Reaper's Gate & Toll the Hounds - By Steven Erikson Page 0,961

said between gasps – for Chaur was a big man, and, limp as he was, it was no easy thing carrying him – 'I was thinking. If the damned moon can just break apart like that, who's to say that can't happen to our own world? We could just be—'

'Be quiet,' snapped Barathol. 'I don't give a shit about the moon – it's been trying to kill me for some time. Careful, you're almost there.'

'Right, set him down then, easy, on the stones . . . aye, that'll do.'

Antsy stepped up to the door, reached for the knife at his belt and then swore. 'I lost my knife, too. I can't believe this!' He made a fist and pounded against the wood.

The sound that made was reminiscent of punching a wall of meat. No reverberation, no echoes.

'Ow, that hurt.'

They waited.

Sighing, Antsy prepared to knock a second time, but then something clunked on the other side of the barrier, and a moment later the door swung back with a loud squeal.

The tall, undead monstrosity filled the doorway. Empty, shadow-drowned eye sockets regarded them – or not; it was impossible to tell.

Antsy shifted from one foot to the other. 'You busy, Raest? We need to make use of the hallway floor behind you—'

'Oh yes, I am very busy.'

The Falari blinked. 'Really?'

'Dust breeds. Cobwebs thicken. Candle wax stains precious surfaces. What do you want?'

Antsy glanced back at Barathol. 'Oh, a corpse with a sense of humour, what do you know? And surprise, it's so droll.' He faced the Jaghut again and smiled. 'In case you ain't noticed, the whole city has gone insane – that's why I figured you might be suffering some—'

'I am sorry,' cut in Raest, 'is something happening?'

Antsy's eyes bulged slightly. 'The Hounds of Shadow are loose!'

Raest leaned forward as if to scan the vicinity, and then settled back once more. 'Not in my yard.'

Antsy clawed through his hair. 'Trust me, then, it's a bad night – now, if you'd just step back—'

'Although, come to think of it, I did have a visitor earlier this evening.'

'What? Oh, well, I'm happy for you, but—' Raest lifted one desiccated hand and pointed.

Antsy and Barathol turned. And there, in the yard, there was a fresh mound of raw earth, steaming. Vines were visibly snaking over it. 'Gods below,' the Falari whispered, making a warding gesture with one hand.

'A T'lan Imass with odd legs,' said Raest. 'It seemed to harbour some dislike towards me.' The Jaghut paused. 'I can't imagine why.'

Antsy grunted. 'It should've stayed on the path.'

'What do T'lan Imass know of footpaths?' Raest asked. 'In any case, it's still too angry for a conversation.' Another pause. 'But there's time. Soldier, you have been remiss. I am therefore disinclined to yield the floor, as it were.'

'Like Hood I have!' And Antsy reached beneath his tunic and tugged out a bedraggled, half-rotted shape. 'I found you your damned white cat!'

'Oh, so you have. How sweet. In that case,' Raest edged back, 'do come in.'

Barathol hesitated. 'What will this achieve, Antsy?'

'He won't die,' the ex-sergeant replied. 'It's like time doesn't exist in there. Trust me. We can find us a proper healer tomorrow, or a month from now – it don't matter. S'long as he's breathing when we carry him across the threshold. So, come on, help me.' He then realized he was still clutching the dead cat, and so he went up to the Jaghut and thrust the ghastly thing into most welcoming arms.

'I shall call it Tufty,' said Raest.

The black tide ceased its seemingly inexorable crawl. A slow, shallow breath held half drawn. A struggling heart hovered in mid-beat. And yet that spark of awareness, suddenly emboldened, set out on a journey of exploration and discovery. So many long-dark pathways . . .

Dragnipur has drunk deep, so deep.

Dragnipur, sword of the father and slayer of the same. Sword of Chains, Gate of Darkness, wheeled burden of life and life ever flees dissolution and so it must! Weapon of edges, caring naught who wields it. Cut indifferent, cut blind, cut when to do so is its very purpose, its perfect function.

Dragnipur.

Dread sisterly feuds dwindled in significance – something was proffered, something was almost within reach. Matters of final possession could be worked out later, at leisure in some wrought-iron, oversized bath-tub filled to the brim with hot blood.

Temporary pact. Expedience personified, Spite quelled, Envy in abeyance.

In their wake a crater slowly sagged, edges toppling inward, heat fast dissipating. The melted faces of buildings turned