Toll the Hounds

He watched the sharpening of their attention, as details resolved from the gloom, the mists and the woodsmoke. The corpse of the child in the ditch, the rotting swaths of clothes, the broken cradle with four crows crowding the rail, looming over the motionless, swaddled bundle. The weeds now growing up on the path leading to and from the barrow. Things were not as they should be.

Some might beat a quick retreat. Those with a healthy fear of corruption. But so many pilgrims came with the desperate hunger that was spiritual need-it was what made them pilgrims in the first place. They were lost and they wanted to be found. How many would resist that first cup of kelyk, the drink that welcomed, the nectar that stole… everything?

Perhaps more than among those who had come before-as they saw the growing signs of degradation, of abandonment of all those qualities of humanity the Redeemer himself honoured. Monkrat watched them hesitate, even as the least broken of the kelykan shuffled into their midst, each offering up a jug of the foul poison.

‘The Redeemer has drunk deep!’ they murmured again and again.

Well, not yet. But that time was coming, of that Monkrat had little doubt. At which point… he shifted about slightly and lifted his gaze to the tall, narrow tower rising into the dark mists above the city. No, he couldn’t make her out from here, not with this sullen weather sinking down, but he could feel her eyes-eternally open. Oh, he knew that damned dragon of old, could well recall his terror as the creature sailed above the treetops in Blackdog and Mott Wood, the devastation of her attacks. If the Redeemer fell, she would assail the camp, the barrow, everything and everyone. There would be fire, a fire that needed no fuel, yet devoured all.

And then Anomander Rake himself would arrive, striding through the wreck age with black sword in his hands, to take the life of a god-whatever life hap pened to be left.

Shivering in the damp, he rose, pulling his tattered raincape about himself. Gradithan was probably looking for him, wanting to know what Monkrat’s countless sets of eyes in the city might have seen-not that there was much to re-port. The Tiste Andii weren’t up to much, but then they never were, until such time as necessity stirred them awake. Besides, he’d woken up with a headache, a dull throb just behind the eyes-it was the weather, pressure building in his sinuses. And even the rats in the camp were proving elusive, strangely nervous, skittish when he sought to snare them to his will.

He wasn’t interested in seeing Gradithan. The man had moved from opportunist to fanatic alarmingly fast, and while Monkrat had no problem understanding the former, he was baffled by the latter. And frightened.

The best way to avoid Gradithan was to wander down into Black Coral. The blessing of darkness was far too bitter for the worshippers of Saemenkelyk.

He worked his way into the ankle-deep river of mud that was the trail leading into Night.

From somewhere nearby a cat suddenly yowled and Monkrat started as he sensed a wave of panic sweep through every rat within hearing. Shaking himself, he continued on.

A moment later he realized someone was walking behind him-a pilgrim, per-haps, smart enough to elect to avoid the camp, someone now looking for an inn, all thoughts of salvation riding the tide out in waves, of revulsion.

‘No believer should arrive willing.’ So said that High Priestess, Salind, before Gradithan destroyed her. Monkrat recalled being confused by that statement back then. Now, he wasn’t. Now, he understood precisely what she’d meant.

Worship born of need could not but be suspect, fashioned from self-serving mo-

lives as it was. ‘Someone wanting their bowl filled will take whatever is poured into it.’ No, revelation could not be sought, not through willing deprivation or meditation. It needed to arrive unexpected, even undesired. ‘Do not trust an easy believer,’ Aye, she’d been a strange High Priestess, all right.

He remembered one night, when-

A knife edge pressed cold against his throat.

‘Not a move,’ hissed a voice behind him, and it was a moment before Monkrat realized that the words had been spoken in Malazan.

‘Figured I wouldn’t recognize you, soldier?’

Cold sweat cut through the steamy heat beneath his woollen clothes. His breath came in gasps. ‘Hood’s breath, if you’re gonna kill me just get it done with!’

‘I’m sore tempted, I am.’

‘Fine, do it then-I’ve got a curse ready for you-’

The Malazan snorted, and dogs started barking. ‘That’d be a real mistake.’

Monkrat’s headache had redoubled. He felt something trickling down from his nostrils. The air was rank with a stench he struggled to identity. Bestial, like an animal’s soaked pelt. ‘Gods below,’ he groaned. ‘Spindle.’