Toll the Hounds (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #8)

Toll the Hounds (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #8) Page 254

Raest’s unhuman face twisted indignant. Outraged. Slaves were ever slaves. None could rise to challenge the master. None could dare plot the master’s down-fall, none could get as close as Dev’ad had done. Yes, an outrage, a crime against the laws of nature itself.

‘I break you, T’lan. I leave you here, in this pit of eternal darkness. To die. To rot. None shall know a word of your mad ambition. All knowledge of you shall fade, shall vanish. Nothing of you shall remain. Know this, could I keep you alive down here for ever, I would-and even that torture would not suffice. In my enforced indifference, T’lan, lies mercy.’

See me now. I have outlived you, Raest. And there, old friend, lies my mercy.

xx

He came to the secret place, a deep crack in the wall, into which he reached. His hand closed about a heavy, rippled blade, and Dev’ad dragged the weapon out.

The T’lan knew stone, stone that was water and water that was stone. Iron be-longed to the Jaghut.

He held up the sword he had made countless thousands of years ago. Yes, it had the form of flint, the ridges encircling every flake struck from the edge, the undulating modulations of parallel flaking and the twin flutes running the length to either side of a wavy dorsal spine. The antler base that formed the grip was now mineralized, a most comforting and pleasing weight.

The form of flint indeed. And yet this sword was made of iron, tempered in the holy fires of Tellann. Impervious to rust, to decay, the huge weapon was the hue of first night, the deep blue sky once the final light of the drowned sun had faded. In the moment of the stars’ birth, yes, that was the colour of this blade.

He leaned it point down against the wall and reached into the crack again, drawing out a matching knife-hefty as a shortsword. The hide sheaths had long since rotted to dust, but he would make new ones soon.

The Tyrant of old was gone. Somewhere close, then, waited an empty throne.

Waiting for Dev’ad Anan Tol. Who had once been crippled but was crippled no longer.

He raised both weapons high, the dagger in his right hand, the sword in his left. Slashes of first night, in the moment of the stars’ birth. Iron in the guise of stone, iron in the guise of stone that is water and water that is stone and stone that is iron. Jaghut tyranny in the hands of a T’lan Imass.

The gods are fools, alas, in believing every piece in the game is known. That the rules are fixed and accepted by all; that every wager is counted and marked, exposed and glittering on the table. The gods lay out their perfect paths to the per-fect thrones, each one representing perfect power.

The gods are fools because it never occurs to them that not everyone uses paths.

xx

Beneath the battered shield of the sky

The man sits in a black saddle atop a black horse

His hair long and grey drifting out round his iron helm

Knowing nothing of how he came to be here

Only that where he has come to be is nowhere

And where he must go is perhaps near

His beard is the hue of dirty snow

His eyes are eyes that will never thaw

Beneath him the horse does not breathe

Nor does the man and the wind moans hollow

Along the dents of his rusty scaled hauberk

And it is too much to shift about to the approach

Of riders one from his right the other from his left

On dead horses with empty eyes they rein in

Settle silent with strange familiarity

Flanking easy his natural command

Beneath these three the ground is lifeless

And within each ashes are stirred in the dirge

Of grim recollections that slide seeping into regret

But all is past and the horses do not move

And so he glances rightward with jaw clenching

Upon the one-eyed regard he once knew though not well

Answering the wry smile with sudden need

So he asks, ‘Are they waiting, Corporal?’

‘Bequeathed and loose on the dead plain, Sergeant,

And was this not what you wanted?’

To that he can but shrug and set gaze upon the other

‘I see your garb and know you, sir, yet do not.’

Black beard and visage dark, a brow like cracked basalt

A man heavy in armour few could stand in

And he meets the observance with a grimace

‘Then know, if you will, Brukhalian of the Grey Swords.’

Beneath these three thunder rides the unproven earth

Nothing sudden but growing like an awakening heart

And the echoes roll down from the shield overhead

As iron reverberates the charge of what must be

‘So once more, the Bridgeburners march to war.’