House of Chains

by Steven Erikson

  Chain gauntlets waited on a wooden shelf on the wall behind the armour. The dull iron helm beside them was little more than a skullcap within a cage of studded bars, the bars reaching down like a massive hand, the gnarled fingers curving down to bridge nose, cheeks and jaw lines. A lobster tail of chain depended from the slightly flared neck rim.

  Standing just within the entrance to the modest, low-ceilinged room, Cutter watched as Darist began preparations for donning his martial accoutrements. The Daru youth was finding it difficult to convince himself that such beautiful weapons and armour—which had clearly seen decades, if not centuries, of use—could belong to this silver-haired man, who carried himself like an absent-minded scholar, whose amber eyes seemed to hold a perpetual look of confused distraction beneath the glowing sheen. Who moved slowly as if protecting brittle bones—

  Yet I have experienced the old Tiste Andü’s strength. And there is a mindfulness to his every movement which I should recognize—for I last saw it on another Tiste Andü, an ocean away. A racial trait? Perhaps, but it whispers like a song of threat, sunk deep in the marrow of my bones.

  Darist stood facing his suit of armour, as if frozen in some startled contemplation—as if he’d forgotten how to put it on.

  ‘These Tiste Edur, Darist,’ Cutter said. ‘How many are there?’

  ‘Will we survive the coming attack, is your question? Unlikely, is my answer. At least five ships survived the storm. Two have reached our shore and managed landing. There would have been more, but they were engaged by a Malazan fleet that happened upon them by chance. We witnessed the clash from the Cliffs of Purahl . . .’ The Tiste Andü slowly glanced back at Cutter. ‘Your human kin did well—far better than the Edur no doubt anticipated.’

  ‘A sea battle between the Malazans and the Tiste Edur? When was this?’

  ‘Perhaps a week ago. There were but three Malazan war dromons, yet each managed to find company before plunging to the deep. There was a skilled mage among the humans—the exchange of sorcery was impressive—’

  ‘You and your kin watched! Why didn’t you help? You must have known the Edur were seeking this island!’

  Darist stepped towards the armour, lifted it seemingly effortlessly from its frame. ‘We no longer leave this island. For many decades now, we hold to our decision to remain isolated.’

  ‘Why?’

  The Tiste Andü gave no answer. He slipped the mail suit over his shoulders. The sound it made as it flowed down was like liquid. He then reached for the sword.

  ‘That looks as if it would snap with the first block of a heavier weapon.’

  ‘It will not. There are many names for this particular sword.’ Darist lifted it free of the hooks. ‘Its maker named it Vengeance. T’an Arcs, in our language. But I call it K’orladis.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘Grief.’

  A faint chill rippled through Cutter. ‘Who was its maker?’

  ‘My brother.’ He sheathed the sword, slipped his arms through the chain harness. Then he reached for the gauntlets. ‘Before he found one more suited to his nature.’ Darist turned, his gaze travelling the length of Cutter, head to toe, then back again. ‘Do you have skill with those knives hidden about your person?’

  ‘Some, though I draw no pleasure from spilling blood.’

  ‘What else are they for?’ the Tiste Andü asked as he donned the helm. Cutter shrugged, wishing he had an answer to that question. ‘Do you intend to fight the Edur?’

  ‘Since they are seeking the throne, yes.’

  Darist slowly cocked his head. ‘Yet this is not your battle. Why would you choose to borrow this cause?’

  ‘On Genabackis—my homeland—Anomander Rake and his followers chose to fight against the Malazan Empire. It wasn’t their battle, but they have now made it so.’

  He was surprised to see a wry smile twist the Tiste Andü’s weathered features beneath the crooked iron fingers of the guards.

  ‘That is interesting. Very well, Cutter, join me—though I tell you now it will prove your final fight.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  Darist led him from the room, out into the broad hallway once more, then through a narrow, black-wood-framed archway. The passage within appeared to be a tunnel through a single piece of wood, like the hollowed core of a massive, toppled tree trunk. It stretched on into the gloom, inclining slightly upward.

  Cutter walked behind the Tiste Andü, the sound of the man’s armour soft as the hiss of rain on a beach. The tunnel ended abruptly with an upward turn, the ceiling opening to reveal a vertical shaft. A rough ladder of roots climbed towards a small, pale disc of light.

  Darist’s ascent was slow and measured, Cutter impatient on the rungs directly beneath until the thought that he might soon die struck him, at which point a dull lassitude settled into his muscles, and it became a struggle to keep up with the ancient Tiste Andü.

  They eventually emerged onto a leaf-cluttered floor of flagstones. Sunlight speared shafts of dust from slitted windows and gaps in the roof overhead—the storm seemed to have missed this place entirely. One wall had mostly collapsed and it was towards this that Darist strode.

  Cutter followed. ‘Some sort of upkeep might well have made this defensible,’ he muttered.

  ‘These surface structures are not Andü—they are Edur, and were in ruin when we first arrived.’

  ‘How close are they?’

  ‘They range through the forest, working inland. Cautious. They know they are not alone.’

  ‘How many can you sense?’

  ‘This first party numbers perhaps a score. We shall meet them in the courtyard, permitting us sufficient room for swordplay yet allowing us a wall to which we can set our backs in the last few moments.’

  ‘Hood’s breath, Darist, if we drive them back you’ll likely die of shock.’

  The Tiste Andü glanced back at the Daru, then gestured. ‘Follow me.’

  A half-dozen similarly ruined chambers were traversed before they came to the courtyard. The vine-latticed walls were twice the height of a human, ragged-topped. Faded frescoes were hinted at beneath the overgrowth. Opposite the inner entrance through which they strode was an arched gateway, beyond which a trail of pine needles, snaking roots and moss-covered boulders wound into the shadows of enormous trees.

  Cutter judged the yard to be twenty paces wide, twenty-five deep. ‘There’s too much room here, Darist,’ he said. ‘We’ll get flanked—’

  ‘I will command the centre. You remain behind, for those who might indeed try to get past me.’

  Cutter recalled Anomander Rake’s battle with the demon on the Darujhistan street. The two-handed fighting style the Son of Darkness had employed demanded plenty of room, and it now appeared that Darist would fight in a similar manner—but the sword’s blade was, to Cutter’s mind, far too thin for such fierce, wheeling swings. ‘Is there sorcery invested in that blade of yours?’ he asked.

  ‘Not as investment is commonly known,’ the Tiste Andü replied, drawing the weapon and wrapping both hands about the grip, one high under the hilt, the other just above the pommel. ‘The power of Grief lies in the focused intent in its creation. The sword demands a singular will in its wielder. With such a will, it cannot be defeated.’

  ‘And have you that singular will?’

  Darist slowly lowered the tip to the ground. ‘Had I, human, this would not be your last day this side of Hood’s gate. Now, I suggest you draw your weapons. The Edur have discovered the path and now approach.’

  Cutter found his hands were trembling as he drew out his leading knives. He possessed four others, two under each arm, sheathed in leather and peace-looped by thongs—which he now pulled clear. These four were weighted for throwing. Once done, he adjusted his grip on the knives in his hands, then had to dry his palms and repeat the task.

  A soft whisper of sound made him look up, to see that Darist had slipped into a fighting stance, though the tip of the sword still rested on the flagston
es.

  And Cutter saw something else. The leaf clutter and detritus on the flagstones was in motion, crawling as if pushed by an unseen wind, gathering towards the gate’s end of the courtyard, and out to heap against the walls to either side.

  ‘Keep your eyes slitted,’ Darist said in a low tone.

  Slitted?

  There was movement in the gloom beyond the gateway, furtive, then three figures stepped into view beneath the arch.

  As tall as Darist, their skin a dusky pallor. Long brown hair, knotted and snarled with fetishes. Necklaces of claws and canines competed with the barbarity of their roughly tanned leather armour that was stitched with articulating strips of bronze. Their helms, also bronze, were shaped like bear or wolf skulls.

  Among them, there was nothing of the natural majesty evident in Darist—or in Anomander Rake. A far more brutal cast, these Edur. Tip-heavy black-bladed scimitars were in their hands, sealskin-covered round shields on their forearms.

  They hesitated before Darist, then the one in the centre snarled something in a language Cutter could not understand.

  The silver-haired Tiste Andü shrugged, said nothing.

  The Edur shouted something that was clearly a demand. Then they readied their weapons and swung their shields around.

  Cutter could see more of the savage warriors gathered on the trail beyond the gate.

  The three stepped from the archway, spread out to form a slight pincer position—the centre Edur a step further away than his companions on either side.

  ‘They don’t know how you will do this,’ Cutter murmured. ‘They’ve never fought against—’

  The flankers moved forward in perfect unison.

  Darist’s sword snapped upward, and with that motion, a fierce gust of wind lifted in the courtyard, and the air around the three Edur was suddenly filled with skirling leaves and dust.

  Cutter watched as the Tiste Andü attacked. The blade tipped horizontal, point threatening the Edur on the right, but the actual attack was with the pommel, against the warrior on the left. A blurring sideways dip to close, then the pommel struck the swiftly upraised shield, splitting it clean in half. Darist’s left hand slipped off the pommel and slapped the warrior’s sword away even as the Tiste Andü dropped into a squat, drawing the edge of Grief down his opponent’s front.

  It seemed there was no contact at all, yet blood gushed from a rent that began above the Edur’s left collar bone and descended in a straight line down to his crotch.

  The squat became a backward springing motion that landed Darist two paces back, his blade already hissing to fend off the other two warriors, both of whom leapt away in alarm.

  The wounded Edur crumpled in a pool of his own blood, and as he fell Cutter saw that Grief had cut through the collar bone and every rib in the cage down the left side.

  The warriors beyond the archway screamed battlecries and surged into the wind-whipped courtyard.

  Their only chance of success lay in closing on Darist, inside the man’s reach, closing and fouling that whispering blade, and the Edur lacked nothing in courage.

  Cutter saw another cut down, then a third took the pommel on the side of his helm, and the bronze collapsed inward far too deep—the warrior’s limbs flailed in strange jerking motions as he fell to the flagstones.

  Both leading knives were in the Daru’s left hand, and his right reached to a throwing knife. He sent the weapon darting out with a back-handed throw, saw it sink to the hilt in an Edur’s eye socket—and knew the tip had snapped against the inside of the man’s skull at the back. He threw the second one and swore as a shield lifted to take it.

  In the storm of spinning leaves Darist’s sword seemed to be everywhere at once, blocking attack after attack, then an Edur flung himself forward to grapple, and managed to wrap both arms around the Tiste Andü’s legs.

  A scimitar lashed in. There was a spray of blood from Darist’s right shoulder. Grief’s pommel dented the helm of the grappling warrior, and the Edur sagged. Another swing chopped into the Tiste Andü’s hip, the blade bouncing back out from the bone. Darist staggered.

  Cutter rushed forward as the remaining Edur closed. Through spinning, clattering leaves, into the calmed air at the centre. The Daru had already learned that direct, head-on confrontation was not an ideal tactic when fighting with knives. He chose an Edur whose attention was fixed solely on Darist and was therefore turned slightly away—the warrior caught sight of him peripherally, and was quick to react.

  A back-handed slash of the scimitar, followed by the shield swinging round.

  Cutter punched his left knife at the blade, to intercept a third of the way down from the tip. Simultaneously, he stop-hit the swing with his other knife, midway along the man’s forearm—the point of his weapon punching through leather and stabbing between the bones with both edges on. The hilt of his other weapon then contacted the scimitar—and knocked the weapon from a numbed hand.

  The Edur’s grunt was loud, and he swore as, yanking on the knife, Cutter moved past him. The blade was reluctant to pull free and dragged the impaled arm after it. The warrior’s legs tangled and he fell to one knee.

  Even as he lifted his shield, Cutter’s free knife darted in over it, spearing him through the throat.

  The shield’s rim cracked hard against the Daru’s out-thrust wrist, nearly springing the knife loose, but he managed to retain his grip.

  Another tug and the other knife tore free of the Edur’s forearm.

  A shield struck him a body blow from his left, lifting Cutter upward, his moccasins leaving the flagstones. He twisted and slashed out at the attacker, and missed. The shield’s impact had turned his left side into a mass of thrumming pain. He hit the ground and folded into a roll.

  Something thumped in pursuit, bounced once, then twice, and as the Daru regained his feet an Edur’s decapitated head cracked hard against his right shin.

  The agony of this last blow—absurdly to his mind—overwhelmed all else thus far. He screamed a curse, hopped backward one-legged.

  An Edur was rushing him.

  A fouler word grated out from Cutter. He flung the knife from his left hand. Shield surged up to meet it, the warrior ducking from view.

  Grimacing, Cutter lunged after the weapon—while the Edur remained blind—and stabbed overhand above the shield. The knife sank down behind the man’s left collarbone, sprouting a geyser of blood as he pulled it back out.

  There were shouts now in the courtyard—and suddenly it seemed the fighting was everywhere, on all sides. Cutter reeled back a step to see that other Tiste Andü had arrived—and, in their midst, Apsalar.

  Three Edur were on the ground in her wake, all writhing amidst blood and bile.

  The rest, barring their kin who had fallen to Apsalar, Cutter and Darist, were retreating, back through the archway.

  Apsalar and her Tiste Andü companions pursued only so far as the gate.

  Slowly, the spinning wind dwindled, the leaf fragments drifting down like ash.

  Cutter glanced over to see Darist still standing, though he leaned against a side wall, his long, lean frame sheathed in blood, helm gone, his hair matted and hanging down over his face, dripping. The sword Grief remained in his two hands, point once more on the flagstones.

  One of the new Tiste Andü moved to the three noisily dying Edur and unceremoniously slit their throats. When finished, she raised her gaze to study Apsalar for a long moment.

  Cutter realized that all of Darist’s kin were white-haired, though none were as old—indeed, they appeared very young, in appearance no older than the Daru himself. They were haphazardly armed and armoured, and none held their weapons with anything like familiarity. Quick, nervous glances were thrown at the gateway—then over to Darist.

  Sheathing her Kethra knives, Apsalar strode up to Cutter. ‘I am sorry we were late.’

  He blinked, then shrugged. ‘I thought you’d drowned.’

  ‘No, I made shore easily enough—though everything else
went with you. There was sorcerous questing, then, but I evaded that.’ She nodded to the youths. ‘I found these camped a fair distance inland. They were . . . hiding.’

  ‘Hiding. But Darist said—’

  ‘Ah, so that is Darist. Andarist, to be more precise.’ She turned a thoughtful gaze on the ancient Tiste Andü. ‘It was by his command. He didn’t want them here . . . because I imagine he expected they would die.’

  ‘And so they shall,’ Darist growled, finally lifting his head to meet her eyes. ‘You have condemned them all, for the Edur will now hunt them down in earnest—the old hatreds, rekindled once more.’

  She seemed unaffected by his words. ‘The throne must be protected.’

  Darist bared red-stained teeth, his eyes glittering in the half-shadows. ‘If he truly wants it protected, then he can come here and do it himself.’

  Apsalar frowned. ‘Who?’

  Cutter answered, ‘His brother, of course. Anomander Rake.’

  It had been a guess, but Darist’s expression was all the affirmation needed. Anomander Rake’s younger brother. In his veins, nothing of the Son of Darkness’s Draconian blood. And in his hands, a sword that its maker had judged insufficient, when compared to Dragnipur. But this knowledge alone was barely a whisper—the twisted, dark storm of all that existed between the two siblings was an epic neither man was ever likely to orate, or so Cutter suspected.

  And the skein of bitter grievances proved even more knotted than the Daru had first imagined, for it was then revealed that the youths were, one and all, close kin to Anomander—grandchildren. Their parents had inherited their sire’s flaw, the hunger for wandering, for vanishing into the mists, for shaping private worlds in forgotten, isolated places. ‘The search for loyalty and honour’, Darist had said, with a sneer, whilst Phaed—the young woman who had shown mercy to Apsalar’s victims—bound his wounds.

  A task not done quickly. Darist—Andarist—had been slashed at least a dozen times, each time the heavy scimitar parting chain then flesh down to the bone, in various places on his body. How he had managed to stand upright, much less continue fighting, belied his earlier claim that his will was not of sufficient purity to match the sword, Grief. Now that the skirmish had been suspended, however, the force that had fired the old warrior fast dissipated. His right arm was incapacitated; the wound on his hip dragged him onto the flagstones—and he could not rise again without help.