House of Chains

by Steven Erikson

  A spear almost as tall as the Teblor himself.

  It fell away from the pillar, a flattened shard, and settled into his hands. A warm lick on his palms, and suddenly blood was running down his forearms. Karsa quickly backed up, lowering the blade to the floor. When he drew his hands away he saw that they had been cut down to the bone. Clever Bairoth, to drink my blood to seal the bargain.

  ‘You . . . surpass us,’ Halad whispered.

  Karsa went to his pack and drew out a bundle of field dressings and a sewing kit. There would be no infection, of course, and he would heal swiftly. Still, he would need to close the cuts before he could hope to begin work on the huge blade’s edges, and hack out a grip of sorts.

  ‘We shall invest the weapon,’ Urugal announced behind him. ‘So that it cannot be broken.’

  Karsa nodded.

  ‘We shall make you the Eighth God of the Teblor.’

  ‘No,’ he replied as he began working on his left hand. ‘I am not as you, Urugal. I am not Unbound. You yourself closed the chains about me. By your own hands, you saw to it that the souls of those I have slain will pursue me eternally. You have shaped my haunting, Urugal. Beneath such a curse, I can never be unbound.’

  ‘There is place for you none the less,’ Urugal said, ‘in the House of Chains.’

  ‘Aye. Knight of Chains, champion of the Crippled God.’

  ‘You have learned much, Karsa Orlong.’

  He stared down at his bloodied hands. ‘I have, T’lan Imass. As you shall witness.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  How many times, dear traveller, will you walk the same path?

  Kayessan

  TO THE NORTH, THE DUST OF THE IMPERIAL ARMY OBSCURED THE forest-mantled hills of Vathar. It was late afternoon, the hottest part of the day, when the wind died and the rocks radiated like flatstones on a hearth. Sergeant Strings remained motionless beneath his ochre rain cloak, lying flat as he studied the lands to the southwest. Sweat streamed down his face to prickle in his iron-shot red beard.

  After a long moment studying the mass of horse warriors that had emerged out of the dusty odhan in their wake, Strings lifted a gloved hand and gestured.

  The others of his squad rose from their places of concealment and edged back from the crest. The sergeant watched them until they reached cover once more, then slid around and followed.

  Endless skirmishes with raiders these last weeks, beginning just outside Dojal, with more heated clashes with Kherahn Dhobri tribes at Tathimon and Sanimon . . . but nothing like the army now trailing them. Three thousand warriors, at the very least, of a tribe they’d not seen before. Countless barbaric standards rose above the host, tall spears topped with ragged streamers, antlers, horns and skulls. The glitter of bronze scale armour was visible beneath the black telabas and furs, as well as—more prolific—a strange greyish armour that was too supple to be anything but hide. The helms, from what Strings could make out with the distance, looked to be elaborate, many of them crow-winged, of leather and bronze.

  Strings slid down to where his squad waited. They’d yet to engage in hand-to-hand combat, their sum experience of fighting little more than firing crossbows and occasionally holding a line. So far . . . so good. The sergeant faced Smiles. ‘All right, it’s settled—climb on that miserable horse down below, lass, and ride to the lieutenant. Looks like we’ve got a fight coming.’

  Sweat had tracked runnels through the dust sheathing her face. She nodded, then scrambled off.

  ‘Bottle, go to Gesler’s position, and have him pass word to Borduke. I want a meeting. Quick, before their scouts get here.’

  ‘Aye, Sergeant.’

  After a moment, Strings drew out his waterskin and passed it to Corporal Tarr, then he tapped Cuttle on the shoulder and the two of them made their way back to the ridge.

  They settled down side by side to resume studying the army below.

  ‘These ones could maul us,’ the sergeant muttered. ‘Then again, they’re riding so tight it makes me wonder . . .’

  Cuttle grunted, eyes thinned to slits. ‘Something’s gnawing my knuckles here, Fid. They know we’re close, but they ain’t arrayed for battle. They should’ve held back until night, then hit all along our line. And where are their scouts, anyway?’

  ‘Well, those outriders—’

  ‘Way too close. Local tribes here know better—’

  A sudden scattering of stones and Strings and Cuttle twisted round—to see riders cresting the ridge on either side of them, and others cantering into view on the back-slope, closing on his squad.

  ‘Hood take us! Where did—’

  Yipping warcries sounded, weapons waving in the air, yet the horse warriors then drew rein, rising in their stirrups as they surrounded the squad.

  Frowning, Strings clambered to his feet. A glance back at the army below showed a vanguard climbing the slope at a canter. The sergeant met Cuttle’s eyes and shrugged.

  The sapper grimaced in reply.

  Escorted by the riders on the ridge, the two soldiers made their way down to where Tarr and Koryk stood. Both had their crossbows loaded, though no longer trained on the tribesmen wheeling their mounts in a prancing circle around them. Further down the ridge Strings saw Gesler and his squad appear, along with Bottle; and their own company of horse warriors.

  ‘Cuttle,’ the sergeant muttered, ‘did you clash with these anywhere north of the River Vathar?’

  ‘No. But I think I know who they are.’

  None of these scouts wore bronze armour. The grey hide beneath their desert-coloured cloaks and furs looked strangely reptilian. Crow wings had been affixed to their forearms, like swept-back fins. Their faces were pale by local standards, unusual in being bearded and long-moustached. Tattoos of black tears ran down the lengths of their weathered cheeks.

  Apart from lances, fur-covered wooden scabbards were slung across their backs, holding heavy-bladed tulwars. All had crow-feet earrings dangling from under their helms.

  The tribe’s vanguard reached the crest above them and drew to a halt, as, on the opposite side, there appeared a company of Wickans, Seti and Malazan officers.

  Beru fend, the Adjunct herself’s with them. Also Fist Gamet, Nil, Nether and Temul, as well as Captain Keneb and Lieutenant Ranal.

  The two mounted forces faced one another on either side of the shallow gully, and Strings could see Temul visibly start, then lean over to speak to the Adjunct. A moment later, Tavore, Gamet and Temul rode forward.

  From the tribe’s vanguard a single rider began the descent on the back-slope. A chieftain, Strings surmised. The man was huge; two tulwars were strapped to a harness crossing his chest, one of them broken just above the hilt. The black tears tattooed down his broad cheeks looked to have been gouged into the flesh. He rode down fairly close to where Strings and Cuttle stood and paused beside them.

  He nodded towards the approaching group and asked in rough Malazan, ‘This is the Plain Woman who leads you?’

  Strings winced, then nodded. ‘Adjunct Tavore, aye.’

  ‘We have met the Kherahn Dhobri,’ the chieftain said, then smiled. ‘They will harass you no more, Malazan.’

  Tavore and her officers arrived, halting five paces away. The Adjunct spoke. ‘I welcome you, Warchief of the Khundryl. I am Adjunct Tavore Paran, commander of the Fourteenth Army of the Malazan Empire.’

  ‘I am Gall, and we are the Burned Tears of the Khundryl.’

  ‘The Burned Tears?’

  The man made a gesture of grief. ‘Blackwing, leader of the Wickans. I spoke with him. My warriors sought to challenge, to see who were the greatest warriors of all. We fought hard, but we were humbled. Blackwing is dead, his clan destroyed, and Korbolo Dom’s Dogslayers dance on his name. That must be answered, and so we have come. Three thousand—all that fought for Blackwing the first time. We are changed, Adjunct. We are other than we once were. We grieve the loss of ourselves, and so we shall remain lost, for all time.’

  ‘Your words s
adden me, Gall,’ Tavore replied, her voice shaky.

  Careful now, lass . . .

  ‘We would join you,’ the Khundryl warchief rasped, ‘for we have nowhere else to go. The walls of our yurts look strange to our eyes. The faces of our wives, husbands, children—all those we once loved and who once loved us—strangers, now. Like Blackwing himself, we are as ghosts in this world, in this land that was once our home.’

  ‘You would join us—to fight under my command, Gall?’

  ‘We would.’

  ‘Seeking vengeance against Korbolo Dom,’

  He shook his head. ‘That will come, yes. But we seek to make amends.’

  She frowned beneath her helm. ‘Amends? By Temul’s account you fought bravely, and well. Without your intercession, the Chain of Dogs would have fallen at Sanimon. The refugees would have been slaughtered—’

  ‘Yet we then rode away—back to our lands, Adjunct. We thought only to lick our wounds. While the Chain marched on. To more battles. To its final battle.’ He was weeping in truth now, and an eerie keening sound rose from the other horse warriors present. ‘We should have been there. That is all.’

  The Adjunct said nothing for a long moment.

  Strings removed his helm and wiped the sweat from his brow. He glanced back up the slope, and saw a solid line of Khundryl on the ridge. Silent. Waiting.

  Tavore cleared her throat. ‘Gall, Warchief of the Burned Tears . . . the Fourteenth Army welcomes you.’

  The answering roar shook the ground underfoot. Strings turned and met Cuttle’s eyes. Three thousand veterans of this Hood-damned desert. Queen of Dreams, we have a chance. Finally, it looks like we have a chance. He did not need to speak aloud to know that Cuttle understood, for the man slowly nodded.

  But Gall was not finished. Whether he realized the full measure of his next gesture—no, Strings would conclude eventually, he could not have—even so . . . The Warchief gathered his reins and rode forward, past the Adjunct. He halted his horse before Temul, then dismounted.

  Three strides forward. Under the eyes of over three hundred Wickans, and five hundred Seti, the burly Khundryl—his grey eyes fixed on Temul—halted. Then he unslung his broken tulwar and held it out to the Wickan youth.

  Temul was pale as he reached down to accept it.

  Gall stepped back and slowly lowered himself to one knee. ‘We are not Wickans,’ the warchief grated, ‘but this I swear—we shall strive to be.’ He lowered his head.

  Temul sat unmoving, visibly struggling beneath a siege of emotions, and Strings suddenly realized that the lad did not know how to answer, did not know what to do.

  The sergeant took a step, then swung his helm upward, as if to put it back on. Temul caught the flash of movement, even as he looked about to dismount, and he froze as he met Strings’s eyes.

  A slight shake of the head. Stay in that saddle, Temul! The sergeant reached up and touched his own mouth. Talk. Answer with words, lad!

  The commander slowly settled back into his saddle, then straightened. ‘Gall of the Burned Tears,’ he said, barely a tremble to his voice, ‘Blackwing sees through the eyes of every Wickan here. Sees, and answers. Rise. In Blackwing’s name, I, Temul of the Crow Clan, accept you . . . the Burned Tears . . . of the Crow Clan, of the Wickans.’ He then took the loop of leather to which the broken tulwar was tied, and lowered it over his shoulder.

  With the sound of a wave rolling up a league-long strand of beach, weapons were unsheathed along the ridge, a salute voiced by iron alone.

  A shiver rippled through Strings.

  ‘Hood’s breath,’ Cuttle muttered under his breath. ‘That is a lot more frightening than their warcries were.’

  Aye, as ominous as Hood’s smile. He looked back to Temul and saw the Wickan watching him. The sergeant lowered the helm onto his head once more, then grinned and nodded. Perfect, lad. Couldn’t have done better myself.

  And now, Temul wasn’t alone any more, surrounded by sniping arthritic wolves who still wouldn’t accept his command. Now, the lad had Gall and three thousand blooded warriors to back his word. And that’s the last of that. Gall, if I was a religious man, I’d burn a crow-wing in your name tonight. Hood take me, I might do it anyway.

  ‘Gall of the Burned Tears,’ the Adjunct announced. ‘Please join us at our command quarters. We can discuss the disposition of your forces over a meal—a modest meal, alas—’

  The Khundryl finally straightened. He faced the Adjunct. ‘Modest? No. We have brought our own food, and this night there shall be a feast—not a single soldier shall go without at least a mouthful of bhederin or boar!’ He swung about and scanned his retinue until he spied the one he sought. ‘Imrahl! Drag your carcass back to the wagons and bring them forward! And find the two hundred cooks and see if they’ve sobered up yet! And if they haven’t, I will have their heads!’

  The warrior named Imrahl, an ancient, scrawny figure who seemed to be swimming beneath archaic bronze armour, answered with a broad, ghastly smile, then spun his horse round and kicked it into a canter back up the slope.

  Gall swung about and raised both hands skyward, the crow-wings attached to the forearms seeming to snap open beneath them. ‘Let the Dogslayers cower!’ he roared. ‘The Burned Tears have begun the hunt!’

  Cuttle leaned close to Strings. ‘That’s one problem solved—the Wickan lad’s finally on solid ground. One wound sewn shut, only to see another pried open.’

  ‘Another?’ Oh. Yes, true enough. That Wickan Fist’s ghost keeps rearing up, again and again. Poor lass.

  ‘As if Coltaine’s legacy wasn’t already dogging her heels . . . if you’ll excuse the pun,’ the sapper went on. ‘Still, she’s putting a brave face on it . . .’

  No choice. Strings faced his squad. ‘Collect your gear, soldiers. We’ve got pickets to raise . . . before we eat.’ At their groans he scowled. ‘And consider yourselves lucky—missing those scouts don’t bode well for our capabilities, now, does it?’

  He watched them assemble their gear. Gesler and Borduke were approaching with their own squads. Cuttle grunted at the sergeant’s side. ‘In case it’s slipped your mind, Fid,’ he said, low, ‘we didn’t see the bastards, either.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Strings replied, ‘it’s slipped my mind completely. Huh, there it goes again. Gone.’

  Cuttle scratched the bristle on his heavy jaw. ‘Strange, what were we talking about?’

  ‘Bhederin and boar, I think. Fresh meat.’

  ‘Right. My mouth’s watering at the thought.’

  Gamet paused outside the command tent. The revelry continued unabated, as the Khundryl roved through the camp, roaring their barbaric songs. Jugs of fermented milk had been broached and the Fist was grimly certain that more than one bellyful of half-charred, half-raw meat had returned to the earth prematurely out beyond the fires, or would in the short time that remained before dawn.

  Next day’s march had been halved, by the Adjunct’s command, although even five bells’ walking was likely to make most of the soldiers regret this night’s excesses.

  Or maybe not.

  He watched a marine from his own legion stumble past, a Khundryl woman riding him, legs wrapped around his waist, arms around his neck. She was naked, the marine nearly so. Weaving, the pair vanished into the gloom.

  Gamet sighed, drawing his cloak tighter about himself, then turned and approached the two Wickans standing guard outside the Adjunct’s tent.

  They were from the Crow, grey-haired and looking miserable. Recognizing the Fist they stepped to either side of the entrance. He passed between them, ducking to slip between the flaps.

  All of the other officers had left, leaving only the Adjunct and Gall, the latter sprawled on a massive, ancient-looking wooden chair that had come on the Khundryl wagons. The warchief had removed his helm, revealing a mass of curly hair, long and black and shimmering with grease. The midnight hue was dye, Gamet suspected, for the man had seen at least fifty summers. The tips of his moustache rested
on his chest and he looked half asleep, a jug gripped by the clay handle in one huge hand. The Adjunct stood nearby, eyes lowered onto a brazier, as if lost in thought.

  Were I an artist, I would paint this scene. This precise moment, and leave the viewer to wonder. He strode over to the map table, where another jug of wine waited. ‘Our army is drunk, Adjunct,’ he murmured as he poured a cup full.

  ‘Like us,’ Gall rumbled. ‘Your army is lost.’

  Gamet glanced over at Tavore, but there was no reaction for him to gauge. He drew a breath, then faced the Khundryl. ‘We are yet to fight a major battle, Warchief. Thus, we do not yet know ourselves. That is all. We are not lost—’

  ‘Just not yet found,’ Gall finished, baring his teeth. He took a long swallow from his jug.

  ‘Do you regret your decision to join us, then?’ Gamet asked.

  ‘Not at all, Fist. My shamans have read the sands. They have learned much of your future. The Fourteenth Army shall know a long life, but it shall be a restless life. You are doomed to search, destined to ever hunt . . . for what even you do not know, nor, perhaps, shall you ever know. Like the sands themselves, wandering for eternity.’

  Gamet was scowling. ‘I do not wish to offend, Warchief, but I hold little faith in divination. No mortal—no god—can say we are doomed, or destined. The future remains unknown, the one thing we cannot force a pattern upon.’

  The Khundryl grunted. ‘Patterns, the lifeblood of the shamans. But not them alone, yes? The Deck of Dragons—are they not used for divination?’

  Gamet shrugged. ‘There are some who hold much store in the Deck, but I am not one of them.’

  ‘Do you not see patterns in history, Fist? Are you blind to the cycles we all suffer through? Look upon this desert, this wasteland you cross. Yours is not the first empire that would claim it. And what of the tribes? Before the Khundryl, before the Kherahn Dhobri and the Tregyn, there were the Sanid, and the Oruth, and before them there were others whose names have vanished. Look upon the ruined cities, the old roads. The past is all patterns, and those patterns remain beneath our feet even as the stars above reveal their own patterns—for the stars we gaze upon each night are naught but an illusion from the past.’ He raised the jug again and studied it for a moment. ‘Thus, the past lies beneath and above the present, Fist. This is the truth my shamans embrace, the bones upon which the future clings like muscle.’