House of Chains

by Steven Erikson

  ‘You mean to kill me?’ She was having trouble with the thought, with thinking at all.

  ‘I’m afraid I must, lass. I cannot defy my master, especially in this. Still, you should be relieved that it is me and not some stranger. For I will not be cruel, as I have said. Here, into these ruins, Scillara—the floor has been swept clean—not the first time it’s seen use, but if all signs are removed immediately there is no evidence to be found, is there? There’s an old well in the garden for the bodies.’

  ‘You mean to throw me down the well?’

  ‘Not you, just your body. Your soul will be through Hood’s gate by then, lass. I will make certain of that. Now, lie yourself down, here, on my cloak. I have looked upon your lovely body unable to touch for long enough. I have dreamt of kissing those lips, too.’

  She was lying on the cloak, staring up at dim, blurry stars, as the guard unhitched his sword-belt then began removing his armour. She saw him draw a knife, the blade gleaming black, and set it to one side on the flagstoned floor.

  Then his hands were pushing her thighs apart. There is no pleasure. It is gone. He is a handsome man. A woman’s husband. He prefers pleasure before business, as I once did. I think. But now, I know nothing of pleasure. Leaving naught but business.

  The cloak was bunching beneath her as his grunts filled her ears. She calmly reached out to one side and closed her hand around the hilt of the knife. Raised it, the other hand joining it over and above the guard.

  Then she drove the knife down into his lower back, the blade’s edge gouging between two vertebrae, severing the cord, the point continuing on in a stuttering motion as it pierced membranes and tore deep into the guard’s middle and lower intestines.

  He spilled into her at the moment of death, his shudders becoming twitches, the breath hissing from a suddenly slack mouth as his forehead struck the stone floor beside her right ear.

  She left the knife buried halfway to its hilt—as deep as her strength had taken it—in his back, and pushed at his limp body until it rolled to one side.

  A desert woman for your last memory of love.

  Scillara sat up, wanting to cough but swallowing until the urge passed. Heavy, and heavier still.

  I am a vessel ever filled, yet there’s always room for more. More durhang. More men and their seeds. My master found my place of pleasure and removed it. Ever filled, yet never filled up. There is no base to this vessel. This is what he has done.

  To all of us.

  She tottered upright. Stared down at the guard’s corpse, at the wet stains spreading out beneath him.

  A sound behind her. Scillara turned.

  ‘You murdering bitch.’

  She frowned at the second guard as he advanced, drawing a dagger.

  ‘The fool wanted you alone for a time. This is what he gets for ignoring Febryl’s commands—I warned him—’

  She was staring at the hand gripping the dagger, so was caught unawares as the other hand flashed, knuckles cracking hard against her jaw.

  Her eyes blinked open to jostling, sickening motion. She was being dragged through rubbish by one arm. From somewhere ahead flowed the stench of the latrine trench, thick as fog, a breath of warm, poisoned air. Her lips were broken and her mouth tasted of blood. The shoulder of the arm the guard gripped was throbbing.

  The man was muttering. ‘ . . . pretty thing indeed. Hardly. When she’s drowning in filth. The fool, and now he’s dead. It was a simple task, after all. There’s no shortage of whores in this damned camp. What—who—’

  He had stopped.

  Head lolling, Scillara caught a blurred glimpse of a squat figure emerging from darkness.

  The guard released her wrist and her arm fell with a thump onto damp, foul mud. She saw him reaching for his sword.

  Then his head snapped up with a sound of cracked teeth, followed by a hot spray that spattered across Scillara’s thighs. Blood.

  She thought she saw a strange emerald glow trailing from one hand of the guard’s killer—a hand taloned like a huge cat’s.

  The figure stepped over the crumpled form of the guard, who had ceased moving, and slowly crouched down beside Scillara.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ the man growled. ‘Or so I’ve just realized. Extraordinary, how single lives just fold into the whole mess, over and over again, all caught up in the greater swirl. Spinning round and round, and ever downward, it seems. Ever downward. Fools, all of us, to think we can swim clear of that current.’

  The shadows were strange on him. As if he stood beneath palms and tall grasses—but no, there was only the night sky above the squat, broad-shouldered man. He was tattooed, she realized, in the barbs of a tiger.

  ‘Plenty of killing going on lately,’ he muttered, staring down at her with amber eyes. ‘All those loose threads being knotted, I expect.’

  She watched him reach down with that glowing, taloned hand. It settled, palm-downward, warm between her breasts. The tips of the claws pricked her skin and a tremble ran through her.

  That spread, coursing hot through her veins. That heat grew suddenly fierce, along her throat, in her lungs, between her legs.

  The man grunted. ‘I thought it was consumption, that rattling breath. But no, it’s just too much durhang. As for the rest, well, it’s an odd thing about pleasure. Something Bidithal would have you never know. Its enemy is not pain. No, pain is simply the path taken to indifference. And indifference destroys the soul. Of course, Bidithal likes destroyed souls—to mirror his own.’

  If he continued speaking beyond that, she did not hear, as sensations long lost flooded into her, only slightly blunted by the lingering, satisfying haze of the durhang. She felt badly used between her legs, but knew that feeling would pass.

  ‘Outrage.’

  He was gathering her into his arms, but paused. ‘You spoke?’

  Outrage. Yes. That. ‘Where are you taking me?’ The question came out between coughs, and she pushed his arms aside to bend over and spit out phlegm while he answered.

  ‘To my temple. Fear not, it’s safe. Neither Febryl nor Bidithal will find you there. You’ve been force-healed, lass, and will need to sleep.’

  ‘What do you want with me?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. I think I will need your help, and soon. But the choice is yours. Nor will you have to surrender . . . anything you don’t want to. And, if you choose to simply walk away, that is fine as well. I will give you money and supplies—and maybe even find you a horse. We can discuss that tomorrow. What is your name?’

  He reached down once more and lifted her effortlessly.

  ‘Scillara.’

  ‘I am Heboric, Destriant to Treach, the Tiger of Summer and the God of War.’

  She stared up at him as he began carrying her along the path. ‘I am afraid I am going to disappoint you, Heboric. I think I have had my fill of priests.’

  She felt his shrug, then he smiled wearily down at her. ‘That’s all right. Me too.’

  Felisin awoke shortly after L’oric returned with a freshly slaughtered lamb for his demon familiar, Greyfrog. Probably, the High Mage reflected when she first stirred beneath the tarpaulin, she had been roused to wakefulness by the sound of crunching bones.

  The demon’s appetite was voracious, and L’oric admired its single-mindedness, if not its rather untidy approach to eating.

  Felisin emerged, wrapped in her blankets, and walked to L’oric’s side. She was silent, her hair in disarray around her young, tanned face, and watched the demon consuming the last of the lamb with loud, violent gulps.

  ‘Greyfrog,’ L’oric murmured. ‘My new familiar.’

  ‘Your familiar? You are certain it’s not the other way round? That thing could eat both of us.’

  ‘Observant. She is right, companion L’oric. Maudlin. I would waddle. Alas. Torpid vulnerability. Distraught. All alone.’

  ‘All right.’ L’oric smiled. ‘An alliance is a better word for our partnership.’

  ‘There is m
ud on your boots, and snagged pieces of reed and grass.’

  ‘I have travelled this night, Felisin.’

  ‘Seeking allies?’

  ‘Not intentionally. No, my search was for answers.’

  ‘And did you find any?’

  He hesitated, then sighed. ‘Some. Fewer than I would have hoped. But I return knowing one thing for certain. And that is, you must leave. As soon as possible.’

  Her glance was searching. ‘And what of you?’

  ‘I will follow, as soon as I can.’

  ‘I’m to go alone?’

  ‘No. You will have Greyfrog with you. And one other . . . I hope.’

  She nodded. ‘I am ready. I have had enough of this place. I no longer dream of vengeance against Bidithal. I just want to be gone. Is that cowardly of me?’

  L’oric slowly shook his head. ‘Bidithal will be taken care of, lass, in a manner befitting his crimes.’

  ‘If you are intending to murder him, then I would advise against sending Greyfrog with me. Bidithal is powerful—perhaps more so than you realize. I can travel alone—no-one will be hunting me, after all.’

  ‘No. Much as I would like to kill Bidithal myself, it will not be by my hand.’

  ‘There is something ominous in what you are saying, or, perhaps, in what you’re not saying, L’oric.’

  ‘There will be a convergence, Felisin. With some . . . unexpected guests. And I do not think anyone here will survive their company for long. There will be . . . vast slaughter.’

  ‘Then why are you staying?’

  ‘To witness, lass. For as long as I can.’

  ‘Why?’

  He grimaced. ‘As I said, I am still seeking answers.’

  ‘And are they important enough to risk your own life?’

  ‘They are. And now, I will leave you here in Greyfrog’s trust for a time. You are safe, and when I return it will be with the necessary supplies and mounts.’

  She glanced over at the scaled, ape-like creature with its four eyes. ‘Safe, you said. At least until it gets hungry.’

  ‘Appreciative. I will protect this one. But do not be gone too long. Ha ha.’

  Dawn was breathing light into the eastern sky as Heboric stepped outside to await his visitor. The Destriant remained in as much darkness as he could manage, not to hide from L’oric—whom he now watched stride into view and approach—but against any other watchers. They might well discern a figure, crouched there in the tent’s doorway, but little more than that. He had drawn a heavy cloak about himself, hood drawn up over his head, and he kept his hands beneath the folds.

  L’oric’s steps slowed as he drew near. There would be no hiding the truth from this man, and Heboric smiled as he saw the High Mage’s eyes widen.

  ‘Aye,’ Heboric muttered, ‘I was reluctant. But it is done, and I have made peace with that.’

  ‘And what is Treach’s interest here?’ L’oric asked after a long, uneasy moment.

  ‘There will be a battle,’ Heboric replied, shrugging. ‘Beyond that . . . well, I’m not sure. We’ll see, I expect.’

  L’oric looked weary. ‘I was hoping to convince you to leave. To take Felisin away from here.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Move her camp a league, out beyond the northeast edge of the oasis. Three saddled horses, three more pack horses. Food and water sufficient for three, to take us as far as G’danisban.’

  ‘Three?’

  Heboric smiled. ‘You are not aware of it, but there is a certain . . . poetry to there being three of us.’

  ‘Very well. And how long should she expect to wait?’

  ‘As long as she deems acceptable, L’oric. Like you, I intend to remain here for a few days yet.’

  His eyes grew veiled. ‘The convergence.’

  Heboric nodded.

  L’oric sighed. ‘We are fools, you and I.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘I had once hoped, Ghost Hands, for an alliance between us.’

  ‘It exists, more or less, L’oric. Sufficient to ensure Felisin’s safety. Not that we have managed well in that responsibility thus far. I could have helped,’ Heboric growled.

  ‘I am surprised, if you know what Bidithal did to her, that you have not sought vengeance.’

  ‘Vengeance? What is the point in that? No, L’oric, I have a better answer to Bidithal’s butchery. Leave Bidithal to his fate . . .’

  The High Mage started, then smiled. ‘Odd, only a short time ago I voiced similar words to Felisin.’

  Heboric watched the man walk away. After a moment, the Destriant turned and re-entered his temple.

  ‘There is something . . . inexorable about them . . .’

  They were in the path of the distant legions, seeing the glimmer of iron wavering like molten metal beneath a pillar of dust that, from this angle, seemed to rise straight up, spreading out in a hazy stain in the high desert winds. At Leoman’s words, Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas shivered. Dust was sifting down the folds of his ragged telaba; the air this close to the Whirlwind Wall was thick with suspended sand, filling his mouth with grit.

  Leoman twisted in his saddle to study his warriors.

  Anchoring his splintered lance into the stirrup cup, Corabb settled back in the saddle. He was exhausted. Virtually every night, they had attempted raids, and even when his own company had not been directly involved in the fighting there had been retreats to cover, counter-attacks to blunt, then flight. Always flight. Had Sha’ik given Leoman five thousand warriors, the Adjunct and her army would be the ones retreating. All the way back to Aren, mauled and limping.

  Leoman had done what he could with what he had, however, and they had purchased—with blood—a handful of precious days. Moreover, they had gauged the Adjunct’s tactics, and the mettle of the soldiers. More than once, concerted pressure on the regular infantry had buckled them, and had Leoman the numbers, he could have pressed home and routed them. Instead, Gall’s Burned Tears would arrive, or Wickans, or those damned marines, and the desert warriors would be the ones fleeing. Out into the night, pursued by horse warriors as skilled and tenacious as Leoman’s own.

  Seven hundred or so remained—they’d had to leave so many wounded behind, found and butchered by the Khundryl Burned Tears, with various body parts collected as trophies.

  Leoman faced forward on his saddle once more. ‘We are done.’

  Corabb nodded. The Malazan army would reach the Whirlwind Wall by dusk. ‘Perhaps her otataral will fail,’ he offered. ‘Perhaps the goddess will destroy them all this very night.’

  The lines bracketing Leoman’s blue eyes deepened as he narrowed his gaze on the advancing legions. ‘I think not. There is nothing pure in the Whirlwind’s sorcery, Corabb. No, there will be a battle, at the very edge of the oasis. Korbolo Dom will command the Army of the Apocalypse. And you and I, and likely Mathok, shall find ourselves a suitable vantage point . . . to watch.’

  Corabb leaned to one side and spat.

  ‘Our war is done,’ Leoman finished, collecting his reins.

  ‘Korbolo Dom will need us,’ Corabb asserted.

  ‘If he does, then we have lost.’

  They urged their weary horses into motion, and rode through the Whirlwind Wall.

  He could ride at a canter for half a day, dropping the Jhag horse into a head-dipping, loping gait for the span of a bell, then resume the canter until dusk. Havok was a beast unlike any other he had known, including his namesake. He had ridden close enough to the north side of Ugarat to see watchers on the wall, and indeed they had sent out a score of horse warriors to contest his crossing the broad stone bridge spanning the river—riders who should have reached it long before he did.

  But Havok had understood what was needed, and canter stretched out into gallop, neck reaching forward, and they arrived fifty strides ahead of the pursuing warriors. Foot traffic on the bridge scattered from their path, and its span was wide enough to permit easy passage around the carts and
wagons. Broad as the Ugarat River was, they reached the other side within a dozen heartbeats, the thunder of Havok’s hoofs changing in timbre from stone to hard-packed earth as they rode out into the Ugarat Odhan.

  Distance seemed to lose relevance to Karsa Orlong. Havok carried him effortlessly. There was no need for a saddle, and the single rein looped around the stallion’s neck was all he needed to guide the beast.

  Nor did the Teblor hobble the horse for the night, instead leaving him free to graze on the vast sweeps of grass stretching out on all sides.

  The northern part of the Ugarat Odhan had narrowed between the inward curl of the two major rivers—the Ugarat and the other Karsa recalled as being named either Mersin or Thalas. A spine of hills had run north-south, dividing the two rivers, their summits and slopes hard-packed by the seasonal migration of bhederin over thousands of years. Those herds were gone, though their bones remained where predators and hunters had felled them, and the land was used now as occasional pasture, sparsely populated and that only in the wet season.

  In the week it took to cross those hills, Karsa saw naught but signs of shepherd camps and boundary cairns, and the only grazing creatures were antelope and a species of large deer that fed only at night, spending days bedded down in low areas thick with tall, yellow grasses. Easily flushed then run down to provide Karsa with an occasional feast.

  The Mersin River was shallow, almost dried up this late in the dry season. Fording it, he had then ridden northeast, coming along the trails skirting the south flanks of the Thalas Mountains, then eastward, to the city of Lato Revae, on the very edge of the Holy Desert.

  He traversed the road south of the city’s wall at night, avoiding all contact, and reached the pass that led into Raraku at dawn the following day.

  A pervasive urgency was driving him on. He was unable to explain the desire in his own mind, yet did not question it. He had been gone a long time, and though he did not believe the battle in Raraku had occurred, he sensed it was imminent.