Toll the Hounds

Dragon and High King dipped behind a hill to the north.



One of the Great Ravens drew up almost at Spinnock’s feet.



‘Crone!’ Spinnock coughed and spat blood. ‘I’d have thought… Darujhistan…’



‘Darujhistan, yes. I’d have liked to. To honour, to witness. To remember, and to weep. But our Lord… well, he had thoughts of you.’ The head tilted. ‘When we saw you, lying there, Kallor looming as he so likes to do, ah, we thought we were too late-we thought we had failed our Lord-and you. We thought-oh, never mind.’



The Great Raven was panting.



Spinnock knew that this was not exhaustion he was seeing in the ancient bird. You can shed no tears, yet tears take you none the less. The extremity, the terrible distress.



The dragon that had returned now landed on the grasses to the south of the track. Sembling, walking towards Spinnock and Crone and the haggle of Crone’s kin.



Korlat.



Spinnock would have smiled up at her, but he had lost the strength for such things, and so he could only watch as she came up to him, using one boot to shunt a squawking Crone to one side. She knelt and reached out a hand to brush Spinnock’s spattered cheek. Her eyes were bleak. ‘Brother…’



Crone croaked, ‘Just heal him and be done with it-before he gasps out his last breath in front of us!’



She drew out a quaint flask. ‘Endest Silann mixed this one. It should suffice.’ She tugged loose the stopper and gently set the small bottle’s mouth between Spinnock’s lips, and then tilted it to drain the contents, and he felt that potent liquid slide down his throat. Sudden warmth flowed through him.



‘Sufficient, anyway, to carry you home.’ And she smiled.



‘My last fight in his name,’ said Spinnock Durav. ‘I did as he asked, did I not?’



Her expression tightened, revealed something wan and ravaged. ‘You have much to tell us, brother. So much that needs… explaining.’



Spinnock glanced at Crone.



The Great Raven ducked and hopped a few steps away. ‘We like our secrets,’ she cackled, ‘when it’s all we have!’



Korlat brushed his cheek again. ‘How long?’ she asked. ‘How long did you hold him back?’



‘Why,’ he replied, ‘I lit the torches… dusk was just past…’



Her eyes slowly widened. And she glanced to the east, where the sky had begun, at last, to lighten.



‘Oh, Spinnock…’



A short time later, when she went to find his sword where it was lying in the grasses, Spinnock Durav said, ‘No, Korlat. Leave it.’



She looked at him in surprise.



But he was not of a mind to explain.



Above the Gadrobi Hills, Kallor finally managed to drag free his sword, even as the dragon’s massive head swung down, jaws wide. His thrust sank deep into the soft throat, just above the jutting avian collar bones. A shrill, spattering gasp erupted from the Soletaken, and all at once they were plunging earthward.



The impact was thunder and snapping bones. The High King was flung away, tumbling and skidding along dew-soaked grass. He gained his feet and spun to face the dragon.



It had sembled. Orfantal, on his face an expression of bemused surprise, was struggling to stand. One arm was broken. Blood gushed down from his neck. He seemed to have forgotten Kallor, as he turned in the direction of the road, and slowly walked away.



Kallor watched.



Orfantal managed a dozen steps before he fell to the ground.



It seemed this was a night for kllling Tiste Andii.



His shoulders were on fire from the dragon’s puncture wounds, which might well have proved fatal to most others, but Kallor was not like most others. Indeed, the High King was unique.



In his ferocity. In his stubborn will to live.



In the dry furnace heat of the hatred that ever swirled round him.



He set out once more for the city.



As dawn finally parted the night.



Kallor.



Xx



‘There is no struggle too vast, no odds too overwhelming, for even should we fail-should we fall-we will know that we have lived.’



– Anomander Rake, Son Of Darkness



The continent-sized fragments of the shattered moon sent reflected sunlight down upon the world. The fabric of Night, closed so tight about the city of Black Coral, began at last to fray. The web that was this knotted manifestation of Kurald Galain withered under the assault. Shafts broke through and moonlight painted buildings, domes, towers, walls and the long-dead gardens they contained. Silvery glow seeped into the dark waters of the bay, sending creatures plunging to the inky blackness of the depths.