliant reasoning, not through appealing to the Elder’s selfish desires (because it turned out he didn’t have any), but only through his refusal to surrender.



He had nothing awaiting him, after all. Nenanda could lead the others through-he was finding his own kind of wisdom, his restraint, and with Skintick and Kede-viss to guide him, he would do well. Until such time as they reached Coral.



Nimander had lost too many battles-he could see that in himself. Could feel every scar, still fresh, still wounding. This place would give him time to heal, if such a thing were possible. How long? Why not eternity?



A chorus of wails surrounded them, an army of spirits grovelling in the ash and dust at the base of the volcanic cone. Bemoaning the end of the world-as if this world suited them just fine, when clearly it didn’t, when each one dreamed of reclaiming flesh and bone, blood and breath. They sought to assail the slope but somehow failed again and again. Nimander helped when he could, carrying tools here and there, but mostly he sat in the soft dust, seeing nothing, hearing only the cries from beyond the tower’s growing wall, feeling neither thirst nor hunger, slowly emptying of desire, ambition, everything that might once have mattered.



Around him the darkness deepened, until the only light came from some pre-ternatural glow from the pumice. The world closing in…



Until-



‘One stone remains. This stone. The base of this low window, Nimander, within your reach. I will help you climb outside-then push the stone through, like this-but tell me, please, why can we not both leave here? I am within the tower. So are you. If I set the stone-’



‘Elder,’ cut in Nimander. ‘You are almost done here. Where is Gothos?’



A look of surprise. ‘I don’t know.’



‘He does not dare this realm, I think.’



‘Perhaps that is true.’



‘I don’t even know if this will work-if it will create for you a way out.’



‘I understand, Nimander. Remain inside with me. Let me set this stone.’



‘I don’t know where this tower will take you,’ Nimander replied. ‘Back to your realm, wherever that is, perhaps-but not my home. Nothing I know. Besides, you carved this to be pushed into place from outside-the angles-’



‘I can reshape it, Nimander.’



I cannot go with you. ‘In finding out where you are, Elder, I become lost. You are the mason, the maker of the houses. It is your task. You do not belong here.’



‘Nor do you.’



‘Don’t I? There are Tiste Andii spirits out there. And Tiste Edur. Even Liosan. The ones who fell in the first wars, when dragons burst through every gate to slay, to die. Listen to them out there! They have made peace with one another-a miracle, and one I would be happy to share.’



‘You are not a ghost. They will take you. They will fight over you, a beginning of a new war, Nimander. They will tear you to pieces.’



‘No, I will reason with them-’



‘You cannot.’



Despair stirred awake in Nimander, as he saw the truth of the Elder’s words. Even here, he was not welcome. Even here he would bring destruction. Yet, when they tear me limb from limb, I will die. I will become just like them. A short war. ‘Help me through the window,’ he said, pulling himself up on to the rough ledge.



‘As you wish. I understand, Nimander.’