Toll the Hounds

‘Enough, Skin, please.’



‘Why did we bother, Nimander? Bother saving him?’



Nimander’s eyes remained on the distant mountains. ‘Aranatha says he is needed. Necessary.’



‘For what? And what would she know about it anyway?’



‘I wish I could answer those questions, Skin.’



‘I feel as if I am drowning in blood.’



Nimander nodded. ‘Yes. I feel the same. I think we all do.’



‘I don’t think Anomander Rake has it in him to throw us a rope.’



‘Probably not.’



This admission, so wise, shook Skintick. His fear was accurate-their leader had changed. Does he even now see clearly? Yet, if that is so, where is his de-spair! I do not understand -



‘It feels like,’ Nimander said, ‘dying inside. That’s what it feels like.’



‘Don’t say that, brother. Don’t.’



‘Why not?’



Only one of us can feel that way. Only one. I got there first, damn you! It’s mine! Abruptly, he barked a laugh. ‘No reason, in truth. No reason at all.’



‘You are acting strangely, Skin, did you know that?’



He shrugged. ‘We need to wash this blood off, Nimander.’



They rode on across the bleached salt flat. The day grew hotter.



Directly beneath the floor of the terondai, where blazed the black sun, a vast chamber had been carved out of the bedrock. When Anomander Rake, Lord of



Black Coral and Son of Darkness, wearied of the view from the keep’s tower and other high vantage points, he descended into this womb in the rock, where dark-ness remained absolute.



Such moments were rare, and even rarer that the Lord should summon Endest Silann to meet him in the subterranean cavern. His legs still stiff from the long trek back to the city, the castellan made his way down the steep, winding stairs, until at last he reached the base. Enormous doors sealed the cave, scaled in beaten silver in patterns suggesting the skin of dragons. Tarnished black, barring the gleam of the scales’ edges, the barrier was barely visible to Endest Silann’s failing eyes, and when he reached for the heavy latch he was forced to grope for a mo-ment before his hand settled on the silver bar.



Cold air gusted around him as he pulled one of the doors open. A smell of raw stone, acrid and damp, the sound of trickling water. He saw his Lord standing near the centre, where an obelisk rose like a stalagmite from the floor. This basalt edifice was carved square at the base, tapering to an apex at twice the height of a Tiste Andii. On the side facing Rake there was an indent, moulded to match the sword he carried on his back.



‘It is not often,’ said Anomander as Endest approached, ‘that I feel the need to ease the burden of Dragnipur.’



‘Sire.’



He watched as Anomander unsheathed the dread sword and set it into the indentation. At once the obelisk began sweating, thick, glistening beads studding the smoothed surface, then racing down the sides. Something like thunder groaned through the stone underfoot.



Endest Silann sighed, leaned on his walking stick. ‘The stone, Lord, cannot long withstand that burden.’ Yet you can, and this so few understand, so few comprehend at all.



‘A few moments more,’Anomander Rake murmured.



‘Sire, that was not a chastisement.’



A brief smile. ‘But it was, old friend, and a wise one. Stone knows its own weight, and the limits of what it can sustain. Be assured, I will not long abuse its generosity.’



Endest Silann looked round, drawing in the sweet darkness, so pure, so perfect. It is almost as we once knew. Kharkanas, before she embraced Light, before the ones born of ashes lifted themselves up and took swords in hand. Scabandari. II-gast Rend, Halyd Bahann. Esthala who dreamed of peace. Kagamandra Tulas Shorn, who did not.



1 have sent Spinnock Durav away.’



‘Yes, I heard. Sire, I cannot-’



‘I am afraid you have no choice, Endest.’



‘The High Priestess-’



‘Understands, and she will do all she can.’



So long ago now. Lord, your patience beggars that of gods.



‘There was no purpose worthy enough to breathe life into our people, was there? It is not history that so assialled us, although many ace it that way. The less-sons of futility can be gathered by anyone with a mind so inclined. Every triumph hollow, every glory revealed at last to-be ephemeral. But none of that gives cause to wither the spirit. Damage it, perhaps, yes, but the road we have walked down stands high above such things. Do you understand that, Endest?’



‘I think I do, sire.’