By Steven Erikson

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In Darujhistan, the town of blue fireplace, it's stated that love and demise shall arrive dancing. it truly is summer season and the warmth is oppressive, yet for the small around guy within the light purple waistcoat, discomfiture isn't just due to the sunlight. All isn't good. Dire portents plague his nights and hang-out town streets like fiends of shadow. Assassins skulk in alleyways, however the quarry has grew to become and the hunters develop into the hunted.  Hidden fingers pluck the strings of tyranny like a fell refrain. whereas the bards sing their tragic stories, someplace within the distance may be heard the baying of Hounds...And within the far-off urban of Black Coral, the place ideas Anomander Rake, Son of Darkness, old crimes wake up, cause on revenge. it sort of feels Love and demise are certainly approximately to arrive...hand in hand, dancing.  A exciting, harrowing novel of conflict, intrigue and darkish, uncontrollable magic, Toll the Hounds is the hot bankruptcy in Erikson's enormous sequence - epic myth at its so much imaginitive and storytelling at its most fun.

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Extra info for Toll the Hounds (The Malazan Book of the Fallen, Book 8)

Example text

Here they come,’ Stoop murmured. Through the sheets of driving rain, Kyle made out a squad of men exiting the portal. Greymane emerged last. All alone he manhandled shut its stone slab of a door. The men jog-trotted across the abutting levels of gardens and patios. They threw themselves behind benches and stone garden planters that now held nothing more than the beaten down stalks of dead brush. These men and women covered the doorway while their companions jogged and skittered to another section of the courtyard.

Now he felt like the company's beggar fool. He concentrated on his footing, tried to grimace down the flaring pain of his thighs, chafed shoulders and his blazing lungs. Back among his brothers and cousins he'd been counted one of the strongest runners, able to jog from sun's rise to sun's set. There was no way he'd let this old veteran walk him into the ground. A shout from above and Kyle stopped. Distant blows sounded together with shouts of alarm. Weapons hissed from sheaths. He leaned out to peer up the inner circular gap but couldn't see what was going on.

All alone he manhandled shut its stone slab of a door. The men jog-trotted across the abutting levels of gardens and patios. They threw themselves behind benches and stone garden planters that now held nothing more than the beaten down stalks of dead brush. These men and women covered the doorway while their companions jogged and skittered to another section of the courtyard. Stalker was among them, his own crossbow held high. Greymane brought up the rear, walking slowly and heavily as if deep in thought.

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