House of Chains

by Steven Erikson

  Then he withdrew the pressure, maintaining contact as the stallion slowly straightened its neck.

  ‘I name you Havok,’ he whispered.

  He moved his hand down until his fingertips rested, palm upward, beneath its chin, then slowly walked backward, leading the stallion out from the herd.

  The dominant stallion screamed then, and the herd exploded into motion once more. Outward, dispersing into smaller groups, thundering through the high grasses. Wheeling around the twin hills, west and south, out once more into the heartland of the Jhag Odhan.

  Havok’s trembling had vanished. The beast walked at Karsa’s pace as he backed up the hillside.

  As he neared the summit, Cynnigig spoke behind him. ‘Not even a Jaghut could so calm a Jhag horse, Karsa Orlong, as you have done. Thelomen Toblakai, yes, you Teblor are that indeed, yet you are also unique among your kind. Thelomen Toblakai horse warriors. I had not thought such a thing possible. Karsa Orlong, why have the Teblor not conquered all of Genabackis?’

  Karsa glanced back at the Jaghut. ‘One day, Cynnigig, we shall.’

  ‘And are you the one who will lead them?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘We have witnessed, then, the birth of infamy.’

  Karsa moved alongside Havok, his hand running the length of its taut neck. Witness? Yes, you are witness. Even so, what I, Karsa Orlong, shall shape, you cannot imagine.

  No-one can.

  Cynnigig sat in the shade of the tree that contained Phyrlis, humming sofly. It was approaching dusk. The Thelomen Toblakai was gone, with his chosen horse. He had vaulted onto its back and ridden off without need for saddle or even reins. The herds had vanished, leaving the vista as empty as it had been before.

  The bent-backed Jaghut removed a wrapped piece of the aras deer cooked the night before and began cutting it into small slices. ‘A gift for you, dear sister.’

  ‘I see,’ she replied. ‘Slain by the stone sword?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘A bounty, then, to feed my spirit.’

  Cynnigig nodded. He paused to gesture carelessly with the knife. ‘You’ve done well, disguising the remains.’

  ‘The foundations survive, of course. The House’s walls. The anchor-stones in the yard’s corners—all beneath my cloak of soil.’

  ‘Foolish, unmindful T’lan Imass, to drive a spear into the grounds of an Azath House.’

  ‘What did they know of houses, Cynnigig? Creatures of caves and hide tents. Besides, it was already dying and had been for years. Fatally wounded. Oh, Icarium was on his knees by the time he finally delivered the mortal blow, raving with madness. And had not his Toblakai companion taken that opportunity to strike him unconscious . . . ’

  ‘He would have freed his father.’ Cynnigig nodded around a mouthful of meat. He rose and walked to the tree. ‘Here, sister,’ he said, offering her a slice.

  ‘It’s burnt.’

  ‘I doubt you could have managed better.’

  ‘True. Go on, push it down—I won’t bite.’

  ‘You can’t bite, my dear. I do appreciate the irony, by the way—Icarium’s father had no desire to be saved. And so the House died, weakening the fabric . . .’

  ‘Sufficiently for the warren to be torn apart. More, please—you’re eating more of it than I am.’

  ‘Greedy bitch. So, Karsa Orlong . . . surprised us.’

  ‘I doubt we are the first victims of misapprehension regarding that young warrior, brother.’

  ‘Granted. Nor, I suspect, will we be the last to suffer such shock.’

  ‘Did you sense the six T’lan Imass spirits, Cynnigig? Hovering there, beyond the hidden walls of the yard?’

  ‘Oh yes. Servants of the Crippled God, now, the poor things. They would tell him something, I think—’

  ‘Tell who? The Crippled God?’

  ‘No. Karsa Orlong. They possess knowledge, with which they seek to guide the Thelomen Toblakai—but they dared not approach. The presence of the House, I suspect, had them fearful.’

  ‘No, it is dead—all that survived of its lifespirit moved into the spear. Not the House, brother, but Karsa Orlong himself—that was who they feared.’

  ‘Ah.’ Cynnigig smiled as he slipped another sliver of meat into Phyrlis’s wooden mouth, where it slid from view, falling down into the hollow cavity within. There to rot, to gift the tree with its nutrients. ‘Then those Imass are not so foolish after all.’

  Book Four

  House Of Chains

  You have barred the doors

  caged the windows

  every portal sealed

  to the outside world,

  and now you find what you feared most—

  there are killers,

  and they are in the House.

  House Talanbal

  Chapter Eighteen

  The rage of the Whirlwind Goddess was an inferno, beaten on the forge of Holy Raraku.

  The legions that marched in the dust of blood burned by the eye of the sun were cold iron.

  There, on the dry harbour of the dead city where the armies joined to battle Hood walked the fated ground where he walked many times before.

  The Divided Heart

  Fisher

  SHE HAD WORMED HER WAY ALONGSIDE THE CAREFULLY STACKED CUT stones, to the edge of the trench—knowing her mother would be furious at seeing how she had ruined her new clothes—and finally came within sight of her sister.

  Tavore had claimed her brother’s bone and antler toy soldiers, and in the rubble of the torn-up estate wall, where repairs had been undertaken by the grounds workers, she had arranged a miniature battle.

  Only later would Felisin learn that her nine-year-old sister had been, in fact, recreating a set battle, culled from historical accounts of a century-old clash between a Royal Untan army and the rebelling House of K’azz D’Avore. A battle that had seen the annihilation of the renegade noble family’s forces and the subjugation of the D’Avore household. And that, taking on the role of Duke Kenussen D’Avore, she was working through every possible sequence of tactics towards achieving a victory. Trapped by a series of unfortunate circumstances in a steep-sided valley, and hopelessly outnumbered, the unanimous consensus among military scholars was that such victory was impossible.

  Felisin never learned if her sister had succeeded where Kenussen D’Avore—reputedly a military genius—had failed. Her spying had become a habit, her fascination with the hard, remote Tavore an obsession. It seemed, to Felisin, that her sister had never been a child, had never known a playful moment. She had stepped into their brother’s shadow and sought only to remain there, and when Ganoes had been sent off for schooling, Tavore underwent a subtle transformation. No longer in Ganoes’s shadow, it was as if she had become his shadow, severed and haunting.

  None of these thoughts were present in Felisin’s mind all those years ago. The obsession with Tavore existed, but its sources were formless, as only a child’s could be.

  The stigma of meaning ever comes later, like a brushing away of dust to reveal shapes in stone.

  At the very edge of the ruined city on its south side, the land fell away quickly in what had once been elastic slumps of silty clay, fanning out onto the old bed of the harbour. Centuries of blistering sun had hardened these sweeps, transforming them into broad, solid ramps.

  Sha’ik stood at the head of the largest of these ancient fans born of a dying sea millennia past, trying to see the flat basin before her as a place of battle. Four thousand paces away, opposite, rose the saw-toothed remnants of coral islands, over which roared the Whirlwind. That sorcerous storm had stripped from those islands the formidable mantle of sand that had once covered them. What remained offered little in the way of a secure ridge on which to assemble and prepare legions. Footing would be treacherous, formations impossible. The islands swept in a vast arc across the south approach. To the east was an escarpment, a fault-line that saw the land falling sharply away eighty or more arm-lengths onto a salt flat—what had once
been the inland sea’s deepest bed. The fault was a slash that widened in its southwestward reach, just the other side of the reef islands, forming the seemingly endless basin that was Raraku’s southlands. To the west lay dunes, the sand deep and soft, wind-sculpted and rife with sink-pits.

  She would assemble her forces on this very edge, positioned to hold the seven major ramps. Mathok’s horse archers on the wings, Korbolo Dom’s new heavy infantry—the elite core of his Dogslayers—at the head of each of the ramps. Mounted lancers and horse warriors held back as screens for when the Malazans reeled back from the steep approaches and the order was given to advance.

  Or so Korbolo Dom had explained—she was not entirely sure of the sequence. But it seemed that the Napan sought an initial defensive stance, despite their superior numbers. He was eager to prove his heavy infantry and shock troops against the Malazan equivalent. Since Tavore was marching to meet them, it was expedient to extend the invitation to its bitter close on these ramps. The advantage was entirely with the Army of the Apocalypse.

  Tavore was, once again, Duke Kenussen D’Avore in Ibilar Gorge.

  Sha’ik drew her sheep-hide cloak about her, suddenly chilled despite the heat. She glanced over to where Mathok and the dozen bodyguards waited, discreetly distanced yet close enough to reach her side within two or three heartbeats. She had no idea why the taciturn warchief so feared that she might be assassinated, but there was no danger in humouring the warrior. With Toblakai gone and Leoman somewhere to the south, Mathok had assumed the role of protector of her person. Well enough, although she did not think it likely that Tavore would attempt to send killers—the Whirlwind Goddess could not be breached undetected. Even a Hand of the Claw could not pass unnoticed through her multi-layered barriers, no matter what warren they sought to employ.

  Because the barrier itself defines a warren. The warren that lies like an unseen skin over the Holy Desert. This usurped fragment is a fragment no longer, but whole unto itself. And its power grows. Until one day, soon, it will demand its own place in the Deck of Dragons. As with the House of Chains. A new House, of the Whirlwind.

  Fed by the spilled blood of a slain army.

  And when she kneels before me . . . what then? Dear sister, broken and bowed, smeared in dust and far darker streaks, her legions a ruin behind her, feast for the capemoths and vultures—shall I then remove my warhelm? Reveal to her, at that moment, my face?

  We have taken this war. Away from the rebels, away from the Empress and the Malazan Empire. Away, even, from the Whirlwind Goddess herself. We have supplanted, you and I, Tavore, Dryjhna and the Book of the Apocalypse—for our own, private apocalypse. The family’s own blood, and nothing more. And the world, then, Tavore—when I show myself to you and see the recognition in your eyes—the world, your world, will shift beneath you.

  And at that moment, dear sister, you will understand. What has happened. What I have done. And why I have done it.

  And then? She did not know. A simple execution was too easy indeed, a cheat. Punishment belonged to the living, after all. The sentence was to survive, staggering beneath the chains of knowledge. A sentence not just of living, but of living with; that was the only answer to . . . everything.

  She heard boots crunching on potsherds behind her and turned. No welcoming smile for this one—not this time. ‘L’oric. I am delighted you deigned to acknowledge my request—you seemed to have grown out of the habit of late.’ Oh, how he hides from me, the secrets now stalking him, see how he will not meet my gaze—I sense struggles within him. Things he would tell me. Yet he will say nothing. With all the goddess’s powers at my behest, and still I cannot trap this elusive man, cannot force from him his truths. This alone warns me—he is not as he seems. Not simply a mortal man . . .

  ‘I have been unwell, Chosen One. Even this short journey from the camp has left me exhausted.’

  ‘I grieve for your sacrifice, L’oric. And so I shall come to my point without further delay. Heboric has barred his place of residence—he has neither emerged nor will he permit visitors, and it has been weeks.’

  There was nothing false in his wince. ‘Barred to us all, mistress.’

  She cocked her head. ‘Yet, you were the last to speak with him. At length, the two of you in his tent.’

  ‘I was? That was the last time?’

  Not the reaction she had anticipated. Very well, then whatever secret he possesses has nothing to do with Ghost Hands. ‘It was. Was he distressed during your conversation?’

  ‘Mistress, Heboric has long been distressed.’

  ‘Why?’

  His eyes flicked momentarily to hers, wider than usual, then away again. ‘He . . . grieves for your sacrifice, Chosen One.’

  She blinked. ‘L’oric, I had no idea my sarcasm could so wound you.’

  ‘Unlike you,’ he replied gravely, ‘I was not being facetious, mistress. Heboric grieves—’

  ‘For my sacrifices. Well, that is odd indeed, since he did not think much of me before my . . . rebirth. Which particular loss does he mark?’

  ‘I could not say—you will have to ask him that, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Your friendship had not progressed to the point of an exchange of confessions, then.’

  He said nothing to that. Well, no, he couldn’t. For that would acknowledge he has something to confess.

  She swung her gaze from him and turned once more to regard the potential field of battle. I can envision the armies arrayed, yes. But then what? How are they moved? What is possible and what is impossible? Goddess, you have no answer to such questions. They are beneath you. Your power is your will, and that alone. But, dear Goddess, sometimes will is not enough. ‘Korbolo Dom is pleased with this pending . . . arena.’

  ‘I am not surprised, mistress.’

  She glanced back at him. ‘Why?’

  He shrugged, and she watched him search for an alternative to what he had been about to say. ‘Korbolo Dom would have Tavore do precisely what he wants her to do. To array her forces here, or there, and nowhere else. To make this particular approach. To contest where he would have her contest. He expects the Malazan army to march up to be slaughtered, as if by will alone he can make Tavore foolish, or stupid.’ L’oric nodded towards the vast basin. ‘He wants her to fight there. Expects her to. But, why would she?’

  She shivered beneath the cloak as her chill deepened. Yes, why would she? Korbolo’s certainty . . . is it naught but bluster? Does he too demand something to be simply because that is how he must have it? But then, were any of the others any different? Kamist Reloe and his tail-sniffing pups, Fayelle and Henaras? And Febryl and Bidithal? Leoman . . . who sat with that irritating half-smile, through all of Korbolo’s descriptions of the battle to come. As if he knew something . . . as if he alone is indeed different. But then, that half-smile . . . the fool is sunk in the pit of durhang, after all. I should expect nothing of him, especially not military genius. Besides, Korbolo Dom has something to prove . . .

  ‘There is danger,’ L’oric murmured, ‘in trusting to a commander who wars with the aim of slaughter.’

  ‘Rather than what?’

  His brows rose fractionally. ‘Why, victory.’

  ‘Does not slaughter of the enemy achieve victory, L’oric?’

  ‘But therein lies the flaw in Korbolo’s thinking, Chosen One. As Leoman once pointed out, months ago, the flaw is one of sequence. Mistress, victory precedes slaughter. Not the other way round.’

  She stared at him. ‘Why, then, have neither you nor Leoman voiced this criticism when we discussed Korbolo Dom’s tactics?’

  ‘Discussed?’ L’oric smiled. ‘There was no discussion, Chosen One. Korbolo Dom is not a man who welcomes discussions.’

  ‘Nor is Tavore,’ she snapped.

  ‘That is not relevant,’ L’oric replied.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Malazan military doctrine—something Coltaine well understood, but also something that High Fist Pormqual had clearly los
t sight of. Tactics are consensual. Dassem Ultor’s original doctrine, when he was finally made First Sword of the Malazan Empire. “Strategy belongs to the commander, but tactics are the first field of battle, and it is fought in the command tent.” Dassem’s own words. Of course, such a system relied heavily upon capable officers. Incompetent officers—such as those that subseqently infiltrated the chain of—’

  ‘Nobleborn officers, you mean.’

  ‘Bluntly, yes. The purchasing of commissions—Dassem would never have permitted that, and from what I gather, nor does the Empress. Not any more, in any case. There was a cull—’

  ‘Yes, I know, L’oric. By your argument, then, Tavore’s personality has no relevance—’

  ‘Not entirely, mistress. It has, for tactics are the child of strategy. And the truth of Tavore’s nature will shape that strategy. Veteran soldiers speak of hot iron and cold iron. Coltaine was cold iron. Dujek Onearm is cold iron, too, although not always—he’s a rare one in being able to shift as necessity demands. But Tavore? Unknown.’

  ‘Explain this “cold iron”, L’oric.’

  ‘Mistress, this subject is not my expertise—’

  ‘You have certainly fooled me. Explain. Now.’

  ‘Very well, such as I understand it—’

  ‘Cease equivocating.’

  He cleared his throat, then turned and called out, ‘Mathok. Would you join us, please.’

  Sha’ik scowled at the presumption behind that invitation, but then inwardly relented. This is important, after all. I feel it. The heart of all that will follow. ‘Join us, Mathok,’ she said.

  He dismounted and strode over.

  L’oric addressed him. ‘I have been asked to explain “cold iron”, Warchief, and for this I need help.’

  The desert warrior bared his teeth. ‘Cold iron. Coltaine. Dassem Ultor—if the legends speak true. Dujek Onearm. Admiral Nok. K’azz D’Avore of the Crimson Guard. Inish Garn, who once led the Gral. Cold iron, Chosen One. Hard. Sharp. It is held before you, and so you reach.’ He crossed his arms.