Toll the Hounds

‘Such as?’

Spindle grimaced, as if searching for the right words, and Monkrat saw in his mind a quick image of a three-legged dog chasing rabbits in a field. ‘Fine,’ Spindle finally said in a.grating tone. ‘It had to have happened to you at least once. You and your squad, you come into some rotten foul village or hamlet. You come to buy food or maybe get your tack fixed, clothes mended, whatever. But you ain’t there to kill nobody. And so you get into a few conversations. In the tavern. The smithy. With the whores. And they start talking. About injustices. Bastard landholders, local bullies, shit-grinning small-time tyrants. The usual crap. The corruption and all that. You know what I’m talking about, Monkrat?’

‘Sure.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘We hunted the scum down and flayed their arses. Sometimes we even strung ’em up.’

Spindle nodded. ‘You did justice, is what you did. It’s what a soldier can do, when there’s nobody else. We got swords, we got armour, we got all we need to terrorize anybody we damned well please. But Dassem taught us-he taught every soldier in the Malazan armies back then. Sure, we had swords, but who we used ’em on was up to us.’ The point of the shortsword fell away. ‘We was soldiers, Monkrat. We had the chance-the privilege-of doing the right thing.’

‘I deserted-’

‘And I was forced into retirement. Neither one changes what we were.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong.’

‘Then listen to this.’ The shortsword pressed against his throat again. ‘I can still deliver justice, and if need be I’ll do it right now and right here. By cutting a coward’s head off.’

‘Don’t talk to me about cowardice!’ Monkrat snapped. ‘Soldiers don’t talk that ever! You just broke the first rule!’

‘Someone turns his back on being a soldier-on what it means in the soul-that’s cowardice. You don’t like the word, don’t five it.’

Monkrat stared into the man’s eyes, and hated what he saw there. He sagged.

‘Best get on with it then, Spin. I got nothing left. I’m used up. What do you do when the soldier inside you dies before you do? Tell me.’

‘You go through the motions, Monkrat. You just follow me. Do as I do. We start there and worry about the rest later.’

Monkrat realized that Spindle was still waiting. ‘Do what’s right,’ Dassem told us. Gods, even after all this time he still remembered the First Sword’s words. ‘That’s a higher law than the command of any officer. Higher even than the Em-peror’s own words. You are in a damned uniform but that’s not a licence to deliver terror to everyone-just the enemy soldier you happen to be facing. Do what is right, for that armour you wear doesn’t just protect your flesh and bone. It defends honour. It defends integrity. It defends justice. Soldiers, heed me well. That armour defends humanity. And when I look upon my soldiers, when I see these uniforms, I see compassion and truth. The moment those virtues fail, then the gods help you, for no armour is strong enough to save you.’

‘All right, Spin. I’ll follow you.’

A sharp nod. ‘Dassem, he’d be proud. And not surprised, no, not surprised at all.’

‘We have to watch out for Gradithan-he wants those virgins. He wants their blood, for when the Dying God arrives.’

‘Yeah? Well, Gredishit can chew on Hood’s arsehole. He ain’t getting ’em.’

‘A moment ago I was thinking, Spin…’

‘Thinking what?’

‘That you was a three-legged dog. But I was wrong. You’re a damned Hound of Shadow is what you are. Come on. I know where they all huddle to stay outa the rain.’

Seerdomin adjusted the grip on his sword and then glanced back at the Redeemer. The god’s position was unchanged. Kneeling, half bent over, face hidden behind his hands. A position of abject submission. Defeat and despair. Hardly an inspiring standard to stand in front of, hardly a thing to fight for, and Seerdomin could feel the will draining from him as he faced once more the woman dancing in the basin.

Convulsing clouds overhead, an endless rain of kelyk that turned everything black. The drops stung and then numbed his eyes. He had ceased to flinch from the crack of lightning, the stuttering crash of thunder.

He had fought for something unworthy once, and had vowed never again. Yet here he was, standing between a god of unimaginable power and a god not worth believing in. One wanted to feed and the other looked ready to be devoured-why should he get in the way of the two?