Toll the Hounds

  In the ash-swarmed sky above, chained dragons, Loqui Wyval and Enkarala tore swaths through the tumbling, descending storm clouds. Lightning lashed out to enwreath them, slowly tearing them to pieces. Still they fought on. The Enkarala would not relent for they were mindless in their rage. The Loqui Wyval found strength in hearts greater than their modest proportions – no, they were not dragons; they were lesser kin – but they knew the power of mockery, of disdain. For the Enkarala, chaos itself was a contemptible thing. The dragons, many of whom had been chained since the time of Draconus, were indifferent to the Gate, to all the other squalid victims of this dread sword. They did not fight on behalf of any noble cause. No, each one fought alone, for itself, and they knew that survival had nothing to do with nobility. No alliance was weighed, no thought of fighting in concert brushed the incandescent minds of these creatures. Nothing in their nature was designed to accommodate aught but singular battle. A strength and a curse, but in these fiery, deadly clouds, that strength was failing, and the very nature of the dragons was now destroying them.

  The battle raged. Annihilation was a deafening scream that drove all else from the minds of the defenders. They made their will into weapons, and with these weapons they slashed through the misshapen, argent foe, only to find yet more rising before them, howling, laughing, swords thundering on shields.

  Toc had no idea where this damned horse had come from, but clearly some breathtaking will fired its soul. In its life it had not been bred for war, and yet it fought like a beast twice its weight. Kicking, stamping, jaws snapping. A Wickan breed – he was fairly certain of that – a creature of appalling endurance, it carried him into the fray again and again, and he had begun to suspect that he would fail before the horse did.

  Humbling – no, infuriating.

  He struggled to control it as he sought to lunge once more into that wall of chaotic rage. Getting to be a miserable habit, all this dying and dying again. Of course, this would be the final time, and a better man than he would find some consolation in that. A better man, aye.

  Instead, he railed. He spat into the eye of injustice, and he fought on, even as his one eyeless socket itched damnably, until it seemed to be sizzling as if eating its way into his brain.

  He lost his grip on the reins, and almost pitched from the saddle as the horse galloped away from the front line of the Bridgeburners. He loosed a stream of curses – he wanted to die at their sides, he needed to – no, he was not one of them, he could not match their power, their ascendant ferocity – he had seen Trotts there, and Detoran. And so many others, and there was Iskar Jarak himself, although why Whiskeyjack had come to prefer some Seven Cities name – in place of his real one – made no sense to Toc. Not that he was of any stature to actually ask the man – gods, even had he been, he couldn’t have got close, so tightly were the Bridgeburners arrayed around the soldier.

  And now the stupid horse was taking him farther and farther away.

  He saw, ahead, the Lord of Death. Standing motionless, as if contemplating guests at a damned picnic. The horse carried Toc straight for the hoary bastard, who slowly turned at the very last moment, as the horse skidded to a halt in a spray of ashes and mud.

  Hood glanced down at the spatter on its frayed robes.

  ‘Don’t look at me!’ Toc snarled as he collected up the reins once more. ‘I was trying to get the beast going the other way!’

  ‘You are my Herald, Toc the Younger, and I have need of you.’

  ‘To do what, announce your impending nuptials? Where is the skeletal hag, anyway?’

  ‘You have a message to deliver—’

  ‘Deliver where? How? In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in a little trouble here, Hood. Gods, my eye – agh, I mean, the missing one – it’s driving me mad!’

  ‘Yes, your missing eye. About that—’

  At that instant, Toc’s horse reared in sudden terror, as a churning cloud lunged down like an enormous fist, engulfing a dying dragon directly overhead.

  Swearing, his voice rising in fear, Toc fought to regain control of the beast as cloud and dragon tumbled to one side – the dragon pulled down to the thrashing legions, which closed in and swarmed it. In moments the dragon was gone.

  The horse skittered and then settled—

  Only to bolt once more, as in a burst of cold, bitter air, something else arrived.

  What good could ever come of acceding to the suggestions of a corpse? This was the sort of question Glanno Tarp was good at asking, only he’d forgotten this time and it was funny how blind gibbering terror could do that. Warrens and warrens and portals and Gates and places nobody in their right minds might want to visit no matter how special the scenery – and no, dammit, he didn’t know where they’d just ended up, but he could tell – oh yes, he could tell all right – that it wasn’t a nice place.

  Horses shrilling (but then, they always did that when arriving), carriage slapping down on to gritty mud in a chorus of outraged creaks, splinters and calamcophony, slewing this way and that – and the sky was coming down in giant balls of mercury and there were dragons up there and wyval and Hood knew what else—

  Chains sawing back and forth, to the sides and straight up, all emerging from the ghastliest wagon Glanno had ever seen – loaded with more bodies than seemed reasonable, much less possible.

  So of course he froze up all the brakes – what else was he supposed to do? And then bodies were flying past. Sweetest Sufferance, curled up into a soft flouncy bouncy ball that landed bouncily and rolled and rolled. That snarling hulk Gruntle, twisting in the air so that he could land on all fours – meow – and Faint, far less elegant for all her bountiferous beauty, going splat on her face all spreadeagled, silly girl. Amby and Jula flew past embraced like lovers, at least until the ground showed up and got between them. Reccanto Ilk fetched up beside Glanno, cracking the backrest of the bench.

  ‘You idiot! We ain’t tied ourselves! It was just dark and dark and nothing else and now you just go and drop us into—’

  ‘Wasn’t me, you clumsy pig!’

  This argument didn’t survive the fullest comprehension of their surroundings.

  Reccanto Ilk slowly sat up. ‘Holy shit.’

  Glanno leapt to his feet. ‘Cartographer!’ But he’d forgotten about his splints. Yelping, he tottered, and then pitched forward on to the backs of the first two horses. They deftly stepped to either side so that he could fall a little more before getting tangled in all the crap down there, whereupon the horses eagerly moved back in an effort to crush him into the kind of pulp that could never again whip the reins.

  Reccanto scrabbled to drag him back on to the bench. The splint bindings helped, although Glanno did plenty of shrieking in pain – at least he wasn’t being crushed. Moments later he fetched up again on the splintered bench.

  A wretched dead-looking Jaghut was walking up to Cartographer, who, lashed to a wheel, had come to rest with his head down, eyeing the Jaghut’s muddy boots. ‘I had begun to wonder,’ the Jaghut said, ‘if you had become lost.’

  Pushing Reccanto aside, Glanno worked his way round to witness this fateful meeting – oh yes, that had to be Hood himself. Why, a damned family reunionebration!

  Cartographer’s upside-down smile seemed to send a nearby rider’s horse into yet another panic, and the soldier swore impressively as he fought to quell the beast. ‘My Lord,’ Cartographer was saying, ‘we both know, surely, that what goes around comes around.’ And then he struggled feebly at his bindings. ‘And around,’ he added despondently.

  Gruntle, who had staggered up to join them, now growled deep in his chest and then went to the carriage door, thumping it with a fist. ‘Master Quell!’

  Hood turned to the warrior. ‘That will not be necessary, Treach-spawn. My sole requirement was that you arrive here. Now, you need only leave once more. Cartographer will guide you.’

  Sweetest Sufferance was dragging a dazed Faint back up on to the carriage, displaying surprising strength, altho
ugh the effort made her eyes bulge alarmingly. Glanno nudged Reccanto and nodded towards Sweetest. ‘That face remind you of anything?’

  Reccanto squinted, and then sniggered.

  ‘You’re both dead,’ she hissed.

  Amby and Jula bobbed into view to either side of her, grinning through smears of mud.

  *

  Inside the carriage, Mappo started to open the door but Quell snapped out a shaky hand to stay him. ‘Gods, don’t do that!’

  Precious Thimble had curled up on the floor at their feet, rocking and moaning.

  ‘What awaits us outside?’ the Trell asked.

  Quell shook his head. He was bone white, face glistening with sweat. ‘I should’ve guessed. The way that map on the road narrowed at the far end. Oh, we’ve been used! Duped! Gods, I think I’m going to be sick—’

  ‘Damned Trygalle,’ muttered Toc. More confused than he had ever been by this sudden, inexplicable arrival. How did they manage to arrive here? And then he saw Gruntle. ‘Gods below, it’s you!’

  Someone was being loudly sick inside the carriage.

  Gruntle stared up at Toc, and then frowned.

  Ah, I guess I don’t look like Anaster any more. ‘We shared—’

  ‘Herald,’ said Hood. ‘It is time.’

  Toc scowled, and then scratched at his eye socket. ‘What? You’re sending me with them?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘Then I’m to rejoin the living?’

  ‘Alas, no, Toc the Younger. You are dead and dead you will remain. But this shall mark your final task as my Herald. Another god claims you.’

  Toc prepared to dismount but the Lord of Death lifted a hand. ‘Ride in the carriage’s wake, close in its wake. For a time. Now, Herald, listen well to my last message. The blood is needed. The blood is needed . . .’

  Gruntle had stopped listening. Even the vague disquiet he’d felt when that one-eyed rider had accosted him was fast vanishing beneath a flood of battle lust. He stared out at the enemy, watched the defenders wither away.

  A war that could not be won by such sorry souls – a war that begged for a champion, one who would stand until the very end.

  Another growl rumbled from him, and he stepped away from the carriage, reaching for his cutlasses.

  ‘Whoa there, y’damned manx!’

  The bark startled him and he glared up at Glanno Tarp, who smiled a hard smile. ‘Shareholders can’t just walk away – we’d have to plug ya fulla arrows. Get back aboard, stripy, we’re leaving all over again!’

  There could be but one outcome, and Draconus had known that all along. He had sensed nothing of the Trygalle’s arrival, nor even its departure, with Toc riding in its wake. Whatever occurred behind him could not reach through to awaken his senses.

  One outcome.

  After all, Dragnipur had never offered salvation. Iron forged to bind, a hundred thousand chains hammered into the blade, layers upon layers entwined, folded, wrapped like rope. Draconus, surrounded in the molten fires of Burn’s heart, drawing forth chains of every metal that existed, drawing them out link by glowing link. Twisted ropes of metal on the anvil, and down came the hammer. The one hammer, the only tool that could forge such a weapon – and he remembered its vast weight, the scalding grip that lacerated his alien hand.

  Even in her dreaming, Burn had been most displeased.

  Chains upon chains. Chains to bind. Bind Darkness itself, transforming the ancient forest through which it had wandered, twisting that blackwood into a wagon, into huge, tottering wheels, into a bed that formed a horizontal door – like the entrance to a barrow – above the portal. Blackwood, to hold and contain the soul of Kurald Galain.

  He remembered. Sparks in countless hues skipping away like shattered rainbows. The deafening ringing of the hammer and the way the anvil trembled to every blow. The waves of heat flashing against his face. The bitter taste of raw ore, the stench of sulphur. Chains! Chains and chains, pounded down into glowing impressions upon the blade, quenched and honed and into Burn’s white heart and then – it begins again. And again.

  Chains! Chains to bind!

  Bind the Fallen!

  And now, unbelievably, impossibly, Draconus had felt that first splintering. Chains had broken.

  So it ends. I did not think, I did not imagine—

  He had witnessed his Bound companions falling away, failing. He had seen the chaos descend upon each one, eating through flesh with actinic zeal, until shackles fell to the ground – until the iron bands held nothing. Nothing left.

  I never meant – I never wanted such an end – to any of you, of us.

  No, I was far too cruel to ever imagine an end. An escape.

  Yet now, witness these thoughts of mine. Now, I would see you all live on, yes, in these chains, but not out of cruelty. Ah, no, not that. Abyss take me, I would see you live out of mercy.

  Perhaps he wept now. Or these scalding tears announced the crushing end of hysterical laughter. No matter. They were all being eaten alive. We are all being eaten alive.

  And Dragnipur had begun to come apart.

  When the chaos disintegrated the wagon, destroyed the door, and took hold of the Gate, the sword would shatter and chaos would be freed of this oh-so-clever trap, and Draconus’s brilliant lure – his eternal snare eternally leading chaos on and away from everything else – would have failed. He could not contemplate what would happen then, to the countless succession of realms and worlds, and of course he would not be there to witness the aftermath in any case. But he knew that, in his last thoughts, he would feel nothing but unbearable guilt.

  So, chaos, at least unto one victim, what you deliver is indeed mercy.

  He had begun walking forward, to join the other Bound, to stand, perhaps, at Pearl’s side, until the end came.

  The echo of that snapping chain haunted him. Someone’s broken loose. How? Even the Hounds of Shadow could only slip free by plunging into Kurald Galain’s black heart. Their chains did not break. Dragnipur’s essential integrity had not been damaged.

  But now . . . someone’s broken loose.

  How?

  Chains and chains and chains to bind—

  A bony hand closed on his shoulder and dragged him back.

  Snarling, Draconus half turned. ‘Let go, damn you! I will stand with them, Hood – I must, can’t you see that?’

  The Lord of Death’s hand tightened, the nails biting, and Hood slowly pulled him closer. ‘The fray,’ the god said in a rasp, ‘is not for you.’

  ‘You are not my master—’

  ‘Stand with me, Draconus. It’s not yet time.’

  ‘For what?’ He struggled to tear free, but a Jaghut’s strength could be immense, and barring the bloody removal of his entire shoulder, Draconus could do nothing. He and the Lord of Death stood alone, not twenty paces from the motionless wagon.

  ‘Consider this,’ said Hood, ‘a request for forgiveness.’

  Draconus stared. ‘What? Who asks my forgiveness?’

  Hood, Lord of the Dead, should have been the last to fall to Dragnipur. Whatever the Son of Darkness intended, its final play was found in the slaying of this ancient god. Such was the conviction of Draconus. A mad, pointless gamble, the empty purchase of time already consumed, the wasting of countless souls, an entire realm of the dead.

  As it turned out, Draconus was wrong.

  There was one more. One more.

  Arriving with the power of a mountain torn apart in a long, deafening, crushing detonation. Argent clouds were shredded, whipped away in dark winds. The legions pressing on all sides recoiled, and the thousand closing paces so viciously won were lost in an instant. Dragons screamed. Voices erupted as if dragged out from throats – the pressure, the pain, the stunning power—

  Chaos flinched, and then, slowly, began to gather itself once more.

  No single force could defeat this enemy. Destruction was its own law, and even as it devoured itself it would devour everything else. Chaos, ri
ding the road of Darkness, ever to arrive unseen, from sources unexpected, from places where one never thought to look, much less guard against.

  The sword and all within it was dying, now, at last; dying.

  Hood’s hand had left his shoulder, and Draconus sagged down on to his knees.

  One more.

  And, yes, he knew who was now among them.

  Should he laugh? Should he seek him out, mock him? Should he close hands about his throat so that they could lock one to the other until the descent of oblivion?

  No, he would do none of this.

  Who asks for my forgiveness?

  Had he the strength, he would have cried out.

  Anomander Rake, you need not ask. That begging, alas, must come from me.

  This was Mother Dark I snared here. Your mother—

  And so, what will you now do?

  A heartbeat later, a faint gasp escaped Draconus, and he lifted his head, opened his eyes once more. ‘Rake?’ he whispered.

  Draconus slowly rose. And turned. To face the wagon.

  To witness.

  The Second watched yet another Seguleh fall. He then dragged his horse round, to glare with dead eyes at a tall, ornate carriage, as its train of screaming horses lunged forward. Figures pitched to one side, holding on for dear life as a fissure tore open – into which those horses vanished.

  Hood’s Herald – that one-eyed soldier – drove heels to his tattered mount, following.

  And the Lord of Death’s voice drifted through the Second. ‘It seems you are needed after all, as you suspected. Now go – and know this, old friend, you have served me well.

  ‘I am the god of death no longer.

  ‘When you have done this last thing, your service is at an end. And then, well, Skinner awaits . . .’

  The Second tilted back his masked, helmed head and howled in glee. Sheathing his swords, he rode hard after the carriage.

  He saw the Herald vanish.

  And the fissure began to close.

  The Second drove his long-dead Jaghut stallion into that dying portal—