A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

within moments,
bones and organs macerated.
    Rolling, snapping and growling, the two Hounds
shattered that desk, and the grillework attached to it sailed
upward to crack on the ceiling, which had already begun
sagging as its supports and braces gave way. With terrible
groans, the entire front of the structure dragged itself
down, and now screams rose through the dust, muted and
pitiful.
    Another wall collapsed under the impact of the beasts,
and beyond it was a corridor and bars lining cells, and two
more guards who sought to flee down the aisle's length
– but this entire room was coming down, the iron bars
snapping out from their frames, locks shattering. Prisoners
vanished beneath splintered wooden beams, plaster and
bricks.
    Rearing back on to its hind legs, knocked over by
another charge from Baran, Pallid smashed into one cell.
The prisoner within it pitched down and rolled up against
one side as the Hounds, locked once more, knocked down
the back wall and, kicking and snarling, rolled into the
space beyond – an alleyway already half filled with falling
masonry as the entire gaol broke apart.
    The lone prisoner scrambled back to his feet and rushed
into the Hounds' wake—
    But not in time, as the floor above dropped down to fill
the cell.
    In the alley Pallid had managed to close its jaws about
Baran's shoulder, and with a savage surge sent the beast
wheeling through the air to crunch into what remained of
the wall on that side – and this too folded inward beneath
the impact of Baran's thrashing weight.
    From the wreckage of the first cell, a section of plaster
and mortared brick lifted up, and as it tumbled back the
prisoner – covered in dust, bruised and bleeding – began
to climb free.
    Pallid, hearing these sounds – the gasps and coughs, the
scrambling – wheeled round, eyes blazing.
    And Barathol paused, legs still pinned, and stared into
those infernal orbs, and knew that they were the last
things he would ever see.
    Pallid gathered its legs for its charge. Its smeared, torn
lips stretched back to reveal its massive fangs, and then it
sprang forward—
    Even as a figure hurtled bodily into its side, striking it
low, beneath its right shoulder, hard enough to twist the
animal round as it flew in mid-air.
    Barathol flung himself back and as much to one side as
he could manage, as the Hound's crimson-splashed head
pounded side-on into the rubble, its flailing body following.
    Picking himself up from the ground, Chaur looked
over at Barathol, and then showed him a bright red smile,
even as he dragged free the huge war-axe he had collected
from the smithy – Barathol's very own weapon. As Pallid
clambered back upright, Chaur threw the axe in Barathol's
direction, and then picked up a chunk of stone.
    Barathol shrieked, desperate to tear himself free, as the
white Hound, snarling, spun to face Chaur with fury incandescent
in its eyes.
    From the rubble farther down the alley, Baran was working
free, but it would not arrive in time. Not for Chaur.
    Kicking, heedless of tearing flesh, Barathol fought on.
    Chaur threw his stone the instant the white Hound
charged.
    It struck the beast's snout dead-on.
    A yelp of agony, and then the beast's momentum
slammed it into Chaur, sent him flying across the alley to
crunch sickeningly against the opposite wall. When he fell
to the grimy cobbles, he did not move.
    Barathol dragged his legs loose, leaving trails of blood
and pieces of meat. He rolled, grasping hold of the axe
handle, and then heaved himself to his feet.
    Pallid's huge head turned.
    Baran broke clear into the alley.
    The white Hound looked over, and, with another snarl,
the beast pivoted round and fled.
    A moment later Baran flashed past.
    Barathol sagged back on wobbly legs. Drawing in one
cold breath after another, he turned his gaze once more
upon the motionless body opposite. With a sob, he dragged
himself to his feet and stumbled over.
    In the strange, mysterious places within the brain, places
that knew of themselves as Chaur, a black flood was seeping
in, and one by one those places began to drown. Fitful
sparks ebbed, and once gone did not light again. His state
of unconsciousness slipped into something deeper, a kind
of protective oblivion that mercifully hid from Chaur the
fact that he was dying.
    His expression was serene, save for the slow sag along
one side of his face, and when Barathol rolled back his
eyelids, the pupil of one eye was vastly dilated.
    Weeping, the blacksmith pulled