House of Chains

by Steven Erikson

  There were nine dead Tiste Edur. Their retreat had probably been triggered by a desire to regroup rather than being hard-pressed.

  Worse, they were but an advance party. The two ships just off the shore were massive: each could easily hold two hundred warriors. Or so Apsalar judged, having scouted the inlet where they were moored.

  ‘There is plenty of wreckage in the water,’ she added, ‘and both Edur ships have the look of having been in a fight—’

  ‘Three Malazan war dromons,’ Cutter said. ‘A chance encounter. Darist says the Malazans gave a good account of themselves.’

  They were seated on some tumbled rubble a dozen paces from the Tiste Andü, watching the youths hover and fuss over Darist. Cutter’s left side ached, and though he did not look beneath his clothes he knew that bruises were spreading. He struggled to ignore the discomfort and continued eyeing the Tiste Andü.

  ‘They are not what I expected,’ he said quietly. ‘Not even schooled in the art of fighting—’

  ‘True. Darist’s desire to protect them could prove a fatal one.’

  ‘Now that the Edur know they exist. Not a part of Darist’s plan.’

  Apsalar shrugged. ‘They were given a task.’

  He fell silent, pondering that brusque statement. He’d always believed that a singular capacity to inflict death engendered a certain wisdom—of the fragility of the spirit, of its mortality—as he had known, and experienced first-hand, with Rallick Nom in Darujhistan. But Apsalar revealed nothing of such wisdom; her words were hard with judgement, often flatly dismissive. She had taken focus and made of it a weapon . . . or a means of self-defence.

  She had not intended any of the three Edur she had taken down to die swiftly. Yet it seemed she drew no pleasure, as a sadist might. It is more as if she was trained to do so . . . trained as a torturer. Yet Cotillion—Dancer—was no torturer. He was an assassin. So where does the vicious streak come from? Does it belong to her own nature? An unpleasant, disturbing thought.

  He lifted his left arm, gingerly, wincing. Their next fight would likely be a short one, even with Apsalar at their side.

  ‘You are in no condition to fight,’ she observed.

  ‘Nor is Darist,’ Cutter retorted.

  ‘The sword will carry him. But you will prove a liability. I would not be distracted by protecting you.’

  ‘What do you suggest? I kill myself now so I’m not in your way?’

  She shook her head—as if the suggestion had been, on its face, entirely reasonable, just not what she had in mind—and spoke in a low voice. ‘There are others on this island. Hiding well, but not well enough to escape my notice. I want you to go to them. I want you to enlist their help.’

  ‘Who are these others?’

  ‘You yourself identified them, Cutter. Malazans. Survivors, I would assume, from the three war dromons. There is one of power among them.’

  Cutter glanced over at Darist. The youths had moved the old man so that he sat with his back against the wall beside the inside doorway, opposite the gate. His head was lowered, bearded chin to chest, and only the faint rise and fall of his chest indicated that he still lived. ‘All right. Where will I find them?’

  The forest was filled with ruins. Crumbled, moss-covered, often little more than overgrown heaps, but it was evident to Cutter as he padded along the narrow, faint trail Apsalar had described for him that this forest had risen from the heart of a dead city—a huge city, dominated by massive buildings. Pieces of statuary lay scattered here and there, figures of enormous stature, constructed in sections and fixed together with a glassy substance he did not recognize. Although mostly covered in moss, he suspected the figures were Edur.

  An oppressive gloom suffused all that lay beneath the forest canopy. A number of living trees showed torn bark, and while the bark was black, the smooth, wet wood underneath was blood red. Fallen companions revealed that the fierce crimson turned black with death. The wounded upright trees reminded Cutter of Darist—of the Tiste Andü’s black skin and the deep red cuts slashing through it.

  He found he was shivering in the damp air as he padded along. His left arm was now entirely useless, and though he had retrieved his knives—including the broken-tipped one—he doubted that he would be able to put up much of a fight should the need arise.

  He could make out his destination directly ahead. A mound of rubble, pyramidal and particularly large, its summit sunbathed. There were trees on its flanks, but most were dead in the strangling grip of vines. A gaping hole of impenetrable darkness yawned from the side nearest Cutter.

  He slowed, then, twenty paces from the cave, halted. What he was about to do ran against every instinct. ‘Malazans!’ he called out, then winced at his own loudness. But the Edur are closing on the Throne—no-one nearby to hear me. I hope. ‘I know you are within! I would speak with you!’

  Figures appeared at the flanking edges of the cave, two on each side, crossbows cocked and trained on Cutter. Then, from the centre, emerged three more, two women and a man. The woman on the left gestured and said, ‘Come closer, hands out to your sides.’

  Cutter hesitated, then stretched out his right hand. ‘My left arm won’t lift, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Come ahead.’ He approached.

  The speaker was tall, muscular. Her hair was long, stained red. She wore tanned leathers. A longsword was scabbarded at her hip. Her skin was a deep bronze in hue. Cutter judged she was ten or more years older than him, and he felt a shiver run through him when he lifted his gaze and met her tilted, gold-hued eyes.

  The other woman was unarmed, older, and her entire right side, head, face, torso and leg, was horrifically burned—the flesh fused with wisps of clothing, mangled and melted by the ravages of a sorcerous attack. It was a wonder that she was standing—or even alive.

  Hanging back a step from these two was the man. Cutter guessed that he was Dal Honese, dusky-skinned, grey-shot black curled hair on his head cut short—though his eyes were, incongruously, a deep blue. His features were even enough, though crisscrossed with scars. He wore a battered hauberk, a plain longsword at his belt, and an expression so closed he could be Apsalar’s brother.

  The flanking marines were in full armour, helmed and visored. ‘Are you the only survivors?’ Cutter asked. The first woman scowled.

  ‘I have little time,’ the Daru went on. ‘We need your help. The Edur are assailing us—’

  ‘Edur?’

  Cutter blinked, then nodded. ‘The seafarers you fought. Tiste Edur. They are seeking something on this island, something of vast power and we’d rather it not fall into their hands. And why should you help? Because if it does fall into their hands, the Malazan Empire is likely finished. In fact, so is all of humanity—’

  The burned woman cackled, then broke into a fit of coughing that frothed her mouth with red bubbles. After a long moment, the woman recovered. ‘Oh, to be young again! All of humanity, is it? Why not the whole world?’

  ‘The Throne of Shadow is on this island,’ Cutter said.

  At this, the Dal Honese man started slightly.

  The burned woman was nodding. ‘Yes yes yes, true words. The sense of things arrives—in a flood! Tiste Edur, Tiste Edur, a fleet set out on a search, a fleet from far away, and now they’ve found it. Ammanas and Cotillion are about to be usurped, and what of it? The Throne of Shadow—we fought the Edur for that? Oh, what a waste—our ships, the marines—my own life, for the Throne of Shadow?’ She spasmed into coughing once more.

  ‘Not our battle,’ the other woman growled. ‘We weren’t even looking for a fight, but the fools weren’t interested in actually talking, in exchanging emissaries—Hood knows, this is not our island, not within the Malazan Empire. Look elsewhere—’

  ‘No,’ the Dal Honese rumbled.

  The woman turned in surprise. ‘We were clear enough, Traveller, in our gratitude to you for saving our lives. But that hardly permits you to assume command—’

  ‘The Throne must not be cla
imed by the Edur,’ the man named Traveller said. ‘I have no desire to challenge your command, Captain, but the lad speaks without exaggeration when he describes the risks . . . to the empire and to all of humanity. Like it or not, the Warren of Shadow is now human-aspected . . .’ he smiled crookedly, ‘and it well suits our natures.’ The smile vanished. ‘This battle is ours—we face it now or we face it later.’

  ‘You claim this fight in the name of the Malazan Empire?’ the captain asked.

  ‘More than you know,’ Traveller replied.

  The captain gestured to one of her marines. ‘Gentur, get the others out here, but leave Mudslinger with the wounded. Then have the squads count quarrels—I want to know what we have.’

  The marine named Gentur uncocked his crossbow then slipped back into the cave. A few moments later more soldiers emerged, sixteen in all when counting those who had originally come out.

  Cutter walked up to the captain. ‘There is one of power among [missing text] at the burned woman—who was leaning over and spitting out murky blood. ‘Is she a sorceress?’

  The captain followed his gaze and frowned. ‘She is, but she is dying. The power you—’

  The air reverberated to a distant concussion and Cutter wheeled. ‘They’ve attacked again! With magic this time—follow me!’ Without a backward look, the Daru set off down the trail. He heard a faint curse behind him, then the captain began shouting orders.

  The path led directly to the courtyard, and from the thundering detonations pounding again and again, Cutter judged the troop would have no difficulty in finding the place of battle—he would not wait for them. Apsalar was there, and Darist, and a handful of untrained Tiste Andü youths—they would have little defence against sorcery. But Cutter believed he did.

  He sprinted on through the gloom, his right hand closed about his aching left arm, seeking to hold it in place, though each jostling stride lanced pain into his chest.

  The nearest wall of the courtyard came into view. Colours were playing wildly in the air, thrashing the trees to all sides, deep reds and magenta and blues, a swirling chaos. The waves of concussions were increasing in frequency, pounding within the courtyard. There were no Edur outside the archway—an ominous sign. Cutter raced for the opening. Movement to his right caught his attention, and he saw another company of Edur, coming up from a coast trail but still sixty paces distant. The Malazans will have to deal with those . . . Queen of Dreams help them. The gate was before him, and he caught first sight of what was happening in the courtyard.

  Four Edur stood in a line in the centre, their backs to him. A dozen or more Edur warriors waited on each flank, scimitars held ready. Waves of magic rolled out from the four, pulsing, growing ever stronger—and each one flowed over the flagstones in a tumbling storm of colours, to hammer into Darist.

  Who stood alone, at his feet a dead or unconscious Apsalar. Behind him, the scattered bodies of Anomander Rake’s grandchildren. Somehow, Darist still held his sword upright—though he was a shredded mass of blood, bones visible through the wreckage of his chest. He stood before the crashing waves, yet would not take a single step back, even as they tore him apart. The sword Grief was white hot, the metal singing a terrible, keening note that grew louder and more piercing with every moment that passed.

  ‘Blind,’ Cutter hissed as he closed, ‘I need you now!’

  Shadows blossomed around him, then four heavy paws thumped onto the flagstones, and the Hound’s looming presence was suddenly at his side.

  One of the Edur spun round. Unhuman eyes widened on seeing Blind, then the sorcerer snapped out something in a harsh, commanding tone.

  Blind’s forward rush halted in a skid of claws. And the Hound cowered.

  ‘Beru fend!’ Cutter swore, scrabbling to draw a knife—

  The courtyard was suddenly filled with shadows, a strange crackling sound ripping through the air—

  And a fifth figure was among the four Edur sorcerers now, grey-clad, gloved, face hidden in a rough hood. In its hands, a rope, that seemed to writhe with a life of its own. Cutter saw it snap out to strike a sorcerer in one eye, and when the rope whipped back out, a stream of blood and minced brains followed. The sorcerer’s magic winked out and the Edur toppled.

  The rope was too fast to follow, as its wielder moved among the three remaining mages, but in its twisting wake a head tumbled from shoulders, intestines spilled out from a gaping rip, and whatever felled the last sorcerer happened in a blur that left no obvious result, except that the Edur was dead before he hit the ground.

  There were shouts from the Edur warriors, and they converged from both sides.

  It was then that the screams began. The rope lashed out from Cotillion’s right hand; a long-knife was in his left, seeming to do little but lick and touch everyone it came close to—but the result was devastating. The air was a mist of suspended blood around the patron god of assassins, and before Cutter drew his fourth breath since the battle began, it was over, and around Cotillion there was naught but corpses.

  A final snap of the rope whipped blood across a wall, then the god threw back his hood and wheeled to face Blind. He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it once more. An angry gesture, and shadows swept out to engulf the trembling Hound. When they dissipated a moment later Blind was gone.

  There was the sound of fighting beyond the courtyard and Cutter turned. ‘The Malazans need help!’ he shouted to Cotillion.

  ‘No they don’t,’ the god growled.

  Both spun at a loud clatter, to see Darist lying motionless beside Apsalar, the sword lying nearby, its heat igniting the leaves it lay on.

  Cotillion’s face fell, as if with a sudden, deep sorrow. ‘When he’s done out there,’ he said to Cutter, ‘guide him to this sword. Tell him its names.’

  ‘He?’

  A moment later, with a final survey of the mayhem surrounding him, Cotillion vanished.

  Cutter rushed over to Apsalar. He knelt down beside her. Her clothes were crisped, smoke rising in tendrils in the now still air. Fire had swept through her hair, but only momentarily, it seemed, for she had plenty left; nor was her face burned, although a long red welt, already blistering, was visible in a diagonal slash down her neck. Faint jerks of her limbs—the after-effects of the sorcerous attack—showed him she still lived.

  He tried to wake her, failed. A moment later he looked up, listened. The sounds of fighting had ceased and now a single set of boots slowly approached, crunching on scorched ground.

  Cutter slowly rose and faced the archway.

  Traveller stepped into view. A sword broken three-quarters of the way up the blade was in one gauntleted hand. Though spattered with blood, he seemed unwounded. He paused to study the scene in the courtyard.

  Somehow, Cutter knew without asking that he was the last left alive. Yet he moved none the less to look out through the archway. The Malazans were all down, motionless. Surrounding them in a ring were the corpses of half a hundred or more Tiste Edur. Quarrel-studded others lay on the trail approaching the clearing.

  I called those Malazans to their deaths. That captain—with the beautiful eyes . . . He returned to where Traveller walked among the fallen Tiste Andü. And the question he asked came from a constricted throat. ‘Did you speak true, Traveller?’

  The man glanced over.

  ‘This battle,’ Cutter elaborated. ‘Was it truly a Malazan battle?’

  Traveller’s answering shrug chilled the Daru. ‘Some of these are still alive,’ he said, gesturing at the Tiste Andü.

  ‘And there are wounded in the cave,’ Cutter pointed out.

  He watched as the man walked over to where lay Apsalar and Darist. ‘She is a friend,’ Cutter said.

  Traveller grunted, then he flung his broken sword aside and stepped over Darist. He reached down for the sword.

  ‘Careful—’

  But the man closed his gauntleted hand on the grip and lifted the weapon.

  Cutter sighed, closed his eyes for a lo
ng moment, then opened them and said, ‘It is named Vengeance . . . or Grief. You can choose which best suits you.’

  Traveller turned, met Cutter’s eyes. ‘Do you not wish it for yourself?’

  The Daru shook his head. ‘It demands its wielder possess a singular will. I am not for that sword, nor, I think, will I ever be.’

  Traveller studied the blade in his hand. ‘Vengeance,’ he murmured, then nodded and crouched down to retrieve the scabbard from Darist’s body. ‘This old man, who was he?’

  Cutter shrugged. ‘A guardian. He was named Andarist. And now he’s gone, and so the Throne is without a protector—’

  Traveller straightened. ‘I will abide here a time. As you said, there are wounded to tend to . . . and corpses to bury.’

  ‘I’ll help—’

  ‘No need. The god who strode through this place has visited the Edur ships—there are small craft aboard, and supplies. Take your woman and leave this island. If more Edur chance upon this location, your presence will only impede me.’

  ‘How long will you plan on staying here, in Andarist’s role?’

  ‘Long enough to do him honour.’

  A groan came from Apsalar, drawing Cutter to her. She began thrashing, as if fevered.

  ‘Carry her from this place,’ Traveller said. ‘The sorcery’s effects linger.’

  He looked up, met those eyes—and saw sorrow there, the first emotion yet to be revealed from the man. ‘I would help you bury—’

  ‘I need no help. It will not be the first time I have buried companions. Go. Take her.’

  He lifted her in his arms. Her thrashing stilled and she sighed as if sinking into deep, peaceful sleep. Then he stood studying Traveller for a moment.

  The man turned away. ‘Thank your god, mortal,’ he growled, his back still to Cutter, ‘for the sword . . .’