House of Chains

by Steven Erikson

Nearby in the rubble, Brother Enias coughed. Then said, ‘Brother Jorrude?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I want to go home.’

  Jorrude said nothing. It would not do, after all, to utter a hasty, heartfelt agreement, despite their present circumstance. ‘Check on the others, Brother Enias.’

  ‘Were those truly the ones who rode that ship through our realm?’

  ‘They were,’ Jorrude answered as he fumbled with the helm’s straps. ‘And I have been thinking. I suspect they were ignorant of Liosan laws when they travelled through our realm. True, ignorance is an insufficient defence. But one must consider the notion of innocent momentum.’

  From off to one side, Malachar grunted. ‘Innocent momentum?’

  ‘Indeed. Were not these trespassers but pulled along—beyond their will—in the wake of the draconian T’lan Imass bonecaster? If an enemy we must hunt, then should it not be that dragon?’

  ‘Wise words,’ Malachar observed.

  ‘A brief stay in our realm,’ Jorrude continued, ‘to resupply and requisition new horses, along with repairs and such, seems to reasonably obtain in this instance.’

  ‘Truly judged, brother.’

  From the other side of the crater sounded another cough.

  At least, Jorrude dourly reflected, they were all still alive.

  It’s all the dragon’s fault, in fact. Who would refute that?

  They rode into the sandstorm, less than fifty strides behind the fleeing horse warriors, and found themselves floundering blind in a maelstrom of shrieking winds and whipping gravel.

  Fiddler heard a horse scream.

  He drew hard on his own reins, the wind hammering at him from all sides. Already he’d lost sight of his companions. This is wide-eyed stupid.

  Now, if I was the commander of those bastards, I’d—

  And suddenly figures flashed into view, scimitars and round shields, swathed faces and ululating warcries. Fiddler threw himself down against his horse’s withers as a heavy blade slashed, slicing through sand-filled air where his head had been a moment earlier.

  The Wickan mare lunged forward and to one side, choosing this precise moment to buck its hated rider from the saddle.

  With profound success.

  Fiddler found himself flying forward, his bag of munitions rolling up his back, then up over his head.

  Still in mid-air, but angling down to the ground, he curled himself into a tight ball—though he well knew, in that instant, that there was no hope of surviving. No hope at all. Then he pounded into the sand, and rolled—to see, upside-down, a huge hook-bladed sword spinning end over end across his own wake. And a stumbling horse. And its rider, a warrior thrown far back on his saddle—with the munition bag wrapped in his arms.

  A surprised look beneath the ornate helm—then rider, horse and munitions vanished into the whirling sands.

  Fiddler clambered to his feet and began running. Sprinting, in what he hoped—what he prayed—was the opposite direction.

  A hand snagged his harness from behind. ‘Not that way, you fool!’

  And he was yanked to one side, flung to the ground, and a body landed on top of him.

  The sergeant’s face was pushed into the sand and held there.

  Corabb bellowed. The bulky, heavy sack was hissing in his arms. As if filled with snakes. It had clunked hard against his chest, arriving like a flung boulder out of the storm, and he’d time only to toss his sword away and raise both arms.

  The impact threw him onto the horse’s rump, but his feet stayed in the stirrups.

  The bag’s momentum carried it over his face, and the hissing filled his ears.

  Snakes!

  He slid on his back down one side of the mount’s heaving hindquarters, letting the bag’s weight pull his arms with it. Don’t panic! He screamed.

  Snakes!

  The bag tugged in his hands as it brushed the ground.

  He held his breath, then let go.

  Tumbling clunks, a burst of frenzied hissing—then the horse’s forward charge carried him blissfully away.

  He struggled to right himself, his leg and stomach muscles fiercely straining, and finally was able to grasp the horn and pull himself straight.

  One pass, Leoman had said. Then wheel and into the storm’s heart.

  He’d done that much. One pass. Enough.

  Time to flee.

  Corabb Bhilan Thun’alas leaned forward, and bared muddy teeth.

  Spirits below, it is good to be alive!

  The detonation should have killed Fiddler. There was fire. Towering walls of sand. The air concussed, and his breath was torn from his lungs even as blood spurted from his nose and both ears.

  And the body lying atop him seemed to wither in shreds.

  He’d recognized the voice. It was impossible. It was . . . infuriating.

  Hot smoke rolled over them.

  And that damned voice whispered, ‘Can’t leave you on your own for a Hood-damned minute, can I? Say hello to Kalam for me, will ya? I’ll see you again, sooner or later. And you’ll see me, too. You’ll see us all.’ A laugh. ‘Just not today. Damned shame ’bout your fiddle, though.’

  The weight vanished.

  Fiddler rolled over. The storm was tumbling away, leaving a white haze in its wake. He groped with his hands.

  A terrible, ragged moan ripped from his throat, and he lifted himself onto his knees. ‘Hedge!’ he screamed. ‘Damn you! Hedge!’

  Someone jogged into view, settled down beside him. ‘Slamming gates, Fid—you’re Hood-damned alive!’

  He stared at the man’s battered face, then recognized it. ‘Cuttle? He was here. He—you’re covered in blood—’

  ‘Aye. I wasn’t as close as you. Luckily. ’Fraid I can’t say the same for Ranal. Someone had taken down his horse. He was stumbling around.’

  ‘That blood—’

  ‘Aye,’ Cuttle said again, then flashed a hard grin. ‘I’m wearing Ranal.’

  Shouts, and other figures were closing in. Every one of them on foot.

  ‘—killed the horses. Bastards went and—’

  ‘Sergeant! You all right? Bottle, get over here—’

  ‘Killed the—’

  ‘Be quiet, Smiles, you’re making me sick. Did you hear that blast? Gods below—’

  Cuttle clapped Fiddler on one shoulder, then dragged him to his feet.

  ‘Where’s the lieutenant?’ Koryk asked.

  ‘Right here,’ Cuttle answered, but did not elaborate.

  He’s wearing Ranal.

  ‘What just happened?’ Koryk asked.

  Fiddler studied his squad. All here. That’s a wonder.

  Cuttle spat. ‘What happened, lad? We got slapped down. That’s what happened. Slapped down hard.’

  Fiddler stared at the retreating storm. Aw, shit. Hedge.

  ‘Here comes Borduke’s squad!’

  ‘Find your horses, everyone,’ Corporal Tarr said. ‘Sergeant’s been knocked about. Collect whatever you can salvage—we gotta wait for the rest of the company, I reckon.’

  Good lad.

  ‘Look at that crater,’ Smiles said. ‘Gods, Sergeant, you couldn’t have been much closer to Hood’s Gate and lived, could you?’

  He stared at her. ‘You’ve no idea how right you are, lass.’

  And the song rose and fell, and he could feel his heart matching that cadence. Ebb and flow. Raraku has swallowed more tears than can be imagined. Now comes the time for the Holy Desert to weep. Ebb and flow, his blood’s song, and it lived on.

  It lives on.

  They had fled in the wrong direction. Fatal, but unsurprising. The night had been a shambles. The last survivor of Korbolo Dom’s cadre of mages, Fayelle rode a lathered horse in the company of thirteen other Dogslayers down the channel of a long-dead river, boulders and banks high on either side.

  Herself and thirteen battered, bloodied soldiers. All that was left.

  The clash with Leoman had begun well enough, a perfectly spr
ung ambush. And would have ended perfectly, as well.

  If not for the damned ghosts.

  Ambush turned over, onto its back like an upended tortoise. They’d been lucky to get out with their lives, these few. These last.

  Fayelle well knew what had happened to the rest of Korbolo’s army. She had felt Henaras’s death. And Kamist Reloe’s.

  And Raraku was not finished with them. Oh no. Not at all finished.

  They reached a slope leading out of the defile.

  She had few regrets—

  Crossbow quarrels whizzed down. Horses and soldiers screamed. Bodies thumped onto the ground. Her horse staggered, then rolled onto its side. She’d no time to kick free of the stirrups, and as the dying beast pinned her leg its weight tore the joint from her hip, sending pain thundering through her. Her left arm was trapped awkwardly beneath her as her own considerable weight struck the ground—and bones snapped.

  Then the side of her head hammered against rock.

  Fayelle struggled to focus. The pain subsided, became a distant thing. She heard faint pleas for mercy, the cries of wounded soldiers being finished off.

  Then a shadow settled over her.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you.’

  Fayelle frowned. The face hovering above her belonged to the past. The desert had aged it, but it nevertheless remained a child’s face. Oh, spirits below. The child. Sinn. My old . . . student . . .

  She watched the girl raise a knife between them, angle the point down, then set it against her neck.

  Fayelle laughed. ‘Go ahead, you little horror. I’ll wait for you at Hood’s Gate . . . and the wait won’t be long—’

  The knife punched through skin and cartilage.

  Fayelle died.

  Straightening, Sinn swung to her companions. They were, one and all, busy gathering the surviving horses.

  Sixteen left. The Ashok Regiment had fallen on hard times. Thirst and starvation. Raiders. This damned desert.

  She watched them for a moment, then something else drew her gaze.

  Northward.

  She slowly straightened. ‘Cord.’

  The sergeant turned. ‘What—oh, Beru fend!’

  The horizon to the west had undergone a transformation. It was now limned in white, and it was rising.

  ‘Double up!’ Cord bellowed. ‘Now!’

  A hand closed on her shoulder. Shard leaned close. ‘You ride with me.’

  ‘Ebron!’

  ‘I hear you,’ the mage replied to Cord’s bellow. ‘And I’ll do what I can with these blown mounts, but I ain’t guaranteeing—’

  ‘Get on with it! Bell, help Limp onto that horse—he’s busted up that knee again!’

  Sinn cast one last glance at Fayelle’s corpse. She’d known, then. What was coming.

  I should be dancing. The bloodied knife fell from her hands.

  Then she was roughly grasped and pulled up onto the saddle behind Shard.

  The beast’s head tossed, and it shook beneath them.

  ‘Queen take us,’ Shard hissed, ‘Ebron’s filled these beasts with fire.’

  We’ll need it . . .

  And now they could hear the sound, a roar that belittled even the Whirlwind Wall in its fullest rage.

  Raraku had risen.

  To claim a shattered warren.

  The Wickan warlocks had known what was coming. Flight was impossible, but the islands of coral stood high—higher than any other feature this side of the escarpment—and it was on these that the armies gathered.

  To await what could be their annihilation.

  The north sky was a massive wall of white, billowing clouds. A cool, burgeoning wind thrashed through the palms around the oasis.

  Then the sound reached them.

  A roar unceasing, building, of water, cascading, foaming, tumbling across the vast desert.

  The Holy Desert, it seemed, held far more than bones and memories. More than ghosts and dead cities. Lostara Yil stood near the Adjunct, ignoring the baleful glares Tene Baralta continued casting her way. Wondering . . . if Pearl was on that high ground, standing over Sha’ik’s grave . . . if that ground was in fact high enough.

  She wondered, too, at what she had seen these past months. Visions burned into her soul, fraught and mysterious, visions that could still chill her blood if she allowed them to rise before her mind’s eye once more. Crucified dragons. Murdered gods. Warrens of fire and warrens of ashes.

  It was odd, she reflected, to be thinking these things, even as a raging sea was born from seeming nothing and was sweeping towards them, drowning all in its path.

  Odder, still, to be thinking of Pearl. She was hard on him, viciously so at times. Not because she cared, but because it was fun. No, that was too facile, wasn’t it? She cared indeed.

  What a stupid thing to have let happen.

  A weary sigh close beside her. Lostara scowled without turning. ‘You’re back.’

  ‘As requested,’ Pearl murmured.

  Oh, she wanted to hit him for that.

  ‘The task is . . . done?’

  ‘Aye. Consigned to the deep and all that. If Tene Baralta still wants her, he’ll have to hold his breath.’

  She looked then. ‘Really? The sea is already that deep?’ Then we’re—

  ‘No. High and dry, actually. The other way sounded more . . . poetic.’

  ‘I really hate you.’

  He nodded. ‘And you’ll have plenty of time in which to luxuriate in it.’

  ‘You think we’ll survive this?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, we’ll get our feet wet, but these were islands even back then. This sea will flood the oasis. It will pound up against the raised road west of here—since it was the coastal road back then. And wash up close to the escarpment, maybe even reach it.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ she snapped. ‘And what will we be doing, stuck here on these islands in the middle of a landlocked sea?’

  Infuriatingly, Pearl simply shrugged. ‘A guess? We build a flotilla of rafts and bind them together to form a bridge, straight to the west road. The sea will be shallow enough there anyway, even if that doesn’t work as well as it should—but I have every confidence in the Adjunct.’

  The wall of water then struck the far side of the oasis, with the sound of thunder. Palms waved wildly, then began toppling.

  ‘Well, now we know what turned that other forest to stone,’ Pearl said loudly over the thrashing roar of water—

  That now flowed across the ruins, filling the Dogslayer trenches, tumbling down into the basin.

  And Lostara could see that Pearl was right. Its fury was already spent, and the basin seemed to swallow the water with a most prodigious thirst.

  She glanced over to study the Adjunct.

  Impassive, watching the seas rise, one hand on the hilt of her sword.

  Oh, why does looking at you break my heart?

  The sands were settling on the carcasses of the horses. The three squads sat or stood, waiting for the rest of the legion. Bottle had walked up to the road to see the source of the roar, had come staggering back with the news.

  A sea.

  A damned sea.

  And its song was in Fiddler’s soul, now. Strangely warm, almost comforting.

  One and all, they then turned to watch the giant rider and his giant horse thunder along that road, heading westward. Dragging something that kicked up a lot of dust.

  The image of that stayed with Fiddler long after the clouds of dust had drifted off the road, down the near side of the slope.

  Could have been a ghost.

  But he knew it wasn’t.

  Could have been their worst enemy.

  But if he was, it didn’t matter. Not right now.

  A short while later there was a startled shout from Smiles, and Fiddler turned, in time to see two figures stride out from a warren.

  Despite everything, he found himself grinning.

  Old friends, he realized, were getting harder to find.

&nbs
p; Still, he knew them, and they were his brothers.

  Mortal souls of Raraku. Raraku, the land that had bound them together. Bound them all, as was now clear, beyond even death.

  Fiddler was unmindful of how it looked, of what the others thought, upon seeing the three men close to a single embrace.

  The horses clambered up the slope to the ridge. Where their riders reined them in, and one and all turned to stare at the yellow, foaming seas churning below. A moment later a squat four-eyed demon scrabbled onto the summit to join them.

  The Lord of Summer had lent wings to their horses—Heboric could admit no other possibility, so quickly had they covered the leagues since the night past. And the beasts seemed fresh even now. As fresh as Greyfrog.

  Though he himself was anything but.

  ‘What has happened?’ Scillara wondered aloud.

  Heboric could only shake his head.

  ‘More importantly,’ Felisin said, ‘where do we go now? I don’t think I can sit in the saddle much longer—’

  ‘I know how you feel, lass. We should find somewhere to make camp—’

  The squeal of a mule brought all three around.

  A scrawny, black-skinned old man was riding up towards them, seated cross-legged atop the mule. ‘Welcome!’ he shrieked—a shriek because, even as he spoke, he toppled to one side and thumped hard onto the stony trail. ‘Help me, you idiots!’

  Heboric glanced at the two women, but it was Greyfrog who moved first.

  ‘Food!’

  The old man shrieked again. ‘Get away from me! I have news to tell! All of you! Is L’oric dead? No! My shadows saw everything! You are my guests! Now, come prise my legs loose! You, lass. No, you, the other lass! Both of you! Beautiful women with their hands on my legs, my thighs! I can’t wait! Do they see the avid lust in my eyes? Of course not, I’m but a helpless wizened creature, potential father figure—’

  Cutter stood in the tower’s uppermost chamber, staring out of the lone window. Bhok’arala chittered behind him, pausing every now and then to make crooning, mournful sounds.

  He’d woken alone.

  And had known, instantly, that she was gone. And there would be no trail for him to follow.

  Iskaral Pust had conjured up a mule and ridden off earlier. Of Mogora there was, mercifully, no sign.