House of Chains

by Steven Erikson

  She wept for a long, long time, and he held her tight, unmoving, as solid as he could manage. And each time the vision of his fallen god rose before his mind’s eye, he ruthlessly drove it back down. The child in his arms—for child she was, once more—cried in nothing other than the throes of salvation. She was no longer alone, no longer alone with only her hated sister to taint the family’s blood.

  For that—for the need his presence answered—his own grief would wait.

  Chapter Eight

  Among the untried recruits of the Fourteenth Army, fully half originated from the continent of Quon Tali, the very centre of the empire. Young and idealistic, they stepped onto blood-soaked ground, in the wake of the sacrifices made by their fathers and mothers, their grandfathers and grandmothers. It is the horror of war that, with each newly arrived generation, the nightmare is reprised by innocents.

  The Sha’ik Rebellion

  Illusions of Victory

  Imrygyn Tallobant

  ADJUNCT TAVORE STOOD ALONE IN FRONT OF FOUR THOUSAND milling, jostling soldiers, while officers bellowed and screamed through the press, their voices hoarse with desperation. Pikes wavered and flashed blinding glares through the dusty air of the parade ground like startled birds of steel. The sun was a raging fire overhead.

  Fist Gamet stood twenty paces behind her, tears in his eyes as he stared at Tavore. A pernicious wind was sweeping the dust cloud directly towards the Adjunct. In moments she was engulfed. Yet she made no move, her back straight, her gloved hands at her sides.

  No commander could be more alone than she was now. Alone, and helpless.

  And worse. This is my legion. The 8th. The first to assemble, Beru fend us all.

  But she had ordered that he remain where he was, if only to spare him the humiliation of trying to impose some kind of order on his troops. She had, instead, taken that humiliation upon herself. And Gamet wept for her, unable to hide his shame and grief.

  Aren’s parade ground was a vast expanse of hard-packed, almost white earth. Six thousand fully armoured soldiers could stand arrayed in ranks with sufficient avenues between the companies for officers to conduct their review. The Fourteenth Army was to assemble before the scrutiny of Adjunct Tavore in three phases, a legion at a time. Gamet’s 8th had arrived in a ragged, dissolving mob over two bells past, every lesson from every drill sergeant lost, the few veteran officers and non-coms locked in a titanic struggle with a four-thousand-headed beast that had forgotten what it was.

  Gamet saw Captain Keneb, whom Blistig had graciously given him to command the 9th Company, battering at soldiers with the flat of his blade, forcing them into a line that broke up in his wake as other soldiers pressed forward from behind. There were some old soldiers in that front row, trying to dig in their heels—sergeants and corporals, red-faced with sweat streaming from beneath their helms.

  Fifteen paces behind Gamet waited the other two Fists, as well as the Wickan scouts under the command of Temul. Nil and Nether were there as well, although, mercifully, Admiral Nok was not—for the fleet had sailed.

  Impulses at war within him, Gamet trembled, wanting to be elsewhere—anywhere—and wanting to drag the Adjunct with him. Failing that, wanting to step forward, defying her direct order, to take position at her side.

  Someone came alongside him. A heavy leather sack thumped into the dust, and Gamet turned to see a squat soldier, blunt-featured beneath a leather cap, wearing barely half of a marine’s standard issue of armour—a random collection of boiled leather fittings—over a threadbare, stained uniform, the magenta dye so faded as to be mauve. No insignia was present. The man’s scarred, pitted face stared impassively at the seething mob.

  Gamet swung further round to see an additional dozen decrepit men and women, each standing an arm’s reach from the one in front, wearing unrepaired, piecemeal armour and carrying an assortment of weapons—few of which were Malazan.

  The Fist addressed the man in the lead. ‘And who in Hood’s name are you people?’

  ‘Sorry we was late,’ the soldier grunted. ‘Then again,’ he added, ‘I could be lying.’

  ‘Late? Which squads? What companies?’

  The man shrugged. ‘This and that. We was in Aren gaol. Why was we there? This and that. But now we’re here, sir. You want these children quelled?’

  ‘If you can manage that, soldier, I’ll give you a command of your own.’

  ‘No you won’t. I killed an Untan noble here in Aren. Name of Lenestro. Snapped his neck with these two hands.’

  Through the clouds of dust before them, a sergeant had clawed free of the mob and was approaching Adjunct Tavore. For a moment Gamet was terrified that he would, insanely, cut her down right there, but the man sheathed his short-sword as he drew up before her. Words were exchanged.

  The Fist made a decision. ‘Come with me, soldier.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ The man reached down and collected his kit bag.

  Gamet led him to where Tavore and the sergeant stood. An odd thing happened then. There was a grunt from the veteran at the Fist’s side, even as the wiry, red-and-grey-bearded sergeant’s eyes flickered past the Adjunct and fixed on the soldier. A sudden broad grin, then a quick succession of gestures—a hand lifting, as if holding an invisible rock or ball, then the hand flipping, index finger inscribing a circle, followed by a jerk of the thumb towards the east, concluded with a shrug. In answer to all this, the soldier from the gaol gave his kit bag a shake.

  The sergeant’s blue eyes widened.

  They arrived, coming alongside the Adjunct, who swung a blank gaze on Gamet.

  ‘Your pardon, Adjunct,’ the Fist said, and would have added more, but Tavore raised a hand and made to speak.

  She didn’t get a chance.

  The soldier at Gamet’s side spoke to the sergeant. ‘Draw us a line, will ya?’

  ‘I’ll do just that.’

  The sergeant pivoted and returned to the heaving ranks.

  Tavore’s eyes had snapped to the soldier, but she said nothing, for the man had set his bag down, drawn back its flap, and was rummaging inside it.

  Five paces in front of the legion’s uneven ranks, the sergeant once more drew his sword, then drove its blunt tip into the dust and set off, inscribing a sharp furrow in the ground.

  Draw us a line, will ya?

  The soldier crouched over his kit bag looked up suddenly. ‘You two still here? Go back to them Wickans, then all of you pull back another thirty, forty paces. Oh, and get them Wickans off their horses and a tight grip on the reins, and all of ya, take for yourselves a wide stance. Then when I give the signal, plug your ears.’

  Gamet flinched as the man began withdrawing a succession of clay balls from his bag. The bag . . . that thumped down beside me not fifty heartbeats ago. Hood’s breath!

  ‘What is your name, soldier?’ Adjunct Tavore rasped.

  ‘Cuttle. Now, better get moving, lass.’

  Gamet reached out and touched her shoulder. ‘Adjunct, those are—’

  ‘I know what they are,’ she snapped. ‘And this man’s liable to kill fifty of my soldiers—’

  ‘Right now, lady,’ Cuttle growled as he drew out a folding shovel, ‘you ain’t got any. Now take it from me, that otataral blade at your comely hip ain’t gonna help you one bit if you decide to stand here. Pull ’em all back, and leave the rest to me and the sergeant.’

  ‘Adjunct,’ Gamet said, unable to keep the pleading from his tone.

  She shot him a glare, then wheeled. ‘Let us be about it, then, Fist.’

  He let her take the lead, paused after a few paces to glance back. The sergeant had rejoined Cuttle, who had managed to dig a small hole in what seemed an absurdly short time.

  ‘Cobbles down there?’ The sergeant nodded. ‘Perfect!’

  ‘About what I figured,’ Cuttle replied. ‘I’ll angle these crackers, with the cusser a hand’s width deeper—’

  ‘Perfect. I’d have done the same if I’d thought to bring some with me.’


  ‘You supplied?’

  ‘Well enough.’

  ‘What I got here in my bag are the last.’

  ‘I can mend that, Cuttle.’

  ‘For that, Fid—’

  ‘Strings.’

  ‘For that, Strings, you’ve earned a kiss.’

  ‘I can’t wait.’

  Gamet pulled himself away with a shake of his head. Sappers.

  The explosion was a double thump that shook the earth, cobbles punching free of the overburden of dust—which had leapt skyward—to clack and clash in a maelstrom of stone chips and slivers. Fully a third of the legion were thrown from their feet, taking down others with them.

  Astonishingly, none seemed fatally injured, as if Cuttle had somehow directed the force of the detonation downward and out under the cobbles.

  As the last rubble pattered down, Adjunct Tavore and Gamet moved forward once again.

  Facing the silenced mob, Cuttle stood with a sharper held high in one hand. In a bellowing voice, he addressed the recruits. ‘Next soldier who moves gets this at his feet, and if you think my aim ain’t any good, try me! Now, sergeants and corporals! Up nice and slow now. Find your squads. You up here in front, Sergeant Strings here has drawn us a tidy nice line—all right, so it’s a bit messy right now so he’s drawing it again—walk up to it easy like, toes a finger’s width away from it, boots square! We’re gonna do this right, or people are going to die.’

  Sergeant Strings was moving along the front line now, ensuring the line was held, spreading soldiers out. Officers were shouting once more, though not as loud as before, since the recruits remained silent. Slowly, the legion began taking shape.

  Those recruits were indeed silent, and . . . watchful, Gamet noted as he and the Adjunct returned to close to their original position—the gaping, smoking crater off to one side. Watchful . . . of the madman with the sharper held high above his head. After a moment, the Fist moved up to stand beside Cuttle.

  ‘You killed a nobleman?’ he asked in a low voice, studying the assembling ranks.

  ‘Aye, Fist. I did.’

  ‘Was he on the Chain of Dogs?’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘As were you, Cuttle.’

  ‘Until I took a spear through a shoulder. Went with the others on the Silanda. Missed the final argument, I did. Lenestro was . . . second best. I wanted Pullyk Alar to start, but Alar’s run off with Mallick Rel. I want both of them, Fist. Maybe they think the argument’s over, but not for me.’

  ‘I’d be pleased if you took me up on that offer of command,’ Gamet said.

  ‘No thanks, sir. I’m already assigned to a squad. Sergeant Strings’s squad, in fact. Suits me fine.’

  ‘Where do you know him from?’

  Cuttle glanced over, his eyes thinned to slits. Expressionless, he said, ‘Never met him before today, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I owe him a kiss.’

  Less than a quarter-bell later, Fist Gamet’s 8th Legion stood motionless in tight, even ranks. Adjunct Tavore studied them from where she stood at Gamet’s side, but had yet to speak. Cuttle and Sergeant Strings had rejoined the 9th Company’s 4th squad.

  Tavore seemed to reach some decision. A gesture behind her brought Fists Tene Baralta and Blistig forward. Moments later they came up alongside Gamet and halted. The Adjunct’s unremarkable eyes fixed on Blistig. ‘Your legion waits in the main avenue beyond?’

  The red-faced man nodded. ‘Melting in the heat, Adjunct. But that cusser going off settled them down.’

  Her gaze shifted to the Red Blade. ‘Fist Baralta?’

  ‘Calmed, Adjunct.’

  ‘When I dismiss the 8th and they depart the parade ground, I suggest the remaining soldiers enter by company. Each company will then take position and when they are ready the next one follows. It may take longer, but at the very least we will not have a repetition of the chaos we have just witnessed. Fist Gamet, are you satisfied with the assemblage of your troops?’

  ‘Well enough, Adjunct.’

  ‘As am I. You may now—’

  She got no further, seeing that the attention of the three men standing before her had slipped past, over her shoulder; and from the four thousand soldiers standing at attention, there was sudden, absolute silence—not a rustle of armour, not a cough. For the 8th had drawn a single breath, and now held it.

  Gamet struggled to maintain his expression, even as Tavore raised an eyebrow at him. Then she slowly turned.

  The toddler had come from nowhere, unseen by any until he arrived to stand in the very spot where the Adjunct had first stood, his oversized rust-red telaba trailing like a royal train. Blond hair a tangled shock above a deeply tanned, cherubic face smeared with dirt, the child faced the ranks of soldiers with an air of unperturbed calculation.

  A strangled cough from among the soldiers, then someone stepped forward.

  Even as the man emerged from the front line, the toddler’s eyes found him. Both arms, buried in sleeves, reached out. Then one sleeve slipped back, revealing the tiny hand, and in that hand there was a bone. A human longbone. The man froze in mid-step.

  The air above the parade ground seemed to hiss like a thing alive with the gasps of four thousand soldiers.

  Gamet fought down a shiver, then spoke to the man. ‘Captain Keneb,’ he said loudly, struggling to swallow a welling dread, ‘I suggest you collect your lad. Now, before he, uh, starts screaming.’

  Face flushed, Keneb threw a shaky salute then strode forward.

  ‘Neb!’ the toddler shouted as the captain gathered him up.

  Adjunct Tavore snapped, ‘Follow me!’ to Gamet, then walked to the pair. ‘Captain Keneb, is it?’

  ‘Your p-pardon, Adjunct. The lad has a nurse but seems determined to slip through her grasp at every opportunity—there’s a blown graveyard behind the—’

  ‘Is he yours, Captain?’ Tavore demanded, her tone brittle.

  ‘As good as, Adjunct. An orphan from the Chain of Dogs. The historian Duiker placed him into my care.’

  ‘Has he a name?’

  ‘Grub.’

  ‘Grub?’

  Keneb’s shrug was apologetic. ‘For now, Adjunct. It well suits him—’

  ‘And the 8th. Yes, I see that. Deliver him to your hired nurse, Captain. Then, tomorrow, fire her and hire a better one . . . or three. Will the child accompany the army?’

  ‘He has no-one else, Adjunct. There will be other families among the camp followers—’

  ‘I am aware of that. Be on your way, Captain Keneb.’

  ‘I—I am sorry, Adjunct—’

  But she was already turning away, and only Gamet heard her sigh and murmur, ‘It is far too late for that.’

  And she was right. Soldiers—even recruits—recognized an omen when it arrived. A child in the very boot prints of the woman who would lead this army. Raising high a sun-bleached thigh bone.

  Gods below . . .

  ‘Hood’s balls skewered on a spit.’

  The curse was spoken as a low growl, in tones of disgust.

  Strings watched Cuttle set his bag down and slide it beneath the low flatboard bed. The stable that had been transformed into a makeshift barracks held eight squads now, the cramped confines reeking of fresh sweat . . . and stark terror. At the back wall’s urine hole someone was being sick.

  ‘Let’s head outside, Cuttle,’ Strings said after a moment. ‘I’ll collect Gesler and Borduke.’

  ‘I’d rather go get drunk,’ the sapper muttered.

  ‘Later, we’ll do just that. But first, we need to have a small meeting.’

  Still the other man hesitated.

  Strings rose from his cot and stepped close. ‘Aye, it’s that important.’

  ‘All right. Lead on . . . Strings.’

  As it turned out, Stormy joined the group of veterans that pushed silently past ashen-faced recruits—many of them with closed eyes and mouthing silent prayers—and headed out into the courtyard.

  It was deserted, Lieutenan
t Ranal—who had proved pathetically ineffective at the assembly—having fled into the main house the moment the troop arrived.

  All eyes were on Strings. He in turn studied the array of grim expressions around him. There was no doubt among them concerning the meaning of the omen, and Strings was inclined to agree. A child leads us to our deaths. A leg bone to signify our march, withered under the curse of the desert sun. We’ve all lived too long, seen too much, to deceive ourselves of this one brutal truth: this army of recruits now see themselves as already dead.

  Stormy’s battered, red-bearded face finally twisted into an expression too bitter to be wry. ‘If you’re going to say that us here have a hope at Hood’s gate in fighting the tide, Strings, you’ve lost your mind. The lads and lasses in there ain’t unique—the whole damned three legions—’

  ‘I know,’ Strings cut in. ‘We ain’t none of us stupid. Now, all I’m asking is for a spell of me talking. Me talking. No interruptions. I’ll tell you when I’m done. Agreed?’

  Borduke turned his head and spat. ‘You’re a Hood-damned Bridgeburner.’

  ‘Was. Got a problem with that?’

  The sergeant of the 6th squad grinned. ‘What I meant by that, Strings, is that for you I’ll listen. As you ask.’

  ‘Same with us,’ Gesler muttered, Stormy nodding agreement at his side.

  Strings faced Cuttle. ‘And you?’

  ‘Only because it’s you and not Hedge, Fiddler. Sorry. Strings.’

  Borduke’s eyes widened in recognition of the name. He spat a second time.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t thank us yet,’ Cuttle said, but took the edge off with a slight smile.

  ‘All right, I’ll start with a story. Has to do with Nok, the admiral, though he wasn’t an admiral back then, just the commander of six dromons. I’d be surprised if any of you have heard this story but if you have don’t say nothing—but its relevance here should have occurred to you already. Six dromons. On their way to meet the Kartool fleet, three pirate galleys, which had each been blessed by the island’s priests of D’rek. The Worm of Autumn. Yes, you all know D’rek’s other name, but I said it for emphasis. In any case, Nok’s fleet had stopped at the Napan Isles, went up the mouth of Koolibor River to drag barrels—drawing fresh water. What every ship did when heading out to Kartool or beyond on the Reach. Six ships, each drawing water, storing the barrels below decks.