Toll the Hounds

‘You will know soon enough.’



She looked deep into his shining eyes, even as they darkened, and darkened, and darkened yet more. Until she realized what she was seeing, and a breath cold as ice rushed over her. She cried out, recalling where she had felt that cold before-



And Apsal’ara, Mistress of Thieves, tossed him the bloody eye of the god.



He caught it one-handed.



‘A keepsake,’ she whispered, and then rolled clear.



For this wagon was no place to be. Not with what was about to happen.



The pattern sank down, through the heaped forms, even as the Gate of Darkness rose up to meet it.



Wander no longer.



Anomander Rake, still standing, head tilted back, arms raised, began to dissolve, shred away, as the Gate took hold of him, as it fed upon him, upon the Son of Darkness. Upon what he desired, what he willed to be.



Witnessing this, Draconus sank down to his knees.



He finally understood what was happening. He finally understood what Anomander Rake had planned, all along-this, this wondrous thing.



Staring upward, he whispered, ‘You ask my forgiveness? When you unravel what I have done, what I did so long ago? When you heal what I wounded, when you mend what I broke?’ He raised his voice to a shout. ‘Rake! There is no for-giveness you must seek-not from me, gods below, not from any of us!’



But there was no way to know if he had been heard. The man that had been Anomander Rake was scattered into the realm of Kurald Galain, on to its own long-sealed path that might-just might-lead to the very feet of Mother Dark.



Who had turned away.



‘Mother Dark,’ Draconus whispered. ‘I believe you must face him now. You must turn to your children. I believe your son insists. He demands it. Open your eyes, Mother Dark. See what he has done! For you, for the Tiste Andii-but not for himself. See! See and know what he has done!’



Darkness awakened, the pattern grasping hold of the Gate itself, and sinking, sinking down, passing beyond Dragnipur, leaving for ever the dread sword-



In the Temple of Shadow, in the city of Black Coral that drowned in poison rain, Clip and the god within him stood above the huddled form of Endest Silann.



This game was over. All pleasure in the victory had palled in the absurd, stub-born resistance of the old man.



The rings spun, round and round from one hand, as he drew a dagger with the other. Simple, messy, yes, but succinct, final.



And then he saw the floor suddenly awaken with black, seething strands, forming a pattern, and icy cold breath rose in a long sigh. The sheets of spilling rain froze the instant each droplet of water reached the cold air, falling to shatter on the heaved cobbles and broken tesserae. And that cold lifted yet higher.



The Dying God frowned.



The pattern was spreading to cover the entire floor of the altar chamber, swarming outward. It looked strangely misshapen, as if the design possessed more dimensions than were visible.



The entire temple trembled.



Crouched on a berm at the crest of a forested slope, Spindle and Monkrat stared up at the sky directly above Black Coral. As a strange mazelike pattern appeared in the air, burgeoning out to the sides even as it began sinking down on to the city.



They saw the moment when a tendril of that pattern touched the sleeping dragon perched on its spire, and they saw it spread its wings out in massive un-Inkling crimson Inns, saw its head lifting on its long neck, jaws opening.



And Silanah roared.



A sound that deafened. A cry of grief, of rage, of unleashed intent.



It launched itself into that falling pattern, that falling sky, and sailed out over the city.



Spindle laughed a vicious laugh. ‘Run, Gradithan. Run all you like! That fiery hitch is hunting you!’



Aranatha stepped through, Nimander following. Gasping, he tore his hand free-for her grip had become a thing of unbearable cold, burning, too deadly to touch.



He stumbled to one side.



She had halted at the very edge of an enormous altar chamber. Where a bizarre, ethereal pattern was raining down from the domed ceiling, countless linked fila-ments of black threads, slowly descending, even as other tendrils rose from the floor itself.



And Nimander.heard her whisper, ‘The Gate. How… oh, my dearest son… oh, Anomander…’



Clip stood in the centre of the chamber, and he turned round upon the arrival of Aranatha and Nimander.



The rings spun out on their lengths of chain-and then stopped, caught in the pattern, the chains shivering taut.



Sudden agony lit Clip’s face.



There was a snap as the looped chain bit through his index finger-and the rings spun and whirled up and away, speared in the pattern. Racing along every thread, ever faster, until they were nothing but blurs, and then even that vanished.