House of Chains

by Steven Erikson

  He had no idea how much time had passed, but then he was sitting, the realization arriving with a shock. He was sitting, his full weight on his haunches, and the pain was fading. He lifted his arms, surprised and a little frightened by their looseness, horrified by their thinness.

  As he rested, he looked about. The shattered ships remained, detritus clumped in makeshift rafts between them. Tattered sails hung in shrouds from the few remaining masts. The prow looming beside him held panels crowded with carvings: figures, locked in battle. The figures were long-limbed, standing on versions of ships closely resembling the raiders on all sides. Yet the enemy in these reliefs were not, it seemed, the ones the ship’s owners had faced here, for the craft they rode in were, if anything, smaller and lower than the raiders. The warriors looked much like Teblor, thick-limbed, heavily muscled, though in stature shorter than their foes.

  Movement in the water, a gleaming black hump, spike-finned, rising into view then vanishing again. All at once, more appeared, and the surface of the water between the ships was suddenly aswirl. There was life in this sea after all, and it had come to feed.

  The platform lurched beneath Karsa, throwing him off balance. His left arm shot out to take his weight as he began toppling. A jarring impact, excruciating pain—but the arm held.

  He saw a bloated corpse roll up into view alongside the raft, then a black shape, a broad, toothless mouth, gaping wide, sweeping up and around the corpse, swallowing it whole. A small grey eye behind a spiny whisker flashed into sight as the huge fish swept past. The eye swivelled to track him, then the creature was gone.

  Karsa had not seen enough of the corpse to judge whether it was a match to him in size, or to the Daru, Torvald Nom. But the fish could have taken Karsa as easily as it had the corpse.

  He needed to stand. Then, to climb.

  And—as he watched another massive black shape break the surface alongside another ship, a shape almost as long as the ship itself—he would have to do it quickly.

  He heard footsteps from above, then Torvald Nom was at the gunnel beside the prow. ‘We’ve got to—oh, Beru bless you, Karsa! Can you stand up? You’ve no choice—these catfish are bigger than sharks and likely just as nasty. There’s one—just rolled up behind you—it’s circling, it knows you’re there! Stand up, use the ropes!’

  Nodding, Karsa reached up for the nearest stretch of rope.

  An explosion of water behind him. The platform shuddered, wood splintering—Torvald screamed a warning—and Karsa knew without looking back over his shoulder that one of the creatures had just risen up, had just thrown itself bodily onto the raft, splitting it in two.

  The rope was in his hand. He gripped hard as the sloshing surface beneath him seemed to vanish. A flood of water around his legs, rising to his hips. Karsa closed his other hand on the same rope.

  ‘Urugal! Witness!’

  He drew his legs from the foaming water, then, hand over hand, climbed upward. The rope swung free of the platform’s fragments, threw him against the ship’s hull. He grunted at the impact, yet would not let go.

  ‘Karsa! Your legs!’

  The Teblor looked down, saw nothing but a massive mouth, opened impossibly wide, rising up beneath him.

  Hands closed on his wrists. Screaming at the pain in his shoulders and hips, Karsa pulled himself upward in a single desperate surge.

  The mouth snapped shut in a spray of milky water.

  Knees cracking against the gunnel, Karsa scrambled wildly for a moment, then managed to shift his weight over the rail, drawing his legs behind him, to sprawl with a heavy thump on the deck.

  Torvald’s shrieks continued unabated, forcing the Teblor to roll over—to see the Daru fighting to hold on to what appeared to be some kind of harpoon. Torvald’s shouts, barely comprehensible, seemed to be referring to a line. Karsa glanced about, until he saw that the harpoon’s butt-end held a thin rope, which trailed down to a coiled pile almost within the Teblor’s reach. Groaning, he scrabbled towards it. He found the end, began dragging it towards the prow.

  He pulled himself up beside it, looped the line over and around, once, twice—then there was a loud curse from Torvald, and the coil began playing out. Karsa threw the line around one more time, then managed something like a half-hitch.

  He did not expect the thin rope to hold. He ducked down beneath it as the last of the coil was snatched from his hands, thrumming taut.

  The galley creaked, the prow visibly bending, then the ship lurched into motion, shuddering as it was dragged along the sandy bottom.

  Torvald scrambled up beside Karsa. ‘Gods below, I didn’t think—let’s hope it holds!’ he gasped. ‘If it does, we won’t go hungry for a long while, no, not a long while!’ He slapped Karsa on the back, then pulled himself up to the prow. His wild grin vanished. ‘Oh.’

  Karsa rose.

  The harpoon’s end was visible directly ahead, cutting a V through the choppy waves—heading directly for one of the larger, three-masted ships. The grinding sound suddenly ceased beneath the raider, and the craft surged forward.

  ‘To the stern, Karsa! To the stern!’

  Torvald made a brief effort to drag Karsa, then gave up with a curse, running full tilt for the galley’s stern.

  Weaving, fighting waves of blackness, the Teblor staggered after the Daru. ‘Could you not have speared a smaller one?’

  The impact sent them both sprawling. A terrible splitting sound reverberated down the galley’s spine, and all at once there was water everywhere, foaming up from the hatches, sweeping in from the sides. Planks from the hull on both sides parted like groping fingers.

  Karsa found himself thrashing about in waist-deep water. Something like a deck remained beneath him, and he managed to struggle upright. And, bobbing wildly directly in front of him, was his original blood-sword. He snatched at it, felt his hand close about the familiar grip. Exultation soared through him, and he loosed an Uryd warcry.

  Torvald sloshed into view beside him. ‘If that didn’t freeze that fish’s tiny heart, nothing will. Come on, we need to get onto that other damned ship. There’s more of those bastards closing in all around us.’

  They struggled forward.

  The ship they had broadsided had been leaning in the other direction. The galley had plunged into its hull, creating a massive hole before itself shattering, the prow with its harpoon line snapping off and vanishing within the ship’s lower decks. It was clear that the huge ship was solidly grounded, nor had the collision dislodged it.

  As they neared the gaping hole, they could hear wild thrashing from somewhere within, deep in the hold.

  ‘Hood take me!’ Torvald muttered in disbelief. ‘That thing went through the hull first. Well, at least we’re not fighting a creature gifted with genius. It’s trapped down there, is my guess. We should go hunting—’

  ‘Leave that to me,’ Karsa growled.

  ‘You? You can barely stand—’

  ‘Even so, I will kill it.’

  ‘Well, can’t I watch?’

  ‘If you insist.’

  There were three decks within the ship’s hull, in so far as they could see, the bottom one comprising the hold itself, the other two scaled to suit tall lowlanders. The hold had been half-filled with cargo, which was now tumbling out in the backwash—bundles, bales and casks.

  Karsa plunged into waist-deep water, making for the thrashing sounds deeper within. He found the huge fish writhing on the second level, in sloshing, foaming water that barely covered the Teblor’s ankles. Spears of splintered wood jutted from the fish’s enormous head, blood streaming out to stain the foam pink. It had rolled onto its side, revealing a smooth, silvery underbelly.

  Clambering across to the creature, Karsa drove his sword into its abdomen. The huge tail twisted round, struck him with the strength of a destrier’s kick. He was suddenly in the air, then the curved wall of the hull struck his back.

  Stunned by the impact, the Teblor slumped in the swirling water. He blin
ked the drops from his eyes, then, unmoving in the gloom, watched the fish’s death-throes.

  Torvald climbed into view. ‘You’re still damned fast, Karsa—left me behind. But I see you’ve done the deed. There’s food among these supplies . . .’

  But Karsa heard no more, as unconsciousness took him once again.

  He awoke to the stench of putrefying flesh that hung heavy in the still air. In the half-light, he could just make out the body of the dead fish opposite him, its belly slit open, a pallid corpse partially tumbled out. There was the distant sound of movement somewhere above him.

  Well beyond the fish and to the right, steep steps were visible, leading upward.

  Fighting to keep from gagging, Karsa collected his sword and began crawling towards the stairs.

  He eventually emerged onto the midship’s deck. Its sorcery-scarred surface was sharply canted, sufficient to make traverse difficult. Supplies had been collected and were piled against the downside railing, where ropes trailed over the side. Pausing near the hatch to regain his breath, Karsa looked around for Torvald Nom, but the Daru was nowhere in sight.

  Magic had ripped deep gouges across the deck. There were no bodies visible anywhere, no indications of the nature of the ship’s owners. The black wood—which seemed to emanate darkness—was of a species the Teblor did not recognize, and it was devoid of any ornamentation, evoking pragmatic simplicity. He found himself strangely comforted.

  Torvald Nom clambered into view from the downside rail. He had managed to remove the chains attached to his shackles, leaving only the black iron bands on wrists and ankles. He was breathing hard.

  Karsa pushed himself upright, leaning on the sword’s point for support.

  ‘Ah, my giant friend, with us once more!’

  ‘You must find my weakness frustrating,’ Karsa grumbled.

  ‘To be expected, all things considered,’ Torvald said, moving among the supplies now. ‘I’ve found food. Come and eat, Karsa, while I tell you of my discoveries.’

  The Teblor slowly made his way down the sloping deck.

  Torvald drew out a brick-shaped loaf of dark bread. ‘I’ve found a dory, and oars to go along with a sail, so we won’t remain victims to this endless calm. We’ve water for a week and a half, if we’re sparing, and we won’t go hungry no matter how fast your appetite comes back . . .’

  Karsa took the bread from the Daru’s hand and began tearing off small chunks. His teeth felt slightly loose, and he was not confident of attempting anything beyond gentle chewing. The bread was rich and moist, filled with morsels of sweet fruit and tasting of honey. His first swallow left him struggling to keep it down. Torvald handed him a skin filled with water, then resumed his monologue.

  ‘The dory’s got benches enough for twenty or so—spacious for lowlanders but we’ll need to knock one loose to give your legs some room. If you lean over the gunnel you can see it for yourself. I’ve been busy loading what we’ll need. We could explore some of the other ships if you like, though we’ve more than enough—’

  ‘No need,’ Karsa said. ‘Let us leave this place as quickly as possible.’

  Torvald’s eyes narrowed on the Teblor for a moment, then the Daru nodded. ‘Agreed. Karsa, you say you did not call upon that storm. Very well. I shall have to believe you—that you’ve no recollection of having done so, in any case. But I was wondering, this cult of yours, these Seven Faces in the Rock or however they’re called. Do they claim a warren for themselves? A realm other than the one you and I live in, where they exist?’

  Karsa swallowed another mouthful of bread. ‘I had heard nothing of these warrens you speak of, Torvald Nom. The Seven dwell in the rock, and in the dreamworld of the Teblor.’

  ‘Dreamworld . . .’ Torvald waved a hand. ‘Does any of this look like that dreamworld, Karsa?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What if it had been . . . flooded?’

  Karsa scowled. ‘You remind me of Bairoth Gild. Your words make no sense. The Teblor dreamworld is a place of no hills, where mosses and lichens cling to half-buried boulders, where snow makes low dunes sculpted by cold winds. Where strange brown-haired beasts run in packs in the distance . . .’

  ‘Have you visited it yourself, then?’

  Karsa shrugged. ‘These are descriptions given by the shamans.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘The place I visited . . .’ He trailed off, then shook his head. ‘Different. A place of . . . of coloured mists.’

  ‘Coloured mists. And were your gods there?’

  ‘You are not Teblor. I have no need to tell you more. I have spoken too much already.’

  ‘Very well. I was just trying to determine where we were.’

  ‘We are on a sea, and there is no land.’

  ‘Well, yes. But which sea? Where’s the sun? Why is there no night? No wind? Which direction shall we choose?’

  ‘It does not matter which direction. Any direction.’ Karsa rose from where he had been sitting on a bale. ‘I have eaten enough for now. Come, let us finish loading, and then leave.’

  ‘As you say, Karsa.’

  He felt stronger with each passing day, lengthening his turns at the oars each time he took over from Torvald Nom. The sea was shallow, and more than once the dory ground up onto shoals, though fortunately these were of sand and so did little to damage the hull. They had seen nothing of the huge catfish, nor any other life in the water or in the sky, though the occasional piece of driftwood drifted past, devoid of bark or leaf.

  As Karsa’s strength returned, their supply of food quickly dwindled, and though neither spoke of it, despair had become an invisible passenger, a third presence that silenced the Teblor and the Daru, that shackled them as had their captors of old, and the ghostly chains grew heavier.

  In the beginning they had marked out days based on the balance of sleep and wakefulness, but the pattern soon collapsed as Karsa took to rowing through Torvald’s periods of sleep in addition to relieving the weary Daru at other times. It became quickly evident that the Teblor required less rest, whilst Torvald seemed to need ever more.

  They were down to the last cask of water, which held only a third of its capacity. Karsa was at the oars, pulling the undersized sticks in broad, effortless sweeps through the murky swells. Torvald lay huddled beneath the sail, restless in his sleep.

  The ache was almost gone from Karsa’s shoulders, though pain lingered in his hips and legs. He had fallen into a pattern of repetition empty of thought, unaware of the passage of time, his only concern that of maintaining a straight course—as best as he could determine, given the lack of reference points. He had naught but the dory’s own wake to direct him.

  Torvald’s eyes opened, bloodshot and red-rimmed. He had long ago lost his loquaciousness. Karsa suspected the man was sick—they’d not had a conversation in some time. The Daru slowly sat up.

  Then stiffened. ‘We’ve company,’ he said, his voice cracking.

  Karsa shipped the oars and twisted round in his seat. A large, three-masted, black ship was bearing down on them, twin banks of oars flashing dark over the milky water. Beyond it, on the horizon’s very edge, ran a dark, straight line. The Teblor collected his sword then slowly stood.

  ‘That’s the strangest coast I’ve ever seen,’ Torvald muttered. ‘Would that we’d reached it without the company.’

  ‘It is a wall,’ Karsa said. ‘A straight wall, before which lies some kind of beach.’ He returned his gaze to the closing ship. ‘It is like those that had been beset by the raiders.’

  ‘So it is, only somewhat bigger. Flagship, is my guess, though I see no flag.’

  They could see figures now, crowding the high forecastle. Tall, though not as tall as Karsa, and much leaner.

  ‘Not human,’ Torvald muttered. ‘Karsa, I do not think they will be friendly. Just a feeling, mind you. Still . . .’

  ‘I have seen one of them before,’ the Teblor replied. ‘Half spilled out from the belly of the catfish.’

  ‘That beach is rolli
ng with the waves, Karsa. It’s flotsam. Must be two, three thousand paces of it. The wreckage of an entire world. As I suspected, this sea doesn’t belong here.’

  ‘Yet there are ships.’

  ‘Aye, meaning they don’t belong here, either.’

  Karsa shrugged his indifference to that observation. ‘Have you a weapon, Torvald Nom?’

  ‘A harpoon . . . and a mallet. You will not try to talk first?’

  Karsa said nothing. The twin banks of oars had lifted from the water and now hovered motionless over the waves as the huge ship slid towards them. The oars dipped suddenly, straight down, the water churning as the ship slowed, then came to a stop.

  The dory thumped as it made contact with the hull on the port side, just beyond the prow.

  A rope ladder snaked down, but Karsa, his sword slung over a shoulder, was already climbing up the hull, there being no shortage of handholds. He reached the forecastle rail and swung himself up and over it. His feet found the deck and he straightened.

  A ring of grey-skinned warriors faced him. Taller than lowlanders, but still a head shorter than the Teblor. Curved sabres were scabbarded to their hips, and much of their clothing was made of some kind of hide, short-haired, dark and glistening. Their long brown hair was intricately braided, hanging down to frame angular, multihued eyes. Behind them, down amidships, there was a pile of severed heads, a few lowlander but most similar in features to the grey-skinned warriors, though with skins of black.

  Ice rippled up Karsa’s spine as he saw countless eyes among those severed heads shift towards him.

  One of the grey-skinned warriors snapped something, his expression as contemptuous as his tone.

  Behind Karsa, Torvald reached the railing.

  The speaker seemed to be waiting for some sort of response. As the silence stretched, the faces on either side twisted into sneers. The spokesman barked out a command, pointed to the deck.

  ‘Uh, he wants us to kneel, Karsa,’ Torvald said. ‘I think maybe we should—’

  ‘I would not kneel when chained,’ Karsa growled. ‘Why would I do so now?’