House of Chains

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Because I count sixteen of them—and who knows how many more are below. And they’re getting angrier—’

  ‘Sixteen or sixty,’ Karsa cut in. ‘They know nothing of fighting Teblor.’

  ‘How can you—’

  Karsa saw two warriors shift gauntleted hands towards sword-grips. The bloodsword flashed out, cut a sweeping horizontal slash across the entire half-circle of grey-skinned warriors. Blood sprayed. Bodies reeled, sprawled backward, tumbling over the low railing and down to the mid-deck.

  The forecastle was clear apart from Karsa and, a pace behind him, Torvald Nom.

  The seven warriors who had been on the mid-deck drew back as one, then, unsheathing their weapons, they edged forward.

  ‘They were within my reach,’ Karsa answered the Daru’s question. ‘That is how I know they know nothing of fighting a Teblor. Now, witness while I take this ship.’ With a bellow he leapt down into the midst of the enemy.

  The grey-skinned warriors were not lacking in skill, yet it availed them naught. Karsa had known the loss of freedom; he would not accept such again. The demand to kneel before these scrawny, sickly creatures had triggered in him seething fury.

  Six of the seven warriors were down; the last one, shouting, had turned about and was running towards the doorway at the other end of the mid-deck. He paused long enough to drag a massive harpoon from a nearby rack, spinning and flinging it at Karsa.

  The Teblor caught it in his left hand.

  He closed on the fleeing man, cutting him down at the doorway’s threshold. Ducking and reversing the weapons in his hands—the harpoon now in his right and the bloodsword in his left—he plunged into the gloom of the passage beyond the doorway.

  Two steps down, into a wide galley with a wooden table in its centre. A second doorway at the opposite end, a narrow passage beyond, lined by berths, then an ornate door that squealed as Karsa shoved it aside.

  Four attackers, a fury of blows exchanged, Karsa blocking with the harpoon and counter-attacking with the bloodsword. In moments, four broken bodies dying on the cabin’s gleaming wooden floor. A fifth figure, seated in a chair on the other side of the room, hands raised, sorcery swirling into the air.

  With a snarl, Karsa surged forward. The magic flashed, sputtered, then the harpoon’s point punched into the figure’s chest, tore through and drove into the chair’s wood backing. A look of disbelief frozen on the grey face, eyes locking with Karsa’s own one last time, before all life left them.

  ‘Urugal! Witness a Teblor’s rage!’

  Silence following his ringing words, then the slow pat of blood dripping from the sorcerer’s chair onto the rug. Something cold rippled through Karsa, the breath of someone unknown, nameless, but filled with rage. Growling, he shrugged it off, then looked around. High-ceilinged for lowlanders, the ship’s cabin was all of the same black wood. Oil lanterns glimmered from sconces on the walls. On the table were maps and charts, the drawings on them illegible as far as the Teblor was concerned.

  A sound from the doorway.

  Karsa turned.

  Torvald Nom stepped within, scanning the sprawled corpses, then fixing his gaze on the seated figure with the spear still impaling it. ‘You needn’t worry about the oarsmen,’ he said.

  ‘Are they slaves? Then we shall free them.’

  ‘Slaves?’ Torvald shrugged. ‘I don’t think so. They wear no chains, Karsa. Mind you, they have no heads, either. As I said, I don’t think we have to concern ourselves with them.’ He strode forward to examine the maps on the table. ‘Something tells me these hapless bastards you just killed were as lost as us—’

  ‘They were the victors in the battle of the ships.’

  ‘Little good it did them.’

  Karsa shook the blood from his sword, drew a deep breath. ‘I kneel to no-one.’

  ‘I could’ve knelt twice and that might have satisfied them. Now, we’re as ignorant as we were before seeing this ship. Nor can the two of us manage a craft of this size.’

  ‘They would have done to us as was done to the oarsmen,’ Karsa asserted.

  ‘Possibly.’ He swung his attention on one of the corpses at his feet, slowly crouched. ‘Barbaric-looking, these ones—uh, by Daru standards, that is. Sealskin—true seafarers, then—and strung claws and teeth and shells. The one in the captain’s chair was a mage?’

  ‘Yes. I do not understand such warriors. Why not use swords or spears? Their magic is pitiful, yet they seem so sure of it. And look at his expression—’

  ‘Surprised, yes,’ Torvald murmured. He glanced back at Karsa. ‘They’re confident because sorcery usually works. Most attackers don’t survive getting hit by magic. It rips them apart.’

  Karsa made his way back to the doorway. After a moment Torvald followed.

  They returned to the mizzen deck. Karsa began stripping the corpses lying about, severing ears and tongues before tossing the naked bodies overboard.

  The Daru watched for a time, then he moved to the decapitated heads. ‘They’ve been following everything you do,’ he said to Karsa, ‘with their eyes. It’s too much to bear.’ He removed the hide wrapping of a nearby bundle and folded it around the nearest severed head, then tied it tight. ‘Darkness would better suit them, all things considered . . .’

  Karsa frowned. ‘Why do you say that, Torvald Nom? Which would you prefer, the ability to see things around you, or darkness?’

  ‘These are Tiste Andü, apart from a few—and those few look far too much like me.’

  ‘Who are these Tiste Andü?’

  ‘Just a people. There are some fighting in Caladan Brood’s liberation army on Genabackis. An ancient people, it’s said. In any case, they worship Darkness.’

  Karsa, suddenly weary, sat down on the steps leading to the forecastle. ‘Darkness,’ he muttered. ‘A place where one is left blind—a strange thing to worship.’

  ‘Perhaps the most realistic worship of all,’ the Daru replied, wrapping another severed head. ‘How many of us bow before a god in the desperate hope that we can somehow shape our fate? Praying to that familiar face pushes away our terror of the unknown—the unknown being the future. Who knows, maybe these Tiste Andü are the only ones among us all who see the truth, the truth being oblivion.’ Keeping his eyes averted, he carefully gathered another black-skinned, long-haired head. ‘It’s a good thing these poor souls have no throats left to utter sounds, else we find ourselves in a ghastly debate.’

  ‘You doubt your own words, then.’

  ‘Always, Karsa. On a more mundane level, words are like gods—a means of keeping the terror at bay. I will likely have nightmares about this until my aged heart finally gives out. An endless succession of heads, with all-too-cognizant eyes, to wrap up in sealskin. And with each one I tie up, pop! Another appears.’

  ‘Your words are naught but foolishness.’

  ‘Oh, and how many souls have you delivered unto darkness, Karsa Orlong?’

  The Teblor’s eyes narrowed. ‘I do not think it was darkness that they found,’ he replied quietly. After a moment, he looked away, struck silent by a sudden realization. A year ago he would have killed someone for saying what Torvald had just said, had he understood its intent to wound—which in itself was unlikely. A year ago, words had been blunt, awkward things, confined within a simple, if slightly mysterious world. But that flaw had been Karsa’s alone—not a characteristic of the Teblor in general—for Bairoth Gild had flung many-edged words at Karsa, a constant source of amusement for the clever warrior though probably dulled by Karsa’s own unawareness of their intent.

  Torvald Nom’s endless words—but no, more than just that—all that Karsa had experienced since leaving his village—had served as instruction on the complexity of the world. Subtlety had been a venomed serpent slithering unseen through his life. Its fangs had sunk deep many times, yet not once had he become aware of their origin; not once had he even understood the source of the pain. The poison itself had coursed deep within him, and the only
answer he gave—when he gave one at all—was of violence, often misdirected, a lashing out on all sides.

  Darkness, and living blind. Karsa returned his gaze to the Daru kneeling and wrapping severed heads, there on the mizzen deck. And who has dragged the cloth from my eyes? Who has awakened Karsa Orlong, son of Synyg? Urugal? No, not Urugal. He knew that for certain, for the otherworldly rage he had felt in the cabin, that icy breath that had swept through him—that had belonged to his god. A fierce displeasure—to which Karsa had found himself oddly . . . indifferent.

  The Seven Faces in the Rock never spoke of freedom. The Teblor were their servants. Their slaves.

  ‘You look unwell, Karsa,’ Torvald said, approaching. ‘I am sorry for my last words—’

  ‘There is no need, Torvald Nom,’ Karsa said, rising. ‘We should return to our—’

  He stopped as the first splashes of rain struck him, then the deck on all sides. Milky, slimy rain.

  ‘Uh!’ Torvald grunted. ‘If this is a god’s spit, he’s decidedly unwell.’

  The water smelled foul, rotten. It quickly coated the ship decks, the rigging and tattered sails overhead, in a thick, pale grease.

  Swearing, the Daru began gathering foodstuffs and watercasks to load into their dory below. Karsa completed one last circuit of the decks, examining the weapons and armour he had pulled from the grey-skinned bodies. He found the rack of harpoons and gathered the six that remained.

  The downpour thickened, creating murky, impenetrable walls on all sides of the ship. Slipping in the deepening muck, Karsa and Torvald quickly resupplied the dory, then pushed out from the ship’s hull, the Teblor at the oars. Within moments the ship was lost from sight, and around them the rain slackened. Five sweeps of the oars and they were out from beneath it entirely, once again on gently heaving seas under a pallid sky. The strange coastline was visible ahead, slowly drawing closer.

  On the forecastle of the massive ship, moments after the dory with its two passengers slipped behind the screen of muddy rain, seven almost insubstantial figures rose from the slime. Shattered bones, gaping wounds bleeding nothing, the figures weaved uncertainly in the gloom, as if barely able to maintain their grip on the scene they had entered.

  One of them hissed with anger. ‘Each time we seek to draw the knot tight—’

  ‘He cuts it,’ another finished in a wry, bitter tone.

  A third one stepped down to the mizzen deck, kicked desultorily at a discarded sword. ‘The failure belonged to the Tiste Edur,’ this one pronounced in a rasping voice. ‘If punishment must be enacted, it should be in answer to their arrogance.’

  ‘Not for us to demand,’ the first speaker snapped. ‘We are not the masters in this scheme—’

  ‘Nor are the Tiste Edur!’

  ‘Even so, and we are each given particular tasks. Karsa Orlong survives still, and he must be our only concern—’

  ‘He begins to know doubts.’

  ‘None the less, his journey continues. It falls to us, now, with what little power we are able to extend, to direct his path onward.’

  ‘We’ve had scant success thus far!’

  ‘Untrue. The Shattered Warren stirs awake once more. The broken heart of the First Empire begins to bleed—less than a trickle at the moment, but soon it will become a flood. We need only set our chosen warrior upon the proper current . . .’

  ‘And is that within our power, limited as it still remains?’

  ‘Let us find out. Begin the preparations. Ber’ok, scatter that handful of otataral dust in the cabin—the Tiste Edur sorcerer’s warren remains open and, in this place, it will quickly become a wound . . . a growing wound. The time has not yet come for such unveilings.’

  The speaker then lifted its mangled head and seemed to sniff the air. ‘We must work quickly,’ it announced after a moment. ‘I believe we are being hunted.’

  The remaining six turned to face the speaker, who nodded in answer to their silent question. ‘Yes. There are kin upon our trail.’

  The wreckage of an entire land had drawn up alongside the massive stone wall. Uprooted trees, rough-hewn logs, planks, shingles and pieces of wagons and carts were visible amidst the detritus. The verges were thick with matted grasses and rotted leaves, forming a broad plain that twisted, rose and fell on the waves. The wall was barely visible in places, so high was the flotsam, and the level of the water beneath it.

  Torvald Nom was positioned at the bow whilst Karsa rowed. ‘I don’t know how we’ll get to that wall,’ the Daru said. ‘You’d better back the oars now, friend, lest we ground ourselves on that mess—there’s catfish about.’

  Karsa slowed the dory. They drifted, the hull nudging the carpet of flotsam. After a few moments it became apparent that there was a current, pulling their craft along the edge.

  ‘Well,’ Torvald muttered, ‘that’s a first for this sea. Do you think this is some sort of tide?’

  ‘No,’ Karsa replied, his gaze tracking the strange shoreline in the direction of the current. ‘It is a breach in the wall.’

  ‘Oh. Can you see where?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  The current was tugging them along faster, now.

  Karsa continued, ‘There is an indentation in the shoreline, and many trees and logs jammed where the wall should be—can you not hear the roar?’

  ‘Aye, now I can.’ Tension rode the Daru’s words. He straightened at the bow. ‘I see it. Karsa, we’d better—’

  ‘Yes, it is best we avoid this.’ The Teblor repositioned himself at the oars. He drew the dory away from the verge. The hull tugged sluggishly beneath them, began twisting. Karsa leaned his weight into each sweep, struggling to regain control. The water swirled around them.

  ‘Karsa!’ Torvald shouted. ‘There’s people—near the breach! I see a wrecked boat!’

  The breach was on the Teblor’s left as he pulled the dory across the current. He looked to where Torvald was pointing, and, after a moment, he bared his teeth. ‘The slavemaster and his men.’

  ‘They’re waving us over.’

  Karsa ceased sweeping with his left oar. ‘We cannot defeat this current,’ he announced, swinging the craft around. ‘The further out we proceed, the stronger it becomes.’

  ‘I think that’s what happened to Silgar’s boat—they managed to ground it just this side of the mouth, stoving it in, in the process. We should try to avoid a similar fate, Karsa, if we can, that is.’

  ‘Then keep an eye out for submerged logs,’ the Teblor said as he angled the dory closer to shore. ‘Also, are the lowlanders armed?’

  ‘Not that I can see,’ Torvald replied after a moment. ‘They look to be in, uh, in pretty bad condition. They’re perched on a small island of logs. Silgar, and Damisk, and one other . . . Borrug, I think. Gods, Karsa, they’re starved.’

  ‘Take a harpoon,’ the Teblor growled. ‘That hunger could well drive them to desperation.’

  ‘A touch shoreward, Karsa, we’re almost there.’

  There was a soft crunch from the hull, then a grinding, stuttering motion as the current sought to drag them along the verge. Torvald clambered out, ropes in one hand and harpoon in the other. Beyond him, Karsa saw as he turned about, huddled the three Nathii lowlanders, making no move to help and, if anything, drawing back as far as they could manage on the tangled island. The breach’s roar was a still-distant thundering, though closer at hand were ominous cracks, tearing and shifting noises—the logjam was coming loose.

  Torvald made fast the dory with a skein of lines tied to various branches and roots. Karsa stepped ashore, drawing his bloodsword, his eyes levelling on Silgar.

  The slavemaster attempted to retreat further.

  Near the three emaciated lowlanders lay the remains of a fourth, his bones picked clean.

  ‘Teblor!’ Silgar implored. ‘You must listen to me!’

  Karsa slowly advanced.

  ‘I can save us!’

  Torvald tugged at Karsa’s arm. ‘Wait, friend, let
’s hear the bastard.’

  ‘He will say anything,’ Karsa growled.

  ‘Even so—’

  Damisk Greydog spoke. ‘Karsa Orlong, listen! This island is being torn apart—we all need your boat. Silgar’s a mage—he can open a portal. But not if he’s drowning. Understand? He can take us from this realm!’

  ‘Karsa,’ Torvald said, weaving as the logs shifted under him, his grip on the Teblor’s arm tightening.

  Karsa looked down at the Daru beside him. ‘You trust Silgar?’

  ‘Of course not. But we’ve no choice—we’d be unlikely to survive plunging through that breach in the dory. We don’t even know this wall’s height—the drop on the other side could be endless. Karsa, we’re armed and they’re not—besides, they’re too weak to cause us trouble, you can see that, can’t you?’

  Silgar screamed as a large section of the logjam sank away immediately behind him.

  Scowling, Karsa sheathed his sword. ‘Begin untying the boat, Torvald.’ He waved at the lowlanders. ‘Come, then. But know this, Slavemaster, any sign of treachery from you and your friends will be picking your bones next.’

  Damisk, Silgar and Borrug scrambled forward.

  The entire section of flotsam was pulling away, breaking up along its edges as the current swept it onward. Clearly, the breach was expanding, widening to the pressure of an entire sea.

  Silgar climbed in and crouched down beside the dory’s prow. ‘I shall open a portal,’ he announced, his voice a rasp. ‘I can only do so but once—’

  ‘Then why didn’t you leave a long time ago?’ Torvald demanded, as he slipped the last line loose and clambered back aboard.

  ‘There was no path before—out on the sea. But now, here—someone has opened a gate. Close. The fabric is . . . weakened. I’ve not the skill to do such a thing myself. But I can follow.’

  The dory scraped free of the crumbling island, swung wildly into the sweeping current. Karsa pushed and pulled with the oars to angle their bow into the torrential flow.

  ‘Follow?’ Torvald repeated. ‘Where?’

  To that Silgar simply shook his head.

  Karsa abandoned the oars and made his way to the stern, taking the tiller in both hands.