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

Toll the Hounds (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #8) Page 344

‘He is convinced he was broken long ago, High Priestess. We both know it is not true.’

She nodded. ‘He proved that when he sustained Moon’s Spawn beneath the sea-proved it to everyone but himself.’

T reveal to him my confidence,’ said Rake, ‘and each time he… contracts. I cannot reach through, it seems, to bolster what I know is within him.’

‘Then it is his faith that is broken.’

He grimaced, made no reply.

‘When the time comes,’ she said, ‘I will be there. To do what I can. Although,’ she added, ‘that may not be much.’

‘You need not elaborate on the efficacy of your presence, High Priestess. We are speaking, as you said, of faith.’

‘And there need be no substance to it. Thank you.’

He glanced away once more, and this time the wry smile she had seen before played again across his features. ‘You were always my favourite,’ he said.

‘Me, or the desk you so seem to love?’

He rose and she did the same. ‘High Priestess,’ he said.

‘Son of Darkness,’ she returned, with another bow.

And out he went, leaving in his wake a sudden absence, an almost audible clap of displacement-but no, that was in her mind, a hint of something hovering there behind her memory of his face, his eyes and all that she had seen there.

Mother Dark, hear me. Meed me. You did not understand your son then. You do not understand him now.

Don’t you seel This was all Draconus’s doing.

‘This ain’t right,’ gasped Reccanto Ilk, each word spraying blood. ‘When it comes to screaming women, they should be leaving the bar, not trying to get in!’

The ragged hole the shrieking, snarling, jaw-snapping women had torn through the tavern’s door was jammed with arms, stretching, fingers clutching, all reaching inward in a desperate attempt to tear through the barrier. Claws stabbed into the Trell’s tattooed shoulders and he ducked his head lower, grunting as the demons battered at the door, planks splintering-but that Trell was one strong bastard, and he was holding ’em back, as he had been doing since that first rush that nearly saw Reccanto’s precious head get torn off.

Thank whatever gods squatted in the muck of this damned village that these demons were so stupid, Not one had tried either of the shuttered windows Hank ing the entrance, although with that barbed hulk, Gruntle, waiting at one of ’em with his cutlasses at the ready, and Paint and the Bole brothers at the other, at least if them demons went and tried one of ’em they’d be cut to pieces in no time. Or so Reccanto hoped, since he was hiding under a table and a table wasn’t much cover, or wouldn’t be if them demons was nasty enough to tear apart Gruntle and Faint and the Boles and the Trell, and Sweetest Sufferance, too, for that matter.

Master Quell and that swampy witch, Precious Thimble, were huddled together at the back, at the barred cellar door, doing Hood knew what. Glanno Tarp was missing-he’d gone with the horses when they went straight and the carriage went left, and Reccanto was pretty sure that the idiot had gone and killed himself bad. Or worse.

As for that corpse, Cartographer, why, the last Ilk had seen of it it was still lashed to a wheel, spinning in a blur as the damned thing spun off its axle and bounded off into the rainy night. Why couldn’t the demons go after it? A damned easier fight-

Repeated blows were turning the door into a shattered wreck, and one of the arms angled down to slash deep gouges across Mappo’s back, making the Trell groan and groaning wasn’t good, since it meant Mappo might just give up trying to hold ’em back and in they’d come, straight for the man hiding under the table. It wasn’t fair. Nothing was fair and what was fair about that, dammit?

He drew out his rapier and clutched the grip in one shaky hand. A lunge from the knees-was such a thing possible? He was about to find out. Oh, yes, he’d skewer one for its troubles, just watch. And if the other two (he was pretty sure there were three of ’em) ripped him up then fine, just fine. A man could only do so much.

Gruntle was shouting something at Mappo, and the Trell bellowed a reply, drawing his legs up under himself as if about to dive to one side-thanks a whole lot, you ogre!-and then all at once Mappo did just that, off to the right, slamming into the legs of the Boles and Faint and taking all three down with him.

An explosion of wood splinters and thrashing arms, clacking fangs, unclean hair and terribly unreasonable expressions, and the three screeching women plunged in.

Two were brought up short pretty fast, as their heads leapt up in gouts of greenish uck and their bodies sprawled in a thrashing mess.