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 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 midair.
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 the eye on that side was vastly dilated.
Weeping, the blacksmith pulled Chaur’s head and upper body on to his thighs. The rest of the world, the explosions, the screams, the thunder of battle, all fell away, and it was some time before Barathol realized that someone was clambering out of the rubble that was the gaol. A staccato cascade of curses in Falari, Malazan, Dobri and Daru. Blinking, the blacksmith lifted his gaze.
‘Antsy — here, please, I need your help! Please. He’s hurt.’
The ex-Bridgeburner was covered in dust but otherwise unscathed. ‘I lost my damned sword. I lost my damned crossbow. I lost my damned sharpers. I lost my-’
‘Antsy! Hood’s breath, please help me — we need to find a healer. High Denul — there must be one in the city. There must be!’
‘Well, there’s Mallet, but he’s — shit, he’s dead. I forgot. Can’t believe I forgot.’ Antsy crouched down and studied Chaur for a moment, and then he shook his head. ‘He’s done for, Barathol. Cracked skull, bleeding into his brain — you can always tell, when one side of the face goes-’
‘I know all that, damn you. We need a healer! Think, Antsy — there must be someone.’
‘Maybe, but not close — we got to cross half the city, Barathol, and with them Hounds-’
‘Never mind the Hounds.’ The blacksmith gathered Chaur up into his arms and straightened.
Antsy stared. ‘You can’t carry him-’
‘Then help me!’
‘I’m trying! Let me think.’
At that moment they both heard the clumping of hoofs, the clack of wooden wheels on cobbles. And they turned to the alley mouth.
Behold, the ox. Too weary to run. Even the cart in its wake clumped in exhaustion. Stolid legs trembled. Mucus slathered down in a gleaming sheet that dragged dusty tendrils between the beast’s front hoofs. The painful clarity of panic was fading, dulling its eyes once more, and when the two man-things arrived and set down a third body on the bed of the cart, why, this was old business as far as the ox was concerned. At last, the world had recovered its sanity. There were tasks to be done, journeys to complete. Salvation sweeter than mam’s milk.