A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

under dung heaps. And
there, in the subtle cascade of flavours that, if he squeezed
shut his watering eyes, he could actually taste, one could
find the bouquets marking every damned stage in the
brewing process. Leading to an explosive, highly volatile
cough followed by desperate gasping, and then—
    But Scamper there had sharpened up, as much as a two-legged
dog could, anyway. Ears perking, seeming to dilate –
but no, that was the spit talking – and nape hairs snapping
upright in fierce bristle, and there was his ratty, knobby tail,
desperately snaking down and under the uneven haunches
– and gods below, Scamper was whimpering and crawling,
piddling as he went, straight for under the porch – look at
the damned thing go! With only two legs, too!
    Must be some storm out there—
    And, looking up, Grisp saw strange baleful fires floating
closer. In sets of two, lifting, weaving, lowering, then back
up again. How many sets? He couldn't count. He could
have, once, long ago, right up to twenty, but the bad thing
about cactus spit was all the parts of the brain it stamped
dead underfoot. Seemed that counting and figuring was
among them.
    Fireballs! Racing straight for him!
    Grisp screamed. Or, rather, tried to. Instead, two wads
were sucked in quick succession to the back of his throat,
and all at once he couldn't breathe, and could only stare
as a horde of giant dogs attacked in a thundering charge,
straight across his three weepy rows, leaving a churned,
uprooted, trampled mess. Two of the beasts made for him,
jaws opening. Grisp had rocked on to the two back legs of
the chair with that sudden, short-lived gasp, and now all
at once he lost his balance, pitching directly backward,
legs in the air, even as two sets of enormous jaws snapped
shut in the place where his head had been a heartbeat
earlier.
    His shack erupted behind him, grey shards of wood and
dented kitchenware exploding in all directions.
    The thumping impact when he hit the porch sent both
wads out from his mouth on a column of expelled air from
his stunned lungs. The weight of the jug, two fingers still
hooked through the lone ear, pulled him sideways and out
of the toppled chair on to his stomach, and he lifted his
head and saw that his shack was simply gone, and there
were the beasts, fast dwindling as they charged towards
the city.
    Groaning, he lowered his head, settling his forehead on
to the slatted boards, and could see through the crack to
the crawlspace below, only to find Scamper's two beady
eyes staring back up at him in malevolent accusation.
    'Fair 'nough,' he whispered. 'Time's come, Scamper old
boy, for us to pack up 'n' leave. New pastures, hey? A world
before us, just waitin' wi' open arms, just—'
    The nearest gate of the city exploded then, the shock
wave rolling back to flatten Grisp once more on the
floorboards. He heard the porch groan and sag and had one
generous thought for poor Scamper – who was scrambling
as fast as two legs could take him – before the porch
collapsed under him.
    Like a dozen bronze bells, hammered so hard they tore
loose from their frames and, in falling, dragged the bell
towers down around them, the power of the seven Hounds
obliterated the gate, the flanking unfinished fortifications,
the guard house, the ring-road stable, and two nearby
buildings. Crashing blocks of stone, wooden beams, bricks
and tiles, crushed furniture and fittings, more than a few
pulped bodies in the mix. Clouds of dust, spurts of hissing
flame from ruptured gas pipes, the ominous subterranean
roar of deadlier eruptions—
    Such a sound! Such portentous announcement! The
Hounds have arrived, dear friends. Come, yes, come to
deliver mayhem, to reap a most senseless toll. Violence can
arrive blind, without purpose, like the fist of nature. Cruel
in disregard, brutal in its random catastrophe. Like a flash
flood, like a tornado, a giant dust-devil, an earthquake – so
blind, so senseless, so without intent!
    These Hounds . . . they were nothing like that.
    Moments before this eruption, Spite, still facing the estate
of her venal bitch of a sister, reached a decision. And so
she raised her perfectly manicured hands, up before her
face, and closed them into fists. Then watched as a deeper
blot of darkness formed over the estate, swelling ever larger
until blood-red cracks appeared in the vast shapeless manifestation.
    In her mind, she was recalling a scene from millennia
past, a blasted landscape of enormous craters – the fall