Toll the Hounds (Malazan Book of the Fallen, #8)

by Steven Erikson

Howls rose like madness unleashed. The Son of Darkness reached up and unsheathed Dragnipur. Steam curled from the black blade, twisting into ephemeral chains that stretched out as he walked up the wide, empty street. Stretched out to drag behind him, and from each length others emerged and from these still more, a forest’s worth of iron roots, snaking out, whispering over the cobbles. He had never invited such a manifestation before. Reining in that bleed of power had been an act of mercy, to all those who might witness it, who might comprehend its significance. But on this night, Anomander Rake had other things on his mind. Chains of smoke, chains and chains and chains, so many writhing in his wake that they filled the breadth of the street, that they snaked over and under and spilled out into side streets, alleys, beneath estate gates, beneath doors and through windows. They climbed walls. Wooden barriers disintegrated – doors and sills and gates and window frames. Stones cracked, bricks spat mortar. Walls bowed. Buildings groaned. He walked on as those chains grew taut. No need yet to lean forward with each step. No need yet to reveal a single detail to betray the strength and the will demanded of him. He walked on.