Toll the Hounds

‘Now this is living!’-the Seguleh roared, tilting his head back to loose a manic laugh. Then he leaned forward on the saddle and cocked his head, long filthy hair swinging like ropes. ‘Well,’ he amended in an amused rumble, ‘not quite. But close enough. Close enough. Tell me, mortals, do you like my army? I do. Did you know the one thing a commander must battle against-more than any enemy across the plain, more than any personal crisis of will or confidence, more than unkind weather, broken supply chains, plague and all the rest? Do you know what a commander wages eternal war with, my friends? I will tell you. The true enemy is fear. The fear that haunts every soldier, that haunts even the beasts they ride.’ He lifted a gauntleted hand and waved to the valley below. ‘But not with this army! Oh, no. Fear belongs to the living, after all.’



‘As with the T’lan Imass,’ said Gruntle.



The darkness within the mask’s elongated eye-holes seemed to glitter as the Seguleh fixed his attention on Gruntle. ‘Trake’s cub. Now, wouldn’t you like to cross blades with me?’ A low laugh. ‘Yes, as with the T’lan Imass. Is it any won-der the Jaghut recoiled?’



Master Quell cleared his throat. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘what need has Hood for an army? Will he now wage war against the living?’



‘If only,’ the Seguleh replied in a grunt. ‘You don’t belong here-and if you drag that infernal carriage of yours back here any time soon, I will seek you out myself.



And then Trake’s spitting kitten here can fulfil his desperate desire, hah!’ He He twisted in his saddle. Other riders were approaching. ‘Look at that, my watchdogs. “Be reasonable”, indeed. Have I chopped these two interlopers to pieces? I have not. Constraint has been shown.’ He faced Gruntle and Quell once more. ‘You will confirm this, yes?’



‘Beyond you goading Gruntle here,’ Quell said, ‘yes, I suppose we can.’



‘It was a jest!’ the Seguleh shouted.



‘It was a threat,’ Quell corrected, and Gruntle was impressed by the man’s sud-den courage.



The Seguleh tilted his head, as if he too was casting new measure upon the mage. ‘Oh, trundle your wagon wherever you like, then, see if I care.’



Three riders mounted the summit and, slowing their horses to a walk, drew up to where waited the Seguleh, who now sat slumped like a browbeaten bully.



Gruntle started, took an involuntary step forward. ‘Toc Anaster?’



The one-eyed soldier’s smile was strained. ‘Hello, old friend. I am sorry. There may come a time for this, but it is not now.’



Gruntle edged back, blunted by Toc Anaster’s cold-even harsh-tone. ‘I-I did not know.’



‘It was a messy death. My memories remain all too sharp. Gruntle, deliver this message to your god: not long now.’



Gruntle scowled. ‘Too cryptic. If you want me to pass on your words, you will have to do better than that.’



Toc Anaster’s single eye-terrifying in its lifelessness-shifted away.



‘He cannot,’ said the middle horseman, and there was something familiar about the face behind the helm’s cheekguards. ‘I remember you from Capustan. Gruntle, chosen servant of Treach. Your god is confused, but it must choose, and soon.’



Gruntle shrugged. ‘There is no point in bringing all this to me Trake and me, we’re not really on speaking terms. I didn’t ask for any of this. I don’t even want it-’



‘Hah!’ barked the Seguleh, twisting round to face the middle rider. ‘Hear that, Iskar Jarak? Let me kill him!’



Iskar Jarak? I seem to recall he had a different name. One of those odd ones, common to the Malazan soldiery-what was it now?



‘Save your wrath for Skinner,’ Iskar Jarak calmly replied.



‘Skinner!’ roared the Seguleh, savagely wheeling his horse round. ‘Where is he, then? I’d forgotten! Hood, you bastard-you made me forget! Where is he?’ He faced the three riders. ‘Does Toc know? Brukhalian, you? Someone tell me where he’s hiding!’



‘Who knows?’ said Iskar Jarak. ‘But there is one thing for certain.’



‘What?’ demanded the Seguleh.



‘Skinner is not here on this hill.’



‘Bah!’ The Seguleh drove spurs into his horse’s senseless flanks. The animal surged forward anyway, plunging off the hilltop and raging downslope like an av-alanche.



Soft laughter from Brukhalian, and Gruntle saw that even Toc was grinning-though he still would not meet his eyes. That death must have been terrible indeed, as if the world had but one answer, one way of ending things, and whatever lessons could be gleaned from that did not ease the spirit. The notion left him feeling morose.