Toll the Hounds

Someone was after him, tracking with all the deliberate malice of a hunting cat-he’d yet to spy that murderer, but in a world such as Night that was not surprising. The Tiste Andii were skilled in their realm of Darkness, deadly as serpents.



He needed to reach the barrow. He needed to get to Gradithan. Once there, Harak knew he would be safe. They had to be warned, and new plans would have to be made. Harak knew that he might well be the last one left in Black Coral.



He stayed in the most ruined areas of the city, seeking to circle round or, failing that, get out through the inland gate that led into the forested hills-where the cursed Bridgebumers had made a stand, killing thousands with foul sorcery and Moranth munitions-why, the entire slope was still nothing more than shattered, charred trees, fragments of mangled armour, the occasional leather boot and, here and there in the dead soil, juttlng bones. Could he reach that, he could find a path leading into Daylight and then, finally, he would be safe.



This latter option became ever more inviting he was not too far from the gate, and these infernal shadows and the endless gloom here was of no help to him-the Tiste Andii could see in this darkness, after all, whilst he stumbled about half blind.



He heard a rock shift in the rubble behind him, not thirty paces away. Heart pounding, Harak set his eyes upon the gate. Smashed down in the siege, but a path of sorts had been cleared through it, leading out to the raised road that encircled the inland side of the city. Squinting, he could make out no figures lingering near that gate.



Twenty paces away now. He picked up his pace and, once on to the cleared avenue, sprinted for the opening in the wall.



Were those footfalls behind him? He dared not turn.



Run! Damn my legs-run!



On to the path, threading between heaps of broken masonry, and outside the city!



Onward, up the slope to the raised road, a quick, frantic scamper across it, and down into the tumbled rocks at the base of the ruined slope. Battered earth, makeshift grave mounds, tangled roots and dead branches. Whimpering, he clambered on, torn and scratched, coughing in the dust of dead pine bark.



And there, near the summit, was that sunlight? Yes. It was near dawn, after all. Sun-blessed light!



A quick glance back revealed nothing-he couldn’t make out what might be whispering through the wreckage below.



He was going to make it.



Harak scrambled the last few strides, plunged into cool morning air, shafts of golden rays-and a figure rose into his path. A tulwar lashed out. Harak’s face bore an expression of astonishment, frozen there as his head rolled from his shoulders, bounced and pitched back down the slope, where it lodged near a heap of bleached, fractured bones. The body sank down on to its knees, at the very edge of the old trench excavated by the Bridgeburners, and there it stayed.



Seerdomin wiped clean his blade and sheathed the weapon. Was this the last of them? He believed that it was. The city… cleansed. Leaving only those out at the barrow. Those ones would persist for a time, in ignorance that everything in Black Coral had changed.



He was weary-the hunt had taken longer than he had expected. Yes, he would rest now. Seerdomin looked about, studied the rumpled trenchwork the sappers had managed with little more than folding shovels. And he was impressed. A different kind of soldier, these Malazans.



But even this the forest was slowly reclaiming.



He sat down a few paces from the kneeling corpse and settled his head into his gloved hands. He could smell leather, and sweat, and old blood. The smells of his past, and now they had returned. In his mind he could hear echoes, the rustle of armour and scabbards brushing thighs. Urdomen marching in ranks, the visors ontheir great helms dropped down to hide their fevered eyes. Squares of Betaklites forming Up outside the city, preparing to strike northward. Scalandi skirmishers and Tenescowri-the starving multitudes, desperate as bared teeth. He recalled their mass, shifting in vast heaves, ripples and rushes on the plain, the way each wave left bodies behind-the weakest ones, the dying ones-and how eddies would form round them, as those closest swung back to then descend on their hapless comrades.



When there was no one else, the army ate itself. And he had simply looked on, expressionless, wrapped in his armour, smelling iron, leather, sweat and blood.



Soldiers who had fought in a just war-a war they could see as just, anyway-could hold on to a sense of pride, every sacrifice a worthy one. And so fortified, they could leave it behind, finding a new life, a different life. And no matter how grotesque the injustices of the world around them, the world of the present, that veteran could hold on to the sanctity of what he or she had lived through.



But fighting an unjust war… that was different. If one had any conscience at all, there was no escaping the crimes committed, the blood on the hands, the sheer insanity of that time-when honour was a lie, duty a weapon that silenced, and courage itself was stained and foul. Suddenly, then, there was no defence against injustice, no sanctuary to be found in memories of a righteous time. And so anger seethed upward, filling every crack, building into rage. There was no way to give it a voice, no means of releasing it, and so the pressure built. When it finally overwhelmed, then suicide seemed the easiest option, the only true escape.