The shaman began stamping around, muttering under his breath, reaching up with his free hand to tug at his tangled hair every now and then. And in his movements Kalam saw the beginnings of a ritual.
Something told the assassin that these Pardu did not belong to Sha’ik’s Army of the Apocalypse. They were too furtive by far. He slowly sheathed his otataral long-knife and settled back in the deep shadow of the recess, to wait, and watch.
The shaman’s muttering had fallen into a rhythmic cadence, and he reached into a bag of sewn hides at his belt, collecting a handful of small objects which he began scattering about as he walked his endless circle. Black and glittering, the objects crackled and popped on the ground as if they had been just plucked from a hearth. An acrid stench wafted out from the ritual circle.
Kalam never discovered if what occurred next had been intended; without doubt its conclusion was not. The darkness lying heavy on the street seemed to convulsively explode-and then screams tore the air.
Two massive beasts had arrived, immediately attacking the Pardu warriors. As if darkness itself had taken form, only the shimmer of their sleek hides betrayed their presence, and they moved with blurring speed, amidst spraying blood and snapping bones. The shaman shrieked as one of the enormous beasts closed. Huge black head swung to one side, jaws opening wide, and the shaman’s head vanished within the maw. A wet crunch as the jaws ground shut.
The hound-for that, Kalam realized, was what it was-then stepped away, as the shaman’s headless body staggered back, then sat down with a thump.
The other hound had begun feeding on the corpses of the Pardu warriors, and the sickening sound of breaking bones continued.
These, Kalam could well see, were not Hounds of Shadow. If anything, they were larger, bulkier, massing more like a bear than a dog. Yet, as they now filled their bellies with raw human flesh, they moved with savage grace, primal and deadly. Devoid of fear and supremely confident, as if this strange place they had come to was as familiar to them as their own hunting grounds.
The sight of them made the assassin’s skin crawl. Motionless, he had slowed his own breathing, then the pace of his heart. There were no other alternatives available to him, at least until the hounds left.
But they seemed to be in no hurry, both settling down to split the last long bones and gnaw at joints.
Hungry, these bastards. Wonder where they came from… and what they’re going to do now.
Then one lifted its head, and stiffened. With a deep grunt it rose. The other continued crunching through a human knee, seemingly indifferent to its companion’s sudden tension.
Even when the beast turned to stare at the place where Kalam crouched.
It came at him fast.
Kalam leapt up the worn stairs, one hand reaching into the folds of his telaba. He pivoted hard and sprinted, even as he flung his last handful of smoky diamonds-his own cache, not Iskaral Pust’s-into his wake.
A skittering of claws immediately behind him, and he flung himself to one side, rolling over a shoulder as the hound flashed through the place where he had been a moment earlier. The assassin continued rolling until he was on his feet once more, tugging desperately at the whistle looped around his neck.
The hound skidded across dusty flagstones, legs cycling wildly beneath it as it twisted around.
A glance showed the other hound entirely unmindful, still gnawing away in the street beyond.
Then Kalam clamped the whistle between his teeth. He scrambled in a half-circle to bring the scatter of diamonds between himself and the attacking hound.
And blew through the bone tube as hard as he could.
Five azalan demons rose from the ancient stone floor. There seemed to be no moment of disorientation among them, for three of the five closed instantly on the nearer hound, whilst the remaining two flanked Kalam as they clambered, in a blur of limbs, towards the hound in the street. Which finally looked up.
Curious as he might have been to witness the clash of behemoths, Kalam wasted no time in lingering. He ran, angling southward as he leapt over wall foundations, skirted around black-bottomed pits, and set his gaze fixedly on the higher ground fifteen hundred paces distant.
Snaps and snarls and the crash and grind of tumbling stones evinced an ongoing battle in the main street behind him. My apologies, Shadowthrone… but at least one of your demons should survive long enough to escape. In which case, you will be informed of a new menace unleashed on this world. And consider this-if there’s two of them, there’s probably more.
He ran onward through the night, until all sounds behind him vanished.
An evening of surprises. In a jewelmonger’s kiosk in G’danisban. At a sumptuous, indolent dinner shared by a Kaleffa merchant and one of his prized client’s equally prized wives. And in Ehrlitan, among a fell gathering of flesh-traders and murderers plotting the betrayal of a Malazan collaborator who had issued a secret invitation to Admiral Nok’s avenging fleet-which even now was rounding the Otataral Sea on its way to an ominous rendezvous with eleven transports approaching from Genabackis-a collaborator who, it would turn out, would awaken the next morning not only hale, but no longer facing imminent assassination. And on the coastal caravan trail twenty leagues west of Ehrlitan, the quietude of the night would be broken by horrified screams-loud and lingering, sufficient to awaken a maul-fisted old man living alone in a tower overlooking the Otataral Sea, if only momentarily, before he rolled over and fell once more into dreamless, restful sleep.
At the distant, virtually inaudible whistle, countless smoky diamonds that had originated from a trader in G’danisban’s market round crumbled into dust-whether placed for safe-keeping in locked chests, worn as rings or pendants, or residing in a merchant’s hoard. And from the dust rose azalan demons, awakened long before their intended moment. But that suited them just fine.
They had, one and all, appointed tasks that demanded a certain solitude, at least initially. Making it necessary to quickly silence every witness, which the azalan were pleased to do. Proficiently and succinctly.
For those that had appeared in the ruins of a city in Raraku, however, to find two creatures whose existence was very nearly lost to the demons’ racial memory, the moments immediately following their arrival proved somewhat more problematic. For it became quickly apparent that the hounds were not inclined to relinquish their territory, such as it was.
The fight was fierce and protracted, concluding unsatisfactorily for the five azalan, who were eventually driven off, battered and bleeding and eager to seek deep shadows in which to hide from the coming day. To hide, and lick their wounds.
And in the realm known as Shadow, a certain god sat motionless on his insubstantial throne. Already recovered from his shock, his mind was racing.
Racing.
Grinding, splintering wood, mast snapping overhead to drag cordage down, a heavy concussion that shivered through the entire craft, then only the sound of water dripping onto a stone floor.
With a muted groan, Cutter dragged himself upright. ‘Apsalar?’
‘I’m here.’
Their voices echoed. Walls and ceiling were close-the runner had landed in a chamber.
‘So much for subtle,’ the Daru muttered, searching for his pack amidst the wreckage. ‘I’ve a lantern. Give me a moment.’
‘I am not going anywhere,’ she replied from somewhere near the stern.
Her words chilled him, so forlorn did they sound. His groping hands closed on his pack and he dragged it close. He rummaged inside until his hand closed on and retrieved first the small lantern and then the tinder box.