House of Chains

by Steven Erikson

  ‘How’s the word-line, Cuttle?’

  ‘Been repeating every word since we first settled, Fid,’ the sapper replied.

  ‘And so legends were born,’ Koryk rumbled with facetious portent.

  ‘Into the arena, then,’ Fiddler instructed.

  The boxes were gingerly lifted and held over the arena.

  ‘Equidistant? Good. Tip ’em, lads.’

  Mangonel was the first to land, tail arched and pincers out as it scuttled close to the knife-edge barrier, upon which, a hair’s breadth from the iron blades, it halted and then backed away, its carapace flushing red with its characteristic mindless rage. Clawmaster was next, seeming to leap down ready for war, fluids racing beneath its amber-tinted shell.

  Joyful Union came last, slow and measured, so low on the sand as to seem belly-down. Pincers tucked away, tail curled to port and quiescent. Dwarfed by the other two scorpions, its black shell somewhere between glossy and flat. Its multiple legs scuttled it forward slightly, then it froze.

  Gesler hissed. ‘If she plucks a couple knives from the ring and uses ’em, I’m going to kill you, Fid.’

  ‘No need,’ Fiddler replied, his attention divided between what was going on in the arena and Ibb’s running commentary, the man’s voice harsh with tension as he waxed creative in describing what had, up to now, been essentially nothing worth comment.

  That suddenly changed as three things occurred almost simultaneously. Joyful Union sauntered into the middle of the arena. Mangonel’s assortment of natural weapons all cocked in unison, even as the creature began backing up, its shell turning fiery red. Clawmaster suddenly wheeled and darted straight at the nearest wall of blades, halting a moment before impact, pincers waving wildly.

  ‘He wants mommy, looks like, Hubb,’ Koryk drily observed.

  Clawmaster’s Holder softly whimpered in answer.

  Then, after a frozen moment from all three scorpions, Joyful Union finally lifted its tail.

  Upon which, all but Fiddler stared in utter disbelief, as Joyful Union seemed to . . . split. Horizontally. Into two identical, but thinner, flatter scorpions. That then raced outward, one to Mangonel, the other to Clawmaster—each like a village mongrel charging a bull bhederin, so extreme their comparative sizes.

  Red-backed Bastard and In Out both did their best, but were no match in speed, nor ferocity, as tiny pincers snipped—audibly—through legs, through tail, through arm-joints, then, with the larger creature immobile and helpless, a casual, almost delicate stab of stinger.

  With In Out’s translucent shell, the horrid bright green of that poison was visible—and thus described in ghastly detail by Ibb—as it spread out from the puncture until Clawmaster’s once beautiful amber was gone, replaced by a sickly green that deepened before their eyes to a murky black.

  ‘Dead as dung,’ Hubb moaned. ‘Clawmaster . . .’

  Mangonel suffered an identical fate.

  With its enemies vanquished, the two Birdshit scorpions rushed back into each other’s arms—and, in the blink of an eye, were as one once more.

  ‘Cheat!’ Stormy bellowed, rearing to his feet and fumbling to draw his flint sword.

  Gesler leapt up and, along with Truth, struggled to restrain their raging comrade. ‘We looked, Stormy!’ Gesler yelled. ‘We looked for anything—then we swore! I swore! By Fener and Treach, damn you! How could any of us have known “Joyful Union” wasn’t just a cute name?’

  Glancing up, Fiddler met Cuttle’s steady gaze. The sapper mouthed the words We’re rich, you bastard.

  The sergeant, with a final glance at Gesler and Truth—who were dragging a foaming Stormy away—then moved to crouch down beside Ibb. ‘All right, lad, what follows is for the marines only, and especially the sergeants. We’re about to become our own Joyful Union to big, bad Mangonel tonight. I’ll explain what the Adjunct has ordered—repeat what I say, Ibb, word for word—got it?’

  Three bells had passed since the sunset. Dust from the Whirlwind Wall obscured the stars, making the darkness beyond the hearth-fires almost impenetrable. Squads from the infantry trooped out to relieve those stationed at the pickets. In the Khundryl camp, the warriors removed their heavy armour and prepared to settle in for the night. Along the army encampment’s outermost trenches, Wickan and Seti horse warriors patrolled.

  At the 4th squad’s fire, Fiddler returned from the company’s wagons with his kit bag. He set it down and untied the draws.

  Nearby sprawled Cuttle, his eyes glittering reflected flames, watching as the sergeant began withdrawing variously sized, hide-wrapped objects. Moments later he had assembled a dozen such items, which he then began unwrapping, revealing the glint of polished wood and blackened iron.

  The others in the squad were busy checking over their weapons and armour one last time, saying nothing as the tension slowly built among the small group of soldiers.

  ‘Been some time since I last saw one of those,’ Cuttle muttered as Fiddler laid out the objects. ‘I’ve seen imitations, some of them almost as good as the originals.’

  Fiddler grunted. ‘There’s a few out there. It’s the knock-back where the biggest danger lies, since if it’s too hard the whole damn thing explodes upon release. Me and Hedge worked out this design ourselves, then we found a Mare jeweller in Malaz City—what she was doing there I’ve no idea—’

  ‘A jeweller? Not a weaponsmith?’

  ‘Aye.’ He began assembling the crossbow. ‘And a wood-carver for the stops and plugs—those need replacing after twenty or so shots—’

  ‘When they’re pulped.’

  ‘Or splitting, aye. It’s the ribs, when they spring back—that’s what sends the shockwave forward. Unlike a regular crossbow, where the quarrel’s fast enough out of the slot to escape that vibration. Here, the quarrel’s a pig, heavy and weighted on the head end—it never leaves the slot as fast as you’d like, so you need something to absorb that knock-back, before it gets to the quarrel shaft.’

  ‘And the clay ball attached to it. Clever solution, Fid.’

  ‘It’s worked so far.’

  ‘And if it does fail . . .’

  Fiddler looked up and grinned. ‘I won’t be the one with breath to complain.’ The last fitting clicked into place, and the sergeant set the bulky weapon down, turning his attention to the individually wrapped quarrels.

  Cuttle slowly straightened. ‘Those ain’t got sharpers on them.’

  ‘Hood no, I can throw sharpers.’

  ‘And that crossbow can lob cussers far enough? Hard to believe.’

  ‘Well, the idea is to aim and shoot, then bite a mouthful of dirt.’

  ‘I can see the wisdom in that, Fid. Now, you let us all know when you’re firing, right?’

  ‘Nice and loud, aye.’

  ‘And what word should we listen for?’

  Fiddler noticed that the rest of his squad had ceased their preparations and were now waiting for his answer. He shrugged. ‘Duck. Or sometimes what Hedge used to use.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘A scream of terror.’ He climbed to his feet. ‘All right, soldiers, it’s time.’

  When the last grains trickled down, the Adjunct turned from the hourglass and nodded to Gamet. ‘When will you join your companies, Fist?’

  ‘In a few moments, Adjunct. Although, because I intend to remain in my saddle, I will not ride out to them until the fighting starts.’

  He saw her frown at that, but she made no comment, focusing instead on the two Wickan youths standing near the tent’s entrance. ‘Have you completed your rituals?’

  The lad, Nil, shrugged. ‘We have spoken with the spirits, as you ordered.’

  ‘Spoken? That is all?’

  ‘Once, perhaps, we could have . . . compelled. But as we warned you long ago in Aren, our power is not as it once was.’

  Nether added, ‘This land’s spirits are agitated at the moment, easily distracted. Something else is happening. We have done all we could, Adjunct. At the very least,
if the desert raiders have a shaman among them, there will be little chance of the secret’s unveiling.’

  ‘Something else is happening, you said. What, specifically?’

  Before she could answer, Gamet said, ‘Your pardon, Adjunct. I will take my leave now.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The Fist left them to resume their conversation. A fog had settled on his mind, the moments before an engagement when uncertainty engendered unease and confusion. He had heard of this affliction claiming other commanders, but had not thought it would befall him. The rush of his own blood had created a wall of sound, muting the world beyond. And it seemed his other senses had dulled as well.

  As he made his way towards his horse—held ready by a soldier—he shook his head, seeking to clear it. If the soldier said something to him when he took the reins and swung up into the saddle, he did not hear it.

  The Adjunct had been displeased by his decision to ride into the battle. But the added mobility was, to Gamet’s mind, worth the risk. He set out through the camp at a slow canter. Fires had been allowed to die, the scenes surrounding him strangely ethereal. He passed figures hunched down around coals and envied them their freedom. Life had been simpler as a plain soldier. Gamet had begun to doubt his ability to command.

  Age is no instant purchase of wisdom. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? She may have made me a Fist and given me a legion. And soldiers might well salute when they pass—though of course not here, in enemy territory, thank Hood. No, all these trappings are no assurance of my competence.

  This night shall be my first test. Gods, I should have stayed retired. I should have refused her insistence—dammit, her assumption—that I would simply accept her wishes.

  There was, he had come to believe, a weakness within him. A fool might call it a virtue, such . . . pliable equanimity. But he knew better.

  He rode on, the fog of his mind growing ever thicker.

  Eight hundred warriors crouched motionless, ghostly, amidst the boulders on the plain. Wearing dulled armour and telabas the colour of the terrain around them, they were virtually invisible, and Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas felt a surge of dark pride, even as another part of his mind wondered at Leoman’s protracted . . . hesitation.

  Their warchief lay flat on the slope’s rise ten paces ahead. He had not moved in some time. Despite the chill, sweat trickled beneath Corabb’s armour, and he shifted his grip once more on the unfamiliar tulwar in his right hand. He’d always preferred axe-like weapons—something with a haft he could, if need be, grip with his other hand. He disliked the blade edge that reached down all the way to the hilt and wished he’d had time to file it blunt for the first half of its length.

  I am a warrior who cannot tolerate sharp edges close to his body. Which spirits thought to make of me such an embodiment of confused irony? I curse them all.

  He could wait no longer, and slowly crawled up alongside Leoman of the Flails.

  Beyond the crest sprawled another basin, this one hummocked and thick with thorny brush. It flanked the encamped Malazan army on this side, and was between sixty and seventy paces in breadth.

  ‘Foolish,’ Corabb muttered, ‘to have chosen to stop here. I think we need have nothing to fear from this Adjunct.’

  The breath slowly hissed between Leoman’s teeth. ‘Aye, plenty of cover for our approach.’

  ‘Then why do we wait, Warchief?’

  ‘I am wondering, Corabb.’

  ‘Wondering?’

  ‘About the Empress. She was once Mistress of the Claw. Its fierce potency was given shape by her, and we have all learned to fear those mage-assassins. Ominous origins, yes? And then, as Empress, there were the great leaders of her imperial military. Dujek Onearm. Admiral Nok. Coltaine. Greymane.’

  ‘But here, this night, Warchief, we face none of those.’

  ‘True. We face the Adjunct Tavore, who was personally chosen by the Empress. To act as the fist of her vengeance.’

  Corabb frowned, then he shrugged. ‘Did the Empress not also choose High Fist Pormqual? Korbolo Dom? Did she not demote Whiskeyjack—the fiercest Malazan our tribes ever faced? And, if the tales are true, she was also responsible for the assassination of Dassem Ultor.’

  ‘Your words are sharp, Corabb. She is not immune to grave . . . errors in judgement. Well then, let us make her pay for them.’ He twisted round and gestured his warriors forward.

  Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas grinned. Perhaps the spirits would smile on him this night. Pray that I find a worthy axe or mace among the countless dead Malazan soldiers.

  Borduke’s squad had found a small hill for their position, swearing and cursing as they clawed their way to its modest summit, then began digging holes and repositioning rocks.

  Their hill was likely some old round barrow—the hummocks in this basin were far too regular to be natural. Twenty paces away, Fiddler listened to the 6th squad marines muttering and shuffling about on their strong-point, their efforts punctuated every now and then by Borduke’s impatient growl. Fifty paces to the west another squad was digging in on another hill, and the sergeant began to wonder if they’d held off too long. Barrows tended to be big heaps of rocks beneath the cloak of sandy soil, after all, and burrowing into them was never easy. He could hear rocks being pried loose, iron shovels grating on heavy granite, and a few tumbling wildly down the hillsides through the thick, brittle bushes.

  Hood’s breath, how clumsy do you idiots have to get?

  As Corabb was about to move on to the next cover, Leoman’s gloved hand reached out and snagged his shoulder. The warrior froze.

  And now he could hear it. There were soldiers in the basin.

  Leoman moved up alongside him. ‘Outlying pickets,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘On those barrows. It seems she’s sent us a gift after all,’ the Warchief added with a grin. ‘Listen to them stumble about—they waited too long, and now the darkness confounds them.’

  There was no difficulty in locating the enemy positions—they’d selected the barrows one and all, and were making loud work of digging in. And, Corabb realized, they were spaced too far apart for mutual support. Each position could be easily isolated, surrounded, and every last soldier slaughtered. Long before any relief could arrive from the main camp.

  Likely, Corabb reflected as he slipped through the darkness towards the nearest enemy position, the Malazans had been anticipating a predawn raid, identical to the first one. And so the Adjunct had ordered the emplacements as a pre-emptive measure. But, as Leoman had once explained to him, every element of an army in the field needed to follow the rules of mutual support—even the pickets where first contact would occur. Clearly, the Adjunct had failed to apply this most basic tenet.

  Added to her inability to control her Seti horse warriors, this was further proof, in Corabb’s eyes, of Tavore’s incompetence.

  He adjusted his grip on the tulwar, halting fifteen paces from the nearest strong-point. He could actually see the helms of at least two of the Malazan soldiers, poking up over the holes they had dug. Corabb concentrated on slowing his breathing, and waited for the signal.

  Gamet reined in at the edge of the now unoccupied marine camp. The quiet call would have gone out through the rest of the army, awakening the cutters and healers. Precautionary, of course, since there was no way to predict whether the raiders would attack from the approach the Adjunct had arranged. Given that all the other angles held either natural obstacles or easily defensible positions, the desert warleader might well balk at such an obvious invitation. As he waited, the Fist began to think that nothing would come of this gambit, at least on this night. And what were the chances that a day’s march would bring the army to yet another ideal combination of terrain and timing?

  He settled back in the saddle, the strange, cloying lassitude in his mind deepening. The night had, if anything, grown even darker, the stars struggling to pierce the veil of suspended dust.

  A capemoth flitted in front of his face, triggering an invol
untary flinch. An omen? He shook himself and straightened once more. Three bells remained before dawn. But there could be no recall and so the marines would take shifts on the wagons come the morrow’s march. And I had better do the same, if we’re to repeat this—

  A wavering wolf howl broke the stillness of the night. Although Corabb had been waiting for it, he was still startled into a momentary immobility. To either side, warriors rose from their cover and sprinted for the barrow. Arrows whispered, struck the visible helms with solid crunching sounds. He saw one of those bronze helms spin away through the air—realized that it had not been covering a soldier’s head.

  A flash of unease—

  Warcries filled the air. The glint of heavily armoured figures rising up on the barrows, crossbows lowering. Smaller objects flew out, one of them striking the ground five paces to Corabb’s right.

  A detonation that stabbed at his ears. The blast threw him to one side, and he stumbled, then fell over a thorn bush.

  Multiple explosions—flames shot up to light the scene—

  At the wolf’s howl, Fiddler flattened himself still further beneath his cloak of sand and brush—not a moment too soon as a moccasined foot thumped down on his back as a raider ran over him.

  The barrows had done their job—drawing the attackers in to what, by all outward appearances, seemed isolated positions. One squad in three had shown face to the enemy; the remaining two had preceded them by a bell or more to take cover between the barrows.

  And now the trap was sprung.

  The sergeant lifted his head, and saw a dozen backs between him and Borduke’s strong-point. Their charge slowed as three of their number suddenly pitched down to the ground, quarrels buried deep.

  ‘Up, dammit!’ Fiddler hissed.

  His soldiers rose around him, shedding dusty sand and branches.

  Crouching low, cusser-fitted crossbow cradled in his arms, the sergeant set out, away from Borduke’s position. Gesler’s marines were easily sufficient to support the squad at the barrow. Fiddler had seen a mass of raiders moving along the ridge beyond the basin—easily two hundred in all—and suspected they were moving to flank the ambush. The narrowest of corridors awaited them, but if they overran the infantry picket stationed there, they could then strike into the heart of the supply camp.