Toll the Hounds Part 124

In the course of a life, sacrifices are made, dire legacies accepted. Burdens are borne upon a humble back, or they ride the shoulders of bitter martyrs. These are the choices available to the spirit. There was no doubt, none at all, as to which one had been chosen by the Son of Darkness.

A great man was dead. So much cruelly taken away on this sour night.

And he had lost a friend.

It availed him nothing that he understood, that he accepted that so many other choices were made, and that he had his own role still to play out in this tragic end.

No, he simply felt broken inside.

Everything seemed thin, fragile. All that he felt in his heart, all that he saw with his eyes. So very fragile.

Yes, the moon died, but a rebirth was coming.

Could he hold to that?

He would try.

For now, however, all he could manage were these tears.

Baruk turned to his carriage, stepped inside. The door was shut behind him as he settled on the cus.h.i.+oned bench. He looked across to his guest, but could say nothing. Not to this one, who had lost so much more than he had. So much more. So much more.

The gates were opened and the carriage set out, its corner lanterns swinging.

Cutter dismounted, leaving the horse to wander where it would. He walked forward, indifferent to the presence of the Hounds they seemed intent on something else in any case and indifferent as well to the Great Ravens as they drove onlookers away with beaks eager to stab and slash. His eyes were on the body lying on the cobbles.

He walked past a woman who stood beside a towering warrior who was drawing loose a two-handed flint sword as he stared at something in the direction from whence Cutter had just come.

None of these details could drag Cutter's attention from the body, and that gleaming black sword so brutally driven into the head and face. He walked until he stood over it.

The woman moved up beside him. 'That weapon in your hands it's not-'

'We are in trouble,' Cutter said.

'What?'

He could not believe what he was seeing. Could not accept that the Lord of Moon's Sp.a.w.n was lying here, one eye closed, the other open and staring sightlessly. Killed by his own sword. Killed . . . taken. taken. By Dragnipur. 'How did this happen? Who could have . . .' By Dragnipur. 'How did this happen? Who could have . . .'

'Da.s.sem Ultor.'

He finally looked at her. She was Seven Cities, that much he could see at once. Older than Cutter by a decade, maybe more. 'The name's familiar, but . . .' He shrugged.

She pointed to one side and Cutter turned.

A man was crouched, slumped against a wall, a sword propped up beside him. He had buried his face in his arms. Cutter's eyes went back to that sword. I've seen that thing before . . . but where? When? I've seen that thing before . . . but where? When?

'He was known to us,' said the woman, 'as Traveller.'

Memories rushed through Cutter, leaving in their wake something cold, lifeless. 'It's not the same,' he whispered. 'Vengeance. Or grief. Your choice.' He drew an uneven breath. 'That sword it was forged by Anomander Rake. It was his weapon. Before Dragnipur. He left it with his brother, Andarist. And then I . . . I . . . Beru fend Beru fend . . .' . . .'

The giant warrior now twisted round. 'If you would protect that body,' he said in a growl, 'then ready that spear.'

The two women had halted a street away, their path blocked by a half-circle of Hounds, with less than twenty paces separating the parties.

Seeing those women, Cutter frowned. 'Spite,' he muttered. 'Did you guess? Or was it just some d.a.m.ned itch?'

'Samar Dev,' snapped the giant. 'Witch! 'Witch! Get Traveller on his feet! I will need him!' Get Traveller on his feet! I will need him!'

'd.a.m.n you!' screamed the woman beside Cutter. screamed the woman beside Cutter. 'What is it?' 'What is it?'

But there was no need for an answer. For she saw now, as did Cutter.

More Hounds, these ones pale as ghosts, a pack twice the number of the Hounds of Shadow. Loping up the street from Lakefront, moments from a charge.

'It's the sword,' said the woman named Samar Dev. 'They've come for the sword.'

Cutter felt his limbs turn to ice, even as the lance in his hands flared with heat.

'Give me room,' said the giant, lumbering forward into a clear s.p.a.ce.

Against ten Hounds? Are you mad?

Cutter moved out to the left of the warrior. The witch rushed over to Traveller.

The lance trembled. It was getting too hot to hold, but what else did he have? Some d.a.m.ned daggers against these things? G.o.ds, what am I even doing here? G.o.ds, what am I even doing here?

But he would stand. He would die here, beside a giant who was just as doomed. And for what? There is nothing . . . there is nothing in my life. To explain any of this. There is nothing . . . there is nothing in my life. To explain any of this. He glared at the white Hounds. He glared at the white Hounds. It's just a sword. What will you even do with it? Chew the handle? p.i.s.s on the blade? It's just a sword. What will you even do with it? Chew the handle? p.i.s.s on the blade? He looked across at the huge warrior beside him. 'What's your name at least?' He looked across at the huge warrior beside him. 'What's your name at least?'

The giant glanced at him. 'Yes,' he said with a sharp nod. 'I am Karsa Orlong of the Teblor. Toblakai. And you?'

'Crokus. Crokus Younghand.' He hesitated, then said, 'I was once a thief.'

'Be one again,' said Karsa, teeth bared, 'and steal me a Hound's life this night.'

s.h.i.+t. 'I'll try.' 'I'll try.'

'That will do,' the Toblakai replied.

Thirty paces away now. And the white Hounds fanned out, filled the street in a wall of bleached hide, rippling muscle and rows of fangs.

A gust of charnel wind swept round Cutter; something clattered, rang sharp on cobbles, and then a hand swept down- The Hounds of Light charged.

As, on the side street to the left, the daughters of Draconus unleashed their warrens in a howling rush of destruction that engulfed the five beasts before them.

Scything blade of notched iron, driving Spinnock Durav back. Blood sprayed with each blow, links of ringed armour pattered on the ground. So many tiny broken chains, there was a trail of them, marking each step of the warrior's rocking, reeling retreat. When his own sword caught Kallor's frenzied blows, the reverberation ripped up Spinnock's arm, seeming to mash his muscles into lifeless pulp.

His blood was draining away from countless wounds. His helm had been battered off, that single blow leaving behind a fractured cheekbone and a deaf ear.

Still he fought on; still he held Kallor before him.

Kallor.

There was no one behind the High King's eyes. The berserk rage had devoured the ancient warrior. He seemed tireless, an automaton. Spinnock Durav could find no opening, no chance to counter-attack. It was all he could do simply to evade each death blow, to minimize the impacts of that jagged edge, to turn the remaining fragments of his hauberk into the blade's inexorable path.

Spreading bruises, cracked bones, gaping gouges from which blood welled, soaking his wool gambon, he staggered under the unceasing a.s.sault.

It could not last.

It had already lasted beyond all reason.

Spinnock blocked yet another slash, but this time the sound his sword made was strangely dull, and the grip suddenly felt loose, the handle shorn from the tine the pommel was gone. With a sobbing gasp, he ducked beneath a whistling blade and then pitched back- But Kallor pressed forward, giving him no distance, and that two-handed sword lashed out yet again.

Spinnock's parry jolted his arm and his weapon seemed to blow apart in his hand, tined blade spinning into the air, the fragments of the grip a handful of shards falling from his numbed fingers.

The back-slash caught him across his chest.

He was thrown from his feet, landing hard on the slope of the ditch, where he sagged back, blood streaming down his front, and closed his eyes.

Kallor's rasping breaths drew closer.

Sweat dripped on to Spinnock's face, but still he did not open his eyes. He had felt it. A distant death. Yes, he had felt it, as he feared he might. So feared that he might. And, of all the deeds he had managed here at these crossroads, all that he had done up until this moment, not one could match the cost of the smile that now emerged on split, bleeding lips.

And this alone stayed Kallor's sword from its closing thrust. Stayed it . . . for a time.

'What,' Kallor asked softly, 'was the point, Spinnock Durav?'

But the fallen warrior did not answer.

'You could never win. You could never do anything but die here. Tell me, d.a.m.n you, what was the f.u.c.king point?' what was the f.u.c.king point?'

The question was a sob, the anguish so raw that Spinnock was startled into opening his eyes, into looking up at Kallor.

Behind the silhouette with its halo of tangled, sweat-matted hair, the heaving shoulders, he saw Great Ravens, a score or more, flying up from the south.

Closer and closer.

With an effort, Spinnock focused on Kallor once more. 'You don't understand,' he said. 'Not yet, Kallor, but you will. Someday, you will.'

'He does not deserve you!'

Spinnock frowned, blinked to clear his eyes. 'Oh, Kallor . . .'

The High King's face was ravaged with grief, and all that raged in the ancient man's eyes well, none of it belonged. Not to the legend that was Kallor. Not to the nightmares roiling round and round his very name. Not to the lifeless sea of ashes in his wake. No, what Spinnock saw in Kallor's eyes were things that, he suspected, no one would ever see again.

It was, of sorts, a gift.

'Kallor,' he said, 'listen to me. Take this as you will, or not at all. I I am sorry. That you are driven to this. And . . . and may you one day show your true self. May you, one day, be redeemed in the eyes of the world.'

Kallor cried out, as if struck, and he staggered back. He recovered with bared teeth. 'My true self? Oh, you d.a.m.ned fool! You see only what you want to see! In this last moment of your pathetic, useless life! May your soul rage for eternity in the heart of a star, Tiste Andii! May you yearn for what you can never have! For all infernal eternity!'

Spinnock had flinched back at the tirade. 'Do you now curse me, High King?' he asked in a whisper.

Kallor's face looked ready to shatter. He dragged a forearm across his eyes. 'No,' he said. 'Of course not. I will kill you clean. For what you have shown me this night I have never before faced such a defence.' And then he paused, edging forward again, his eyes burning in their pits. 'You had chances, Spinnock Durav. To strike back. You could have wounded me yes, you could have . . .'

'I was not here to do that, Kallor.'

The High King stared, and a glint of comprehension lit in his face. 'No,' he said. 'You only needed to delay me.'

Spinnock closed his eyes once more and settled his head back. 'For a time. You may never accept this, but it was for your own good. It's a mess over there. In that city. My Lord wanted you kept away.'

Kallor snarled. 'How generous in his mercy is your Lord.'

'Yes,' sighed Spinnock, 'he was ever that.'

Silence, then.

Not a sound. A dozen laboured heartbeats. Another dozen. Finally, some odd unease forced Spinnock to open his eyes yet again, to look upon Kallor.

Who stood, head bowed.

'Yes,' said Spinnock, in true sorrow, 'he is gone.'

Kallor did not lift his gaze. He did not move at all.

'And so,' continued Spinnock, 'I have stood here. In his stead. One last time.' He paused. 'And yes, it makes my death seem . . . easier-'

'Oh shut up, will you? I am thinking.'

'About what?'

Kallor met his eyes and bared his teeth. 'That b.a.s.t.a.r.d. The bold, brazen b.a.s.t.a.r.d!' The bold, brazen b.a.s.t.a.r.d!'

Spinnock studied the High King, and then he grunted.

'Well, that's it, then.'

'I don't ever want to see you again, Spinnock Durav. You are bleeding out. I will leave you to that. I hear it's quieter, easier but then, what do I know?'

The Tiste Andii watched him set off then, up the road, to that fair city that even now bled with its own terrible wounds.

Too late to do anything, even if he'd wanted to. But, Spinnock Durav now suspected, Kallor might well have done nothing. He might have stood aside. 'High King,' he whispered, 'all you ever wanted was a throne. But trust me, you don't want Rake's. No, proud warrior, that one you would not want. I think, maybe, you just realized that.'

Of course, when it came to Kallor, there was no way to know.

The Great Ravens were descending now, thumping heavily on to the blood-splashed, muddy surface of the road.

And Spinnock Durav looked skyward then, as the dark forms of two dragons sailed past, barely a stone's throw above the ground.