Reaper's Gate & Toll the Hounds - By Steven Erikson Page 0,470

a long way!'

'You stopped being drunk now, munch-sweets?'

She stirred, clambered onto her feet, then reached down and tugged at her husband. 'Come on.'

'But we got to wait – to use the name and send it away!'

'We got time. Let's perch ourselves down top of Wormface Alley, have another jug, an' we can watch the Edur crawl up t'us like the Turtle of the Abyss.'

Ursto snorted. 'Funny how that myth didn't last.'

A deeper, colder shadow slid over Hannan Mosag and he halted his efforts. Almost there, yes – where the alley opened out, he saw two figures seated in careless sprawls and leaning against one another. Passing a jug between them.

Squalid drunks, but perhaps most appropriate as witnesses – to the death of this gross empire. The first to die, too. Also fitting enough.

He made to heave himself closer, but a large hand closed about his cloak, just below his collar, and he was lifted from the ground.

Hissing, seeking his power—

Hannan Mosag was slowly turned about, and he found himself staring into an unhuman face. Grey-green skin like leather. Polished tusks jutting from the corners of the mouth. Eyes with vertical pupils, regarding him now without expression.

Behind him the two drunks were laughing.

The Warlock King, dangling in the air before this giant demoness, reached for the sorcery of Kurald Emurlahn to blast this creature into oblivion. And he felt it surge within him—

But now her other hand took him by the throat.

And squeezed.

Cartilage crumpled like eggshells. Vertebrae crunched, buckled, broke against each other. Pain exploded upward, filling Hannan Mosag's skull with white fire.

As the sun's bright, unforgiving light suddenly bathed his face.

Sister Dawn – you greet me—

But he stared into the eyes of the demoness, and saw still nothing. A lizard's eyes, a snake's eyes.

Would she give him nothing at all?

The fire in his skull flared outward, blinding him, then, with a soft, fading roar, it contracted once more, darkness rushing into its wake.

But Hannan Mosag's eyes saw none of this.

The sun shone full on his dead face, highlighting every twist, every marred flare of bone, and the unseeing eyes that stared out into that light were empty.

As empty as the Jaghut's own.

Ursto and Pinosel watched the Jaghut fling the pathetic, mangled body away.

Then she faced them. 'My ritual is sundered.'

Pinosel laughed through her nose, which proved a messy outburst the cleaning of which occupied her for the next few moments.

Ursto cast her a disgusted glance, then nodded to the Jaghut sorceress. 'Oh, they all worked at doing that. Mosag, Menandore, Sukul Ankhadu, blah blah.' He waved one hand. 'But we're here, sweetness. We got its name, y'see.'

The Jaghut cocked her head. 'Then, I am not needed.'

'Well, that's true enough. Unless you care for a drink?' He tugged the jug free of Pinosel's grip, raised it.

The Jaghut stared a moment longer, then she said, 'A pleasing offer, thank you.'

The damned sun was up, but on this side the city's wall was all shadow. Except, Sergeant Balm saw, for the wide open gate.

Ahead, Masan Gilani did that unthinkable thing again and rose in her stirrups, leaning forward as she urged her horse into a gallop.

From just behind Balm, Throatslitter moaned like a puppy under a brick. Balm shook his head. Another sick thought just popping into his head like a squeezed tick. Where was he getting them from anyway? And why was that gate open and why were they all riding hard straight for it?

And was that corpses he saw just inside? Figures moving about amidst smoke? Weapons?

What was that sound from the other side of that gate?

'Sharpers!' Deadsmell called out behind him. 'Keneb's in! He's holding the gate!'

Keneb? Who in Hood's name was Keneb?

'Ride!' Balm shouted. 'They're after us! Ride for Aren!'

Masan Gilani's rising and lowering butt swept into the shadow of the gate.

Throatslitter cried out and that was the sound all right, when the cat dives under the cartwheel and things go squirt and it wasn't his fault he'd hardly kicked at all. 'It dived out there, Ma! Oh, I hate cities! Let's go home – ride! Through that hole! What's it called? The big false-arched cantilevered hole!'

Plunging into gloom, horse hoofs suddenly skidding, the entire beast slewing round beneath him. Impact. Hip to rump, and Balm was thrown, arms reaching out, wrapping tight round a soft yielding assembly of perfected flesh – and she yelped, pulled with him as he plunged past dragging Masan Gilani from her saddle.

Hard onto cobbles, Balm's head slamming down, denting and dislodging his helm.