House of Chains

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Go away.’

  From overhead, chains snapped down, massive, plunging, reaching directly for—it seemed—Karsa’s own chest.

  A blinding flash, a detonation, the splintering crackle of masts toppling, spars and rigging crashing down. The entire ship was falling away beneath Karsa, beneath the platform itself, which slid wildly down the length of the gunnel before crunching against the foredeck railing, pivoting, then plunging for the waves below.

  He stared down at the water’s sickly green, heaving surface.

  The entire platform shuddered in its fall as the cargo ship’s hull rolled up and struck its edge.

  Karsa caught an upside-down glimpse of the ship—its deck torn open by the impact of the huge chains, its three masts gone, the twisted forms of sailors visible in the wreckage—then he was staring up at the sky, at a virulent, massive wound directly overhead.

  A fierce impact, then darkness.

  His eyes opened to a faint gloom, the desultory lap of waves, the sodden boards beneath him creaking as the platform rocked to someone else’s movement. Thumps; low, gasping mutters.

  The Teblor groaned. The joints of every limb felt torn inside.

  ‘Karsa?’ Torvald Nom crawled into view.

  ‘What—what has happened?’

  The shackles remained on the Daru’s wrists, the chains connected on the other end to arm-length, roughly broken fragments of the deck. ‘Easy for you, sleeping through all the hard work,’ he grumbled as he moved into a sitting position, pulling his arms around his knees. ‘This sea’s a lot colder than you’d think, and these chains didn’t help. I’ve nearly drowned a dozen times, but you’ll be glad to know we now have three water casks and a bundle of something that might be food—I’ve yet to untie its bindings. Oh, and your sword and armour, both of which float, of course.’

  The sky overhead looked unnatural, luminous grey shot through with streaks of darker pewter, and the water smelled of clay and silts. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘I was hoping you’d know. It’s pretty damned clear to me that you called that storm down on us. That’s the only explanation for what happened—’

  ‘I called nothing.’

  ‘Those chains of lightning, Karsa—not one missed its target. Not a single Malazan was left standing. The ship was falling apart—your platform had landed right-side up and was drifting away. I was still working free when Silgar and three of his men climbed out of the hold, dragging their chains with them—the hull was riven through, coming apart all around the bastards. Only one had drowned.’

  ‘I am surprised they didn’t kill us.’

  ‘You were out of reach, at least to start with. Me, they threw overboard. A short while later, after I’d made it to this platform, I saw them in the lone surviving dory. They were rounding the sinking wreck, and I knew they were coming for us. Then, somewhere on the other side of the ship, beyond my sight, something must have happened, because they never reappeared. They vanished, dory and all. The ship then went down, though a lot of stuff has been coming back up. So, I’ve been resupplying. Collecting rope and wood, too—everything I could drag over here. Karsa, your platform is slowly sinking. None of the water casks are full, so that’s added some buoyancy, and I’ll be slipping more planks and boards under it, which should help. Even so . . .’

  ‘Break my chains, Torvald Nom.’

  The Daru nodded, then ran a hand through his dripping, tangled hair. ‘I’ve checked on that, friend. It will take some work.’

  ‘Is there land about?’

  Torvald glanced over at the Teblor. ‘Karsa, this isn’t the Meningalle Ocean. We’re somewhere else. Is there land nearby? None in sight. I overheard Silgar talking about a warren, which is one of those paths a sorcerer uses. He said he thought we’d all entered one. There may be no land here. None at all. Hood knows there’s no wind and we don’t seem to be moving in any direction—the wreckage of the ship is still all around us. In fact, it almost pulled us under with it. Also, this sea is fresh water—no, I wouldn’t want to drink it. It’s full of silt. No fish. No birds. No signs of life anywhere.’

  ‘I need water. Food.’

  Torvald crawled over to the wrapped bundle he had retrieved. ‘Water, we have. Food? No guarantees. Karsa, did you call upon your gods or something?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What started you screaming like that, then?’

  ‘A dream.’

  ‘A dream?’

  ‘Yes. Is there food?’

  ‘Uh, I’m not sure, it’s mostly padding . . . around a small wooden box.’

  Karsa listened to ripping sounds as Torvald pulled away the padding. ‘There’s a mark branded on it. Looks . . . Moranth, I think.’ The lid was pried free. ‘More padding, and a dozen clay balls . . . with wax plugs on them—oh, Beru fend—’ The Daru backed away from the package. ‘Hood’s dripping tongue. I think I know what these are. Never seen one, but I’ve heard about them—who hasn’t? Well . . .’ He laughed suddenly. ‘If Silgar reappears and comes after us, he’s in for a surprise. So’s anyone else who might mean trouble.’ He edged forward again and carefully replaced the padding, then the lid.

  ‘What have you found?’

  ‘Alchemical munitions. Weapons of war. You throw them, preferably as far as you can. The clay breaks and the chemicals within explode. What you don’t want to happen is have one break in your hand, or at your feet. Because then you’re dead. The Malazans have been using these in the Genabackan campaign.’

  ‘Water, please.’

  ‘Right. There’s a ladle here . . . somewhere . . . found it.’

  A moment later Torvald hovered over Karsa, and the Teblor drank, slowly, all the water the ladle contained.

  ‘Better?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘More?’

  ‘Not yet. Free me.’

  ‘I need to get back into the water first, Karsa. I need to push some planks under this raft.’

  ‘Very well.’

  There seemed to be no day and no night in this strange place; the sky shifted hue occasionally, as if jostled by high, remote winds, the streaks of pewter twisting and stretching, but there was no change otherwise. The air surrounding the raft remained motionless, damp and cool and strangely thick.

  The flanges anchoring Karsa’s chains were on the underside, holding him in place in a fashion identical to that in the slave trench at Silver Lake. The shackles themselves had been welded shut. Torvald’s only recourse was to attempt to widen the holes in the planks where the chains went through, using an iron buckle to dig at the wood.

  Months of imprisonment had left him weakened, forcing frequent rests, and the buckle made a bloody mess of his hands, but once begun the Daru would not relent. Karsa measured the passing of time by the rhythmic crunching and scraping sounds, noting how each pause to rest stretched longer, until Torvald’s breathing told him the Daru had fallen into an exhausted sleep. Then, the Teblor’s only company was the sullen lap of water as it slipped back and forth across the platform.

  For all the wood positioned beneath it, the raft was still sinking, and Karsa knew that Torvald would not be able to free him in time.

  He had never before feared death. But now, he knew that Urugal and the other Faces in the Rock would abandon his soul, would leave it to the hungry vengeance of those thousands of ghastly corpses. He knew his dream had revealed to him a fate that was real, and inevitable. And inexplicable. Who had set such horrid creatures upon him? Undead Teblor, undead lowlander, warrior and child, an army of corpses, all chained to him. Why?

  Lead us, Warleader.

  Where?

  And now, he would drown. Here, in this unknown place, far from his village. His claims to glory, his vows, all now mocking him, whispering a chorus of muted creaks, soft groans . . .

  ‘Torvald.’

  ‘Uh . . . what? What is it?’

  ‘I hear new sounds—’

  The Daru sat up, blinking crusted silt from his eyes. He looked around
. ‘Beru fend!’

  ‘What do you see?’

  The Daru’s gaze was fixed on something beyond Karsa’s head. ‘Well, it seems there’s currents here after all, though which of us has done the moving? Ships, Karsa. A score or more of them, all dead in the water, like us. Floating wrecks. No movement on them . . . that I can see as yet. Looks like there was a battle. With plenty of sorcery being flung back and forth . . .’

  Some indiscernible shift drew the ghostly flotilla into Karsa’s view, an image on its side to his right. There were two distinct styles of craft. Twenty or so were low and sleek, the wood stained mostly black, though where impacts and collisions and other damage had occurred the cedar’s natural red showed like gaping wounds. Many of these ships sat low in the water, a few with their decks awash. They were single-masted, square-sailed, the torn and shredded sails also black, shimmering in the pellucid light. The remaining six ships were larger, high-decked and three-masted. They had been fashioned from a wood that was true black—not stained—as was evinced from the gashes and splintered planks marring the broad, bellied hulls. Not one of these latter ships sat level in the water; all leaned one way or the other, two of them at very steep angles.

  ‘We should board a few,’ Torvald said. ‘There will be tools, maybe even weapons. I could swim over—there, that raider. It’s not yet awash, and I see lots of wreckage.’

  Karsa sensed the Daru’s hesitation. ‘What is wrong? Swim.’

  ‘Uh, I am a little concerned, friend. I seem to have not much strength left, and these chains on me . . .’

  The Teblor said nothing for a moment, then he grunted. ‘So be it. No more can be asked of you, Torvald Nom.’

  The Daru slowly turned to regard Karsa. ‘Compassion, Karsa Orlong? Is it helplessness that has brought you to this?’

  ‘Too many empty words from you, lowlander,’ the Teblor sighed. ‘There are no gifts that come from being—’

  A soft splash sounded, then sputtering and thrashing—the sputtering turning into laughter. Torvald, now alongside the raft, moved into Karsa’s line of sight. ‘Now we know why those ships are canted so!’ And the Teblor saw that Torvald was standing, the water lapping around his upper chest. ‘I can drag us over, now. This also tells us we’re the ones who’ve been drifting. And there’s something else.’

  ‘What?’

  The Daru had begun pulling the raft along, using Karsa’s chains. ‘These ships all grounded during the battle—I think a lot of the hand to hand fighting was actually between ships, chest-deep in water.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘Because there’s bodies all around me, Karsa Orlong. Against my shins, rolling about on the sands—it’s an unpleasant feeling, let me tell you.’

  ‘Pull one up. Let us see these combatants.’

  ‘All in good time, Teblor. We’re almost there. Also, these bodies, they’re, uh, rather soft. We might find something more recognizable if there’s any on the ship itself. Here’—there was a bump—‘we’re alongside. A moment, while I climb aboard.’

  Karsa listened to the Daru’s grunts and gasps, the slipping scrabble of his bare feet, the rustle of chains, finally followed by a muted thud.

  Then silence.

  ‘Torvald Nom?’

  Nothing.

  The raft’s end beyond Karsa’s head bumped alongside the raider’s hull, then began drifting along it. Cool water flowed across the surface, and Karsa recoiled at the contact, but could do nothing as it seeped beneath him. ‘Torvald Nom!’ His voice strangely echoed. No reply.

  Laughter rumbled from Karsa, a sound oddly disconnected from the Teblor’s own will. In water that, had he been able to stand, would likely rise no higher than his hips, he would drown. Assuming there would be time for that. Perhaps Torvald Nom had been slain—it would be a bizarre battle if there had been no survivors—and even now, beyond his sight, the Teblor was being looked down upon, his fate hanging in the balance.

  The raft edged near the ship’s prow. A scuffling sound, then, ‘Where? Oh.’

  ‘Torvald Nom?’

  Footsteps, half-stumbling, moved alongside from the ship’s deck. ‘Sorry, friend. I think I must have passed out. Were you laughing a moment ago?’

  ‘I was. What have you found?’

  ‘Not much. Yet. Bloodstains—dried. Trails through it. This ship has been thoroughly stripped. Hood below—you’re sinking!’

  ‘And I do not think you will be able to do anything about it, lowlander. Leave me to my fate. Take the water, and my weapons—’

  But Torvald had reappeared, rope in his hand, sliding down over the gunnel near the high prow and back into the water. Breathing hard, he fumbled with the rope for a moment before managing to slip it underneath the chains. He then drew it along and repeated the effort on the other side of the raft. A third time, down near Karsa’s left foot, then a fourth loop opposite.

  The Teblor could feel the wet, heavy rope being dragged through the chains. ‘What are you doing?’

  Torvald made no reply. Still trailing the rope, he climbed back onto the ship. There was another long stretch of silence, then Karsa heard movement once more, and the rope slowly tautened.

  Torvald’s head and shoulders moved into view. The lowlander was deathly pale. ‘Best I could do, friend. There may be some more settling, but hopefully not much. I will check again on you in a little while. Don’t worry, I won’t let you drown. I’m going to do some exploring right now—the bastards couldn’t have taken everything.’ He vanished from Karsa’s line of sight.

  The Teblor waited, racked with shivering as the sea slowly embraced him. The level had reached his ears, muting all sounds other than the turgid swirl of water. He watched the four lengths of rope slowly growing tighter above him.

  It was difficult to recall a time when his limbs had been free to move without restraint, when his raw, suppurating wrists had not known the implacable iron grip of shackles, when he had not felt—deep in his withered body—a vast weakness, a frailty, his blood flowing as thin as water. He closed his eyes and felt his mind falling away.

  Away . . .

  Urugal, I stand before you once more. Before these faces in the rock, before my gods. Urugal—

  ‘I see no Teblor standing before me. I see no warrior wading through his enemies, harvesting souls. I do not see the dead piled high on the ground, as numerous as a herd of bhederin driven over a cliff. Where are my gifts? Who is this who claims to serve me?’

  Urugal. You are a bloodthirsty god—

  ‘A truth a Teblor warrior revels in!’

  As I once did. But now, Urugal, I am no longer so sure—

  ‘Who stands before us? Not a Teblor warrior! Not a servant of mine!’

  Urugal. What are these ‘bhederin’ you spoke of? What are these herds? Where among the lands of the Teblor—

  ‘Karsa!’

  He flinched. Opened his eyes.

  Torvald Nom, a burlap sack over one shoulder, was climbing back down. His feet made contact with the raft, pushing it a fraction deeper. Water stung the outside corners of Karsa’s eyes.

  The sack made numerous clunking sounds as the Daru set it down and reached inside. ‘Tools, Karsa! A shipwright’s tools!’ He drew forth a chisel and an iron-capped mallet.

  The Teblor felt his heart begin pounding hard in his chest.

  Torvald set the chisel against a chain link, then began hammering.

  A dozen swings, the concussions pealing loudly in the still, murky air, then the chain snapped. Its own weight swiftly dragged it through the iron ring of Karsa’s right wrist shackle. Then, with a soft rustle, it was gone beneath the sea’s surface. Agony lanced through his arm as he attempted to move it. The Teblor grunted, even as consciousness slipped away.

  He awoke to the sounds of hammering, down beside his right foot, and thundering waves of pain, through which he heard, dimly, Torvald’s voice.

  ‘ . . . heavy, Karsa. You’ll need to do the impossible. You’ll need to climb.
That means rolling over, getting onto your hands and knees. Standing. Walking—oh, Hood, you’re right, I’ll need to think of something else. No food anywhere on this damned ship.’ There was a loud crack, then the hiss of a chain falling away. ‘That’s it, you’re free. Don’t worry, I’ve retied the ropes to the platform itself—you won’t sink. Free. How’s it feel? Never mind—I’ll ask that a few days from now. Even so, you’re free, Karsa. I promised, didn’t I? Let it not be said that Torvald Nom doesn’t hold to his—well, uh, let it not be said that Torvald Nom isn’t afraid of new beginnings.’

  ‘Too many words,’ Karsa muttered.

  ‘Aye, far too many. Try moving, at least.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Bend your right arm.’

  ‘I am trying.’

  ‘Shall I do it for you?’

  ‘Slowly. Should I lose consciousness, do not cease. And do the same for the remaining limbs.’

  He felt the lowlander’s hands grip his right arm, at the wrist and above the elbow, then, once again, mercifully, blackness swallowed him.

  When he came to once more, bundles of sodden cloth had been propped beneath his head, and he was lying on his side, limbs curled. There was dull pain in every muscle, every joint, yet it seemed strangely remote. He slowly lifted his head.

  He was still on the platform. The ropes that held it to the ship’s prow had prevented it from sinking further. Torvald Nom was nowhere in sight.

  ‘I call upon the blood of the Teblor,’ Karsa whispered. ‘All that is within me must be used now to heal, to gift me strength. I am freed. I did not surrender. The warrior remains. He remains . . .’ He tried to move his arms. Throbs of pain, sharp, but bearable. He shifted his legs, gasped at the agony flaring in his hips. A moment of light-headedness, threatening oblivion once again . . . that then passed.

  He tried to push himself to his hands and knees. Every minuscule shift was torture, but he refused to surrender to it. Sweat streamed down his limbs. Waves of trembling washed through him. Eyes squeezed shut, he struggled on.