A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

calls in
the darkness.
    To one side of the track, crouched in high grasses, a coyote
that had been about to cross the track suddenly froze.
    Heady spices roiled over the animal in a warm, sultry
gust, and where a moment earlier there had been black,
shapeless clouds sliding through the air, now there was a
figure – a man-thing, the kind the coyote warred with in
its skull, fear and curiosity, opportunity and deadly betrayal
– walking on the road.
    But this man-thing, it was . . . different.
    As it came opposite the coyote, its head turned and regarded
the beast.
    The coyote trotted out. Every muscle, every instinct,
cried out for a submissive surrender, and yet as if from some
vast power outside itself, the coyote held its head high, ears
sharp forward as it drew up alongside the figure.
    Who reached down to brush gloved fingers back along
the dome of its head.
    And off the beast bounded, running as fast as its legs
could carry it, out into the night, the vast plain to the
south.
    Freed, blessed, beneficiary of such anguished love that
it would live the rest of its years in a grassy sea of joy and
delight.
    Transformed. No special reason, no grim purpose. No,
this was a whimsical touch, a mutual celebration of life.
Understand it or stumble through. The coyote's role is
done, and off it pelts, heart bright as a blazing star.
    Gifts to start the eyes.
    Anomander Rake, Son of Darkness, walked between the
shanties of Worrytown. The gate was ahead, but no guards
were visible. The huge doors were barred.
    From beyond, from the city itself, fires roared here and
there, thrusting bulging cloaks of spark-lit smoke up into
the black night.
    Five paces from the gates now, and something snapped
and fell away. The doors swung open. And, unaccosted,
unnoticed, Anomander Rake walked into Darujhistan.
    Howls rose like madness unleashed.
    The Son of Darkness reached up and unsheathed
Dragnipur.
    Steam curled from the black blade, twisting into
ephemeral chains that stretched out as he walked up the
wide, empty street. Stretched out to drag behind him, and
from each length others emerged and from these still more,
a forest's worth of iron roots, snaking out, whispering over
the cobbles.
    He had never invited such a manifestation before.
Reining in that bleed of power had been an act of mercy,
to all those who might witness it, who might comprehend
its significance.
    But on this night, Anomander Rake had other things
on his mind.
    Chains of smoke, chains and chains and chains, so many
writhing in his wake that they filled the breadth of the
street, that they snaked over and under and spilled out into
side streets, alleys, beneath estate gates, beneath doors and
through windows. They climbed walls.
    Wooden barriers disintegrated – doors and sills and gates
and window frames. Stones cracked, bricks spat mortar.
Walls bowed. Buildings groaned.
    He walked on as those chains grew taut.
    No need yet to lean forward with each step. No need yet
to reveal a single detail to betray the strength and the will
demanded of him.
    He walked on.
    Throughout the besieged city, mages, witches, wizards and
sorcerors clutched the sides of their heads, eyes squeezing
shut as unbearable pressure closed in. Many fell to their
knees. Others staggered. Still others curled up into tight
foetal balls on the floor, as the world groaned.
    Raging fires flinched, collapsed into themselves, died in
silent gasps.
    The howl of the Hounds thinned as if forced through
tight valves.
    In a slag-crusted pit twin sisters paused as one in their
efforts to scratch each other's eyes out. In the midst of
voluminous clouds of noxious vapours, knee deep in
magma that swirled like a lake of molten sewage, the sisters
halted, and slowly lifted their heads.
    As if scenting the air.
    Dragnipur.
    Dragnipur.
    Down from the Estates, into that projecting wedge that was
Daru, and hence through another gate and on to the main
avenue in Lakefront, proceeding parallel to the shoreline.
As soon as he reached the straight, level stretch of that
avenue, the Son of Darkness paused.
    Four streets distant on that same broad track, Hood, Lord
of Death, fixed his gaze on the silver-haired figure which
seemed to have hesitated, but only for a moment, before
resuming its approach.
    Hood felt his own unease, yet onward he strode.
    The power of that sword was breathtaking, even for a
god. Breathtaking.
    Terrifying.
    They drew closer, in measured steps, and closer still.
    The Hounds had fallen