The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (957 page)

‘Oh, that,' said Gorlas, resuming his rocking motion once more, ‘I've changed my mind.'

One insult too many. I never learn.

Murillio felt his heart pounding. The scar of his last, near fatal wounding seemed to be throbbing as if eager to reopen. He could feel blood pulsing down from his pierced shoulder muscle, could feel warm trickles running down the length of his upper arm to soak the cloth at his elbow.

‘Blood drawn,' he repeated. ‘As you guessed, I am in no shape to duel beyond that, Gorlas. We were agreed, before a witness.'

Gorlas glanced over at his foreman. ‘Do you recall, precisely, what you heard?'

The old man shrugged. ‘Thought there was something about wounding…'

Gorlas frowned.

The foreman cleared his throat. ‘…but that's all. A discussion, I think. I heard nothing, er, firmed up between you.'

Gorlas nodded. ‘Our witness speaks.'

A few hundred onlookers in the pit below were making restless sounds. Murillio wondered if Harllo was among them.

‘Ready yourself,' Gorlas said.

So, it was to be this way. A decade past Murillio would have been standing over this man's corpse, regretful, of course, wishing it all could have been handled peacefully. And that was the luxury of days gone past, that cleaner world, while everything here, now, ever proved so…messy.

I didn't come here to die this day. I'd better do something about that. I need to survive this. For Harllo.
He resumed his stance. Well, he was debilitated, enough to pretty much ensure that he would fight defensively, seeking only ripostes and perhaps a counterattack – taking a wound to deliver a death. All of that would be in Gorlas's mind, would shape his tactics. Time, then, to surprise the bastard.

His step and lunge was elegant, a fluid forward motion rather quick for a man his age. Gorlas, caught on the forward tilt of his rocking, was forced to jump a half-step back, parrying hard and without precision. His riposte was wild and inaccurate, and Murillio caught it with a high parry of his own, following through with a second attack – the one he had wanted to count from the very first – a fully extended lunge straight for his opponent's chest – heart or lungs, it didn't matter which—

But somehow, impossibly, Gorlas had stepped close, inside and to one side of that lunge – his half-step back had not been accompanied by any shift in weight, simply a repositioning of his upper body, and this time his thrust was not at all wild.

Murillio caught a flash along the length of Daru steel, and then he could not breathe. Something was pouring down the front of his chest, and spurting up into his mouth.

He felt part of his throat tearing from the inside out as Gorlas slashed his blade free and stepped to the right.

Murillio twisted round to track him, but the motion lost all control, and he continued on, legs collapsing under him, and now he was lying on the stony ground.

The world darkened.

He heard Gorlas say something, possibly regretful, but probably not.

Oh, Harllo, I am so sorry. So sorry—

And the darkness closed in.

He was rocked momentarily awake by a kick to his face, but that pain quickly flushed away, along with everything else.

 

Gorlas Vidikas stood over Murillio's corpse. ‘Get that carter to take the body back,' he said to the foreman, bending down to clean his blade on the threadbare silk sleeve of his victim's weapon arm. ‘Have him deliver it to the Phoenix Inn, rapier and all.'

From the pit below, people were cheering and clanging their tools like some ragtag mob of barbarians. Gorlas faced them and raised his weapon in salute. The cheering redoubled. He turned back to the foreman. ‘An extra tankard of ale for the crews tonight.'

‘They will toast your name, Councillor!'

‘Oh, and have someone collect the boy for me.'

‘It's his shift in the tunnels, I think, but I can send someone to get him.'

‘Good, and they don't have to be gentle about it, either. But make sure – nothing so bad he won't recover. If they kill him, I will personally disembowel every one of them – make sure they understand.'

‘I will, Councillor.' The foreman hesitated. ‘I never seen such skill, I never seen such skill – I thought he had you—'

‘I'm sure he thought so, too. Go find that carter, now.'

‘On my way, Councillor.'

‘Oh, and I'll take that purse, so we're clear.'

The foreman rushed over to deliver it. Feeling the bag's weight for the first time, Gorlas raised his brows – a damned year's wages for this foreman, right here – probably all Murillio had, cleaned right out. Three times as much as the interest this fool owed him. Then again, if the foreman had stopped to count out the right amount, intending to keep the rest, well, Gorlas would have had two bodies to dispose of rather than just one, so maybe the old man wasn't so stupid after all.

It had, Gorlas decided, been a good day.

 

And so the ox began its long journey back into the city, clumping along the cobbled road, and in the cart's bed lay the body of a man who might have been precipitous, who might indeed have been too old for such deadly ventures, but no one could say that his heart had not been in the right place. Nor could anyone speak of a lack of courage.

Raising a most grave question – if courage and heart are not enough, what is?

The ox could smell blood, and liked it not one bit. It was a smell that came with predators, with hunters, notions stirring the deepest parts of the beast's brain. It could smell death as well, there in its wake, and no matter how many clumping steps it took, that smell did not diminish, and this it could not understand, but was resigned to none the less.

There was no room in the beast for grieving. The only sorrow it knew was for itself. So unlike its two-legged masters.

Flies swarmed, ever unquestioning, and the day's light fell away.

With a twist and a snarl, Shan turned on Lock. The huge white-coated beast did not flinch or scurry, but simply loped away, tongue lolling as if in laughter. A short distance off, Pallid watched. Fangs still bared, Shan slipped off into the high grasses once more.

Baran, Blind, Rood and Gear had not slowed during this exchange – it had happened many times before, after all – and they continued on, in a vaguely crescent formation, Rood and Gear on the flanks. Antelope observed them from a rise off to the southwest – the barest tilt of a head from any of the Hounds and they would be off, fast as their bounding legs could take them, their hearts a frenzied drum-roll of bleak terror.

But the Hounds of Shadow were not hunting this day. Not antelope, not bhederin, nor mule deer nor ground sloth. A host of animals that lived either in states of blessed anonymity or states of fear had no need to lurch from the former into the latter – at least not because of the monstrous Hounds. As for the wolves of the plains, the lumbering snub-nosed bears and the tawny cats of the high grasses, there were none within ten leagues – the faintest wisp of scent had sent them fleeing one and all.

Great Ravens sailed high above the Hounds, minute specks in the vaulted blue.

Shan was displeased with the two new companions, these blots of dirty white with the lifeless eyes. Lock in particular irritated her, as it seemed this one wanted to travel as she did, close by her side, sliding unseen, ghostly and silent. Most annoying of all, Lock was Shan's able match in such skill.

But she had no interest in surrendering her solitude. Ambush and murder were best served alone, as far as she was concerned. Lock complicated things, and Shan despised complications.

Somewhere, far behind them, creatures pursued. In the profoundly long history of the Hounds of Shadow, they had been hunted many times. More often than not, the hunters came to regret the decision, whether a momentary impulse or an instinctive need; whether at the behest of some master or by the hatred in their souls, their desire usually proved fatal.

Occasionally, however, being hunted was such exquisite pleasure that the Hounds never turned the game. Let the chase go on, and on. Dance from the path of that rage, all that blind need.

All things will cast a shadow. If light blazes infernal, a shadow can grow solid, outlines sharp, motion rippling within. Shape is a reflection, but not all reflections are true. Some shadows lie. Deception born of imagination and imagination born of fear, or perhaps it is the other way round and fear ignites imagination – regardless, shadows will thrive.

In the dark conjurings of a sentient mind, all that is imagined can be made real. The beast, and the shadow it casts. The beast's shadow, and the light from which it is born. Each torn away, made distinct, made into things of nightmare.

Philosophers and fools might claim that light is without shape, that it finds its existence in painting the shape of other things, as wayward as the opening of an eye. That, in the absence of such things, it slants unseen, indeed, invisible. Without other things to strike upon, it does not cavort, does not bounce, does not paint and reflect. Rather, it flows eternal. If this is so, then light is unique in the universe.

But the universe holds to one law above all others:
nothing is unique.

Fools and philosophers have not, alas, seen the light.

Conjure the shapes of beasts, of Hounds and monsters, fiends and nightmares. Of light, of dark, and of shadow. A handful of clay, a gifted breath of life, and forces will seethe in the conflicts inscribed upon their souls.

The Deragoth are the dark, and in their savage solidity would claim ownership of the shadows they cast. Lock and Pallid, however, are the light that gave the Deragoth shape, without whom neither the Deragoth nor the Hounds of Shadow would exist. If the hunters and the hunted so will, one day the beasts shall come together, baleful in mutual regard, perhaps even eager to annihilate one another, and then, in a single instant of dumbfounded astonishment, vanish one and all. Ha hah.

Not all instincts guide one to behaviours of survival. Life is mired in stupidity, after all, and the smarter the life, the stupider it can be. The Hounds of Shadow were neither brilliant nor brainless. They were, in fact, rather clever.

Salutations to this tripartite universe, so mutually insistent. And why not? It doesn't even exist, except in the caged mind that so needs simplification.

A mind, mused Cotillion,
like mine.

He glanced across at his companion.
But not his. When you stand at the centre of the game, no questions arise. How can that be? What is it like, to be the storm's eye? What happens, dear Shadowthrone, when you blink?

‘This,' muttered Shadowthrone, ‘was unexpected.'

‘A damned complication,' Cotillion agreed. ‘We need the Hounds there, just to ensure nothing goes awry.'

Shadowthrone snorted. ‘It always goes awry. Gods below, I've had to use that mad High Priest again.'

‘Iskaral Pust.' After a moment, Cotillion realized he was smiling. He quickly cast away that expression, since if Shadowthrone saw it he might well go apoplectic. ‘Lovely as she is, Sordiko Qualm is not insurance enough, not for this, anyway.'

‘Nor is Pust!' snapped Shadowthrone.

They watched the Hounds drawing closer, sensed the beasts' collective curiosity at this unplanned intercession. Their task now, after all, was simple. Straightforward, even.

Cotillion glanced back over his shoulder, eyes narrowing on the gaunt figure walking towards them. Well, not precisely – the stranger was on his way to a damned reunion, and what would come of that?

‘Too many histories, too many half-truths and outright lies.' Shadowthrone snarled every word of that statement. ‘Pups of the Tiste Edur – any one will do, it seems, if they know the old commands. But now…'

‘According to my, er, research, its name is Tulas Shorn, and no, I do not know the gender and what seems to be left of it doesn't look as if it will provide enough detail to decide either way.'

Shadowthrone grunted, and then said, ‘At least it's sembled – oh, how I hate dragons! If vermin had a throne, they'd be on it.'

‘Everywhere there's a mess, they're in the middle of it, all right. Eleint, Soletaken – hardly a difference, when it comes to trouble.'

‘The chaos of their blood, Cotillion. Imagine how dull it would be without them…and I so cherish dullness.'

If you say so.

‘So,' Shadowthrone resumed, ‘how does all this fit with your ridiculously convoluted theories?'

‘They're only convoluted because they are without substance – if you'll kindly excuse that inadvertent pun. Light, Dark, Shadow. Hounds of this and that and that. These beasts may exist only because of semantics.'

Shadowthrone snorted. ‘You don't have to clean up after them – the only possible excuse for such an idiotic suggestion. They smell, they slaver and slobber, they scratch and they lick, Cotillion. Oh, and they tear things to pieces. When it suits them.'

‘Because we expect them to.'

‘Really now.'

‘Listen – what was the mess behind the origin of the Deragoth? Wild beasts from the dusty aeons of past ages, seven left in all the world, and the First Emperor – who was anything but – chooses them as the repositories of his divided soul. All very well, but then we have the Hounds of Shadow, and, presumably, the Hounds of Light—'

‘They're just damned albinos, Cotillion, a detail probably irrelevant, and besides, there're only two of them—'

‘That we know of, and we know of them only because they wandered into our realm – why? What or who summoned them?'

‘I did, of course.'

‘How?'

Shadowthrone shrugged. ‘I mused out loud on the need for…replacements.'

‘And that constitutes summoning? I believe I have also heard you musing on the “need” for a breathlessly beautiful Queen of Shadow, a slave to your every desire—'

‘You were hiding behind the curtain! I knew it!'

‘The point is, where is she?'

The question was left unanswered, as Tulas Shorn had arrived, halting ten paces before them. ‘It seems,' the undead Tiste Edur said, ‘my Hounds have found new…pets.'

‘Saw his head off, Cotillion,' Shadowthrone said. ‘I hate him already.'

Shan slid up beside Cotillion, eyes fixed on Tulas Shorn. A moment later Baran, Rood, Blind and Gear arrived, padding round the rulers of the Realm of Shadow, and onward to encircle the Tiste Edur.

Who held out his hands, as if inviting the beasts to draw close.

None did.

‘They preferred you living, I think,' Cotillion observed. ‘The dead surrender so much.'

‘If only my sentiments were dead,' Tulas Shorn said, then sighed as it lowered its hands to its sides once more. ‘Still, it pleases me to see them. But two are missing.'

At that Cotillion glanced round. ‘Well, you're right.'

‘Killed?'

‘Killed,' confirmed Shadowthrone.

‘Who?'

‘Anomander Rake.'

At the name Tulas Shorn started.

‘Still around,' said Shadowthrone, ‘yes. Hee hee. Hound-slayer.'

‘And neither of you strong enough to avenge the slayings, it seems. I am astonished that my Hounds have accepted such feeble masters.'

‘I thought it was pets. No matter. Ganrod and Doan died because they were precipitate. Blame poor training. I do.'

‘I am of a mind to test you,' said Tulas Shorn after a moment.

‘You want the Throne of Shadow, do you?'

‘My first rule was cut short. I have learned since—'

‘Hardly. You died.' Shadowthrone waved one ephemeral hand. ‘Whatever you learned, you did not learn well enough. Obviously.'

‘You seem certain of that.'

‘He is,' said Cotillion.

‘Is it simply megalomania, then, that so afflicts him?'

‘Well, yes, but that's beside the point.'

‘And what is the point?'

‘That you clearly have not learned anything worthwhile.'

‘And why do you say that?'

‘Because you've just said that you were of a mind to test us.'

Tulas Shorn cocked its head. ‘Do you imagine the Hounds will defend you?'

‘These ones? Probably not.'

‘Then—' But the rest of his statement was left unfinished, as Lock and Pallid arrived, heads low, hackles upright like spines, to flank Shadowthrone and Cotillion. Upon seeing them, Tulas Shorn stepped back. ‘By the Abyss,' it whispered, ‘have you two lost your minds? They cannot be here – they must not be among you—'

‘Why?' Cotillion demanded, leaning forward in sudden interest.

But the Tiste Edur simply shook its head.

The two bone-white Hounds looked barely restrained, moments from exploding into a deadly charge. The hate was avid in their eyes.

‘
Why?
' Cotillion asked again.

‘The…implacability of forces – we think to tame, but the wildness remains. Control is a delusion in the mind of self-proclaimed
masters
.' And that last word dripped with contempt. ‘The leash, you fools, is
frayed
– don't you understand anything at all?'

‘Perhaps—'

Tulas Shorn lifted both hands again, but this time in a warding gesture. ‘We thought the same, once. We'd deceived ourselves into thinking we were the masters, that every force bowed to our command. And what happened?
They destroyed everything!
'

‘I don't—'

‘Understand?
I see that!
They are conjurations – manifestations – they exist to warn you. They are the proof that all that you think to enslave
will turn on you
.' And it backed away. ‘The end begins again, it begins again.'

Cotillion stepped forward. ‘Light, Dark and Shadow – these three – are you saying—'

‘Three?' Tulas Shorn laughed with savage bitterness. ‘What then of Life? Fire and Stone and Wind? What, you fools, of the Hounds of Death? Manifestations, I said.
They will turn – they are telling you that! That is why they exist! The fangs, the fury – all that is implacable in nature– each aspect but a variation, a hue in the maelstrom of destruction!
'

Tulas Shorn was far enough away now, and the Tiste Edur began veering into a dragon.

As one, all seven Hounds surged forward – but they were too late, as the enormous winged creature launched skyward, rising on a wave of appalling power that sent Cotillion staggering back; that blew through Shadowthrone until he seemed half shredded.