House of Chains

by Steven Erikson

  ‘You reach,’ L’oric nodded. ‘Yes, that’s it. You reach. And are stuck fast.’

  ‘Cold iron,’ Mathok growled. ‘The warchief’s soul—it either rages with the fire of life, or is cold with death. Chosen One, Korbolo Dom is hot iron, as am I. As are you. We are as the sun’s fires, as the desert’s heat, as the breath of the Whirlwind Goddess herself.’

  ‘The Army of the Apocalypse is hot iron.’

  ‘Aye, Chosen One. And thus, we must pray that the forge of Tavore’s heart blazes with vengeance.’

  ‘That she too is hot iron? Why?’

  ‘For then, we shall not lose.’

  Sha’ik’s knees suddenly weakened and she almost staggered. L’oric moved close to support her, alarm on his face.

  ‘Mistress?’

  ‘I am . . . I am all right. A moment . . .’ She fixed her gaze on Mathok once more, saw the brief gauging regard in his eyes that then quickly slipped once again behind his impassive mien. ‘Warchief, what if Tavore is cold iron?’

  ‘The deadliest clash of all, Chosen One. Which shall shatter first?’

  L’oric said, ‘Military histories reveal, mistress, that cold iron defeats hot iron more often than not. By a count of three or four to one.’

  ‘Yet Coltaine! Did he not fall to Korbolo Dom?’

  She noted L’oric’s eyes meet Mathok’s momentarily.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded.

  ‘Chosen One,’ Mathok rumbled, ‘Korbolo Dom and Coltaine fought nine major engagements—nine battles—on the Chain of Dogs. Of these, Korbolo was clear victor in one, and one only. At the Fall. Outside the walls of Aren. And for that he needed Kamist Reloe, and the power of Mael, as channelled through the jhistal priest, Mallick Rel.’

  Her head was spinning, panic ripping through her, and she knew L’oric could feel her trembling.

  ‘Sha’ik,’ he whispered, close by her ear, ‘you know Tavore, don’t you? You know her, and she is cold iron, isn’t she?’

  Mute, she nodded. She did not know how she knew, for neither Mathok nor L’oric seemed able to give a concrete definition, suggesting to her that the notion derived from a gut level, a place of primal instinct. And so, she knew.

  L’oric had lifted his head. ‘Mathok.’

  ‘High Mage?’

  ‘Who, among us, is cold iron? Is there anyone?’

  ‘There are two, High Mage. And one of these is capable of both: Toblakai.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘Leoman of the Flails.’

  Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas lay beneath a sheath of sand. The sweat had soaked through his telaba beneath him, packing down his body’s moulded imprint, and had cooled, so that he now shivered unceasingly. The sixth son of a deposed chief among the Pardu, he had been a wanderer of the wastelands for most of his adult life. A wanderer, trader, and worse. When Leoman had found him, three Gral warriors had been dragging him behind their horses for most of a morning.

  The purchase price had been pathetically small, since his skin had been flayed away by the burning sands, leaving only a bloodied mass of raw flesh. But Leoman had taken him to a healer, an old woman from some tribe he’d never heard of before, or since, and she in turn had taken him to a rockspring pool, where he’d lain immersed, raving with fever, for an unknown time, whilst she’d worked a ritual of mending and called upon the water’s ancient spirits. And so he had recovered.

  Corabb had never learned the reason behind Leoman’s mercy, and, now that he knew him well—as well as any who’d sworn fealty to the man—he knew better than to ask. It was one with his contrary nature, his unknowable qualities that could be unveiled but once in an entire lifetime. But Corabb knew one thing: for Leoman of the Flails, he would give his life.

  They had lain side by side, silent and motionless, through the course of the day, and now, late in the afternoon, they saw the first of the outriders appear in the distance, cautiously ranging out as they ventured onto the pan of cracked salts and clay.

  Corabb finally stirred. ‘Wickans,’ he hissed.

  ‘And Seti,’ Leoman rumbled in reply.

  ‘Those grey-armoured ones look . . . different.’

  The man beside him grunted, then swore. ‘Khundryl, from south of the Vathar River. I had hoped . . . Still, that arcane armour looks heavy. The Seven know what ancestral tombs they looted for those. The Khundryl came late to the horse, and it’s no wonder with that armour, is it?’

  Corabb squinted at the vast dust cloud behind the outriders. ‘The vanguard rides close to the scouts.’

  ‘Aye. We’ll have to do something about that.’

  Without another word the two warriors edged back from the crest, beyond the sight of the outriders, pausing briefly to reach back and brush sand over where their bodies had lain, then made their way back to the gully where they’d left their horses.

  ‘Tonight,’ Leoman said, collecting his mount’s reins and swinging up into the saddle.

  Corabb did the same and then nodded. Sha’ik would know, of course, that she had been defied. For the Whirlwind Goddess had her eyes on all her children. But this was their land, wasn’t it? The invaders could not be left to walk it uncontested. No, the sands would drink their blood, giving voice on this night to the Shrouded Reaper’s dark promise.

  L’oric stood near the trail that led to Toblakai’s glade. A casual look around, then the faintest of gestures from one hand marked a careful unveiling of sorcery—that vanished almost as soon as it arrived. Satisfied, he set off down the trail.

  She might be distracted, but her goddess was not. Increasingly, he sensed questing attention directed towards him, sorcerous tendrils reaching out in an effort to find him, or track his movements. And it was becoming more difficult to elude such probes, particularly since they were coming from more than a single source.

  Febryl was growing more nervous, as was Kamist Reloe. Whilst Bidithal’s paranoia needed no fuel—and nor should it. Sufficient, then, all these signs of increased restlessness, to convince L’oric that whatever plans existed were soon to seek resolution. One way or another.

  He had not expected to discover Sha’ik so . . . unprepared. True, she had conveyed a none too subtle hint that she was preternaturally aware of all that went on in the camp, including an alarming ability to defeat his own disguising wards intended to mask his travels. Even so, there was knowledge that, had she possessed it—or even suspected—would have long since triggered a deadly response. Some places must remain closed to her. I had expected her to ask far more dangerous questions of me today. Where is Felisin? Then again, maybe she didn’t ask that because she already knew. A chilling thought, not just for evincing the breadth of her awareness, but for what it suggested about Sha’ik herself. That she knows what Bidithal did to Felisin . . . and she does not care.

  Dusk ever seemed eager to arrive in the forest of stone trees. The tracks he left in the dusty path revealed, to his relief, that he was still alone in walking the trail these days.

  Not that the goddess needed trails. But there was a strangeness to Toblakai’s glade, hinting at some kind of investment, as if the clearing had undergone a sanctification of some sort. And if that had indeed occurred, then it might exist as a blind spot in the eye of the Whirlwind Goddess.

  But none of this explained why Sha’ik did not ask about Felisin. Ah, L’oric, you are the blind one. Sha’ik’s obsession is Tavore. With each day that leaves us, bringing the two armies ever closer, her obsession grows. As does her doubt and, perhaps, her fear. She is Malazan, after all—I was right in that. And within that waits another secret, this one buried deepest of all. She knows Tavore.

  And that knowledge had guided her every action since the Rebirth. Her recalling the Army of the Apocalpyse when virtually within sight of the Holy City’s walls. Retreating into the heart of Raraku . . . gods, was all that a flight of terror?

  A notion that did not bear thinking about.

  The glade appeared before him, the ring of trees with their cold,
unhuman eyes gazing down upon the small, bedraggled tent—and the young woman huddled before the stone-lined hearth a few paces from it.

  She did not look up as he came near. ‘L’oric, I was wondering, how can one tell Bidithal’s cult of murderers from Korbolo Dom’s? It’s a crowded camp these days—I am glad I am hiding here, and in turn I find myself pitying you. Did you finally speak with her today?’

  Sighing, he settled down opposite her, removing his shoulder pack and drawing food from it. ‘I did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Her concerns for the impending clash are . . . overwhelming her—’

  ‘My mother did not ask after me,’ Felisin cut in, with a slight smile.

  L’oric looked away. ‘No,’ he conceded in a whisper.

  ‘She knows, then. And has judged as I have—Bidithal is close to exposing the plotters. They need him, after all, either to join the conspiracy, or stand aside. This is a truth that has not changed. And the night is drawing nearer, the night of betrayal. And so, Mother needs him to play out his role.’

  ‘I am not sure of that, Felisin,’ L’oric began, then shut up.

  But she had understood, and her terrible smile broadened. ‘Then the Whirlwind Goddess has stolen the love from her soul. Ah, well, she has been under siege for a long time, after all. In any case, she was not my mother in truth—that was a title she assumed because it amused her to do so—’

  ‘Not true, Felisin. Sha’ik saw your plight—’

  ‘I was the first one to see her, when she returned, reborn. A chance occurrence, that I should be out gathering hen’bara on that day. Before that day, Sha’ik had never noticed me—why would she? I was one among a thousand orphans, after all. But then she was . . . reborn.’

  ‘Returned to the living as well, perhaps—’

  Felisin laughed. ‘Oh, L’oric, you ever strive, don’t you? I knew then, as you must know by now—Sha’ik Reborn is not the same woman as Sha’ik Elder.’

  ‘That hardly matters, lass. The Whirlwind Goddess chose her—’

  ‘Because Sha’ik Elder died, or was killed. You did not see the truth as I did, in the faces of Leoman and Toblakai. I saw their uncertainty—they did not know if their ruse would succeed. And that it did, more or less, was as much to me as to any of them. The Whirlwind Goddess chose her out of necessity, L’oric.’

  ‘As I said, Felisin, it does not matter.’

  ‘Not to you, perhaps. No, you don’t understand. I saw Sha’ik Elder up close, once. Her glance swept past me, and that glance saw no-one, and at that moment, child though I was, I knew the truth of her. Of her, and of her goddess.’

  L’oric unstoppered the jug that had followed the food and raised it to wet a mouth that had suddenly gone dry. ‘And what truth was that?’ he whispered, unable to meet her eyes. Instead, he drank down a deep draught of the unwatered wine.

  ‘Oh, that we are, one and all, nothing but slaves. We are the tools she will use to achieve her desires. Beyond that, our lives mean nothing to the goddess. But with Sha’ik Reborn, I thought I saw . . . something different.’

  His peripheral vision caught her shrug.

  ‘But,’ she continued, ‘the goddess is too strong. Her will too absolute. The poison that is indifference . . . and I well know that taste, L’oric. Ask any orphan, no matter how old they are now, and they will tell you the same. We all sucked at that same bitter tit.’

  He knew his tears had broken from his eyes, were running down his cheeks, yet could do nothing to stem them.

  ‘And now, L’oric,’ she went on after a moment, ‘we are all revealed. Every one of us here. We are all orphans. Think on it. Bidithal, who lost his temple, his entire cult. The same for Heboric. Korbolo Dom, who once stood as an equal in rank with great soldiers, like Whiskeyjack, and Coltaine. Febryl—did you know he murdered his own father and mother? Toblakai, who has lost his own people. And all the rest of us here, L’oric—we were children of the Malazan Empire, once. And what have we done? We cast off the Empress, in exchange for an insane goddess who dreams only of destruction, who seeks to feed on a sea of blood . . .’

  ‘And,’ he asked softly, ‘am I too an orphan?’

  She had no need to answer, for they both heard the truth in his own pained words.

  Osric . . .

  ‘Leaving only . . . Leoman of the Flails.’ Felisin took the wine from his hands. ‘Ah, Leoman. Our flawed diamond. I wonder, can he save us all? Will he get the chance? Among us, only he remains . . . unchained. No doubt the goddess claims him, but it is an empty claim—you do see that, don’t you?’

  He nodded, wiping at his eyes. ‘And I believe I have led Sha’ik to that realization, as well.’

  ‘She knows, then, that Leoman is our last hope?’

  His sigh was ragged. ‘I think so . . .’

  They were silent for a time. Night had arrived, and the fire had died down to ashes, leaving only starlight to illuminate the glade.

  It seemed, then, that eyes of stone had slowly assumed life, a crescent row fixed now upon the two of them. A regard avid, gleaming with hunger. L’oric’s head snapped up. He stared out at the ghostly faces, then at the two Toblakai figures, then settled once more, shivering.

  Felisin laughed softly. ‘Yes, they do haunt one, don’t they?’

  L’oric grunted. ‘A mystery here, in Toblakai’s creations. Those faces—they are T’lan Imass. Yet . . .’

  ‘He thought them his gods, yes. So Leoman told me, once, beneath the fumes of durhang. Then he warned me to say nothing to Toblakai.’ She laughed again, louder this time. ‘As if I would. A fool indeed, to step between Toblakai and his gods.’

  ‘There is nothing simple about that simple warrior,’ L’oric murmured.

  ‘Just as you are not simply a High Mage,’ she said. ‘You must act soon, you know. You have choices to make. Hesitate too long and they will be made for you, to your regret.’

  ‘I could well say the same to you in return.’

  ‘Well then, it seems we still have more to discuss this night. But first, let us eat—before the wine makes us drunk.’

  Sha’ik recoiled, staggered back a step. The breath hissed from her in a gust of alarm—and pain. A host of wards swirled around Heboric’s abode, still flickering with the agitation her collision had triggered.

  She bit down on her outrage, pitched her voice low as she said, ‘You know who it is who has come, Heboric. Let me pass. Defy me, and I will bring the wrath of the goddess down, here and now.’

  A moment’s silence, then, ‘Enter.’

  She stepped forward. There was a moment’s pressure, then she stumbled through, brought up short against the crumbled foundation wall. A sudden . . . absence. Terrifying, bursting like the clearest light where all had been, but a moment earlier, impenetrable gloom. Bereft . . . yet free. Gods, free—the light—‘Ghost Hands!’ she gasped. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘The goddess within you, Sha’ik,’ came Heboric’s words, ‘is not welcome in my temple.’

  Temple? Roaring chaos was building within her, the vast places in her mind where the Whirlwind Goddess had been now suddenly vacant, filling with the dark, rushing return of . . . of all that I was. Bitter fury grew like a wildfire as memories rose with demonic ferocity to assail her. Beneth. You bastard. You closed your hands around a child, but what you shaped was anything but a woman. A plaything. A slave to you and your twisted, brutal world.

  I used to watch that knife in your hands, the flickering games that were your idle habits. And that’s what you taught me, isn’t it? Cutting for fun and blood. And oh, how I cut. Baudin. Kulp. Heboric—

  A physical presence beside her now, the solid feel of hands—jade green, black-barred—a figure, squat and wide and seemingly beneath the shadow of fronds—no, tattoos. Heboric . . .

  ‘Inside, lass. I have made you . . . bereft. An unanticipated consequence of forcing the goddess from your soul. Come.’

  And then he was guiding her into the tent’s confines.
The air chill and damp, a single small oil lamp struggling against the gloom—a flame that suddenly moved as he lifted the lamp and brought it over to a brazier, where he used its burning oil to light the bricks of dung. And, as he worked, he spoke. ‘Not much need for light . . . the passage of time . . . before tasked with sanctioning a makeshift temple . . . what do I know of Treach, anyway?’

  She was sitting on cushions, her trembling hands held before the brazier’s growing flames, furs wrapped about her. At the name ‘Treach’ she started, looked up.

  To see Heboric squatting before her. As he had squatted that day, so long ago now, in Judgement’s Round. When Hood’s sprites had come to him . . . to foretell of Fener’s casting down. The flies would not touch his spiral tattoos. I remember that. Everywhere else, they swarmed like madness. Now, those tattoos had undergone a transformation. ‘Treach.’

  His eyes narrowed on hers—a cat’s eyes, now—he can see! ‘Ascended into godhood, Sha’ik—’

  ‘Don’t call me that. I am Felisin Paran of House Paran.’ She hugged herself suddenly. ‘Sha’ik waits for me . . . out there, beyond this tent’s confines—beyond your wards.’

  ‘And would you return to that embrace, lass?’

  She studied the brazier’s fire, whispered, ‘No choice, Heboric.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  A thunderous shock bolted her upright. ‘Felisin!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Felisin Younger! I have not . . . not seen her! Days? Weeks? What—where is she!’

  Heboric’s motion was feline as he straightened, fluid and precise. ‘The goddess must know, lass—’

  ‘If she does, she’s not told me.’

  ‘But why would . . .’

  She saw a sudden knowledge in his eyes, and felt her own answering stab of fear. ‘Heboric, what do you—’

  Then he was guiding her to the tent flap, speaking as he drove her back step by step. ‘We spoke, you and I, and all is well. Nothing to concern yourself over. The Adjunct and her legions are coming and there is much to do. As well, there are the secret plans of Febryl to keep an eye on, and for that you must rely upon Bidithal—’