A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

stopped to count out the right amount, intending
to keep the rest, well, Gorlas would have had two bodies
to dispose of rather than just one, so maybe the old man
wasn't so stupid after all.
    It had, Gorlas decided, been a good day.
    And so the ox began its long journey back into the city,
clumping along the cobbled road, and in the cart's bed lay
the body of a man who might have been precipitous, who
might indeed have been too old for such deadly ventures,
but no one could say that his heart had not been in the
right place. Nor could anyone speak of a lack of courage.
    Raising a most grave question – if courage and heart are
not enough, what is?
    The ox could smell blood, and liked it not one bit. It was
a smell that came with predators, with hunters, notions
stirring the deepest parts of the beast's brain. It could smell
death as well, there in its wake, and no matter how many
clumping steps it took, that smell did not diminish, and
this it could not understand, but was resigned to none the
less.
    There was no room in the beast for grieving. The only
sorrow it knew was for itself. So unlike its two-legged
masters.
    Flies swarmed, ever unquestioning, and the day's light
fell away.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
    He is unseen, one in a crowd whom none call
Do not slip past that forgettable face
Crawl not inside to find the unbidden rill
As it flows in dark horror from place to place
    He is a common thing, in no way singular
Who lets no one inside the uneven steps
Down those eyes that drown the solitary star
We boldly share in these human depths
    Not your brother, not anyone's saviour
He will loom only closer to search your clothes
Push aside the feeble hand that seeks to stir
Compassion's glow (the damp, dying rose)
    He has plucked his garden down to bone
And picked every last bit of warm flesh
With fear like claws and nervous teeth when alone
He wanders this wasteland of cinder and ash
    I watch in terror as he ascends our blessed throne
To lay down his cloak of shame like a shroud
And beckons us the illusion of a warm home
A sanctuary beneath his notice, one in a crowd
    He finds his power in our indifference
Shredding the common to dispense with congress
No conjoined will to set against him in defiance
And one by one by one, he kills us
    A King Takes the Throne
(carved on the Poet's Wall,
Royal Dungeons, Unta)
    With a twist and a snarl, Shan turned on Lock.
The huge white-coated beast did not flinch or
scurry, but simply loped away, tongue lolling as
if in laughter. A short distance off, Pallid watched. Fangs
still bared, Shan slipped off into the high grasses once
more.
    Baran, Blind, Rood and Gear had not slowed during this
exchange – it had happened many times before, after all
– and they continued on, in a vaguely crescent formation,
Rood and Gear on the flanks. Antelope observed them from
a rise off to the southwest – the barest tilt of a head from any
of the Hounds and they would be off, fast as their bounding
legs could take them, their hearts a frenzied drum-roll of
bleak terror.
    But the Hounds of Shadow were not hunting this day.
Not antelope, not bhederin, nor mule deer nor ground
sloth. A host of animals that lived either in states of
blessed anonymity or states of fear had no need to lurch
from the former into the latter – at least not because of
the monstrous Hounds. As for the wolves of the plains, the
lumbering snub-nosed bears and the tawny cats of the high
grasses, there were none within ten leagues – the faintest
wisp of scent had sent them fleeing one and all.
    Great Ravens sailed high above the Hounds, minute
specks in the vaulted blue.
    Shan was displeased with the two new companions,
these blots of dirty white with the lifeless eyes. Lock in
particular irritated her, as it seemed this one wanted to
travel as she did, close by her side, sliding unseen, ghostly
and silent. Most annoying of all, Lock was Shan's able
match in such skill.
    But she had no interest in surrendering her solitude.
Ambush and murder were best served alone, as far as
she was concerned. Lock complicated things, and Shan
despised complications.
    Somewhere, far behind them, creatures pursued. In the
profoundly long history of the Hounds of Shadow, they
had been hunted many times. More often than not, the
hunters came to regret the decision, whether a momentary
impulse or an instinctive need; whether at the behest of
some master or by the hatred in their souls, their desire
usually proved fatal.
    Occasionally, however, being