A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

veil,
and even could she come lumbering back at the desperate
call of her get, what might she achieve in the face of a
Hound?
    No, solitary flight this must remain. For each and all.
Ox, horse, dog, cat, mouse and rat, lizard and gnat. And
people of all sorts. Old men with limps, old men who never
limped in their lives but did so now. Women of all ages,
sizes and dispositions, who would have limped could it
have earned the necessary sympathy. Yet when even the
rooftops hold no succour, why bother riding this bouncing
cart of headlong panic? Best to simply flop down in abject
surrender, with but a few tugs to rearrange the lie of one's
dress or whatnot. Let the men soil themselves in their
terror – they never washed enough as it was.
    Nobles fled ignobly, the fallen fairly flew as if on winged
feet, thieves blustered and bullies whined and wheedled,
guards in their blind fear observed nothing and soldiers
fled every clash of iron, tooth and claw. Fools with nothing
stood their ground. Gamblers danced and whores bluffed
– and inside a Temple of Shadow deliciously feminine
acolytes squealed and darted from the path of a screaming
Magus atop his charging mule, straight through the
grand altar room, censers flying with tails of uncoiling
serpentine smoke and heads with glowing coal eyes in
myriad profusion. In the mule's careering wake, winged
bhokarala shrieked and flitted about flinging gobs of snot
and segmented cones of hairy dung at every fleeing female,
while spiders swarmed up from the old long-forgotten blood
drain at the base of the altar stone, a veritable carpet of
seething jerky stick-legs, glistening abdomens, patterned
thoraxes and beady Dal Honese eyes by the thousands, nay
tens of thousands! And was it any wonder the Magus and
the mule pelted right across the chamber, the doors at the
far end exploding open as if of their own accord?
    Even as the High Priestess – stumbling out from behind
a curtain like a woman tossed from the throes of manic
lovemaking, with stubble-rubbed chin and puffy lips high
and low and breasts all awry and great molten swells of pale
flesh swaying to and fro – plunging, yes, into the midst of
that crawling black carpet of spite and venom, and so no
wonder she began a dance riotous in its frenzy but let's face
it, even Mogora was too shocked, too disbelieving, to sink
a forest of fangs into such sweet meat – and the bhokarala
swooped down to scoop up handfuls of yummy spiders and crunch crunch into their maws and if spiders could scream,
why, they did so then, even as they foamed in swirling
retreat back down the drain.
    Mule and Magus drum-rolled down the colonnade and
out through another shattered set of doors, out into the
moody alleyway with its huddled mass of hiding refugees,
who now scattered at the arrival of this dread apparition,
and the squall of bhokarala swirling out behind it.
    Now, wing swift as a burning moth across the city, back
to the ox as it lumbered along in heart-pounding, chest-heaving
exhaustion – pursued by an angry cart and who
knew what else – and found itself fast approaching the
collapsed ruin of an enormous building of some sort . . .
    Serendipity serves as the quaintest description of the fickle
mayhem delivered by the Hounds of Shadow. Shortly
following the breach of the gate, Baran pelted westward in
pursuit of Pallid, as that bone-white beast broke from the
pack with untoward designs in another part of the stricken
city.
    Pallid was unaware that it was being hunted as it
discovered a dozen city guards rushing down the centre of
the street, heading for the destroyed gate. The monstrous
beast lunged into their midst, lashing out with slavering
jaws. Armour collapsed, limbs were torn away, weapons
spun through the air. Screams erupted in a welter of
slaughter.
    Even as Pallid crushed in its jaws the head of the last
guard, Baran arrived in an avalanche. The impact boomed
like thunder as Pallid was struck in the side, the caged bell
of its chest reverberating as both beasts skidded and then
struck the wall of a large building.
    The solid, fortified entranceway was punched inward.
Stone shards tore through the three people unlucky
enough to be stationed in the front room. The huge blocks
framing the doors tumbled down, bouncing like knuckle
bones, crushing one of the wounded men before he could
even scream. The remaining two, lacerated and spilling
blood, were pushed back by the broad front desk, and
pinned against the far wall. Both died