House of Chains

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Corabb,’ Sha’ik cut in. ‘You will return to Leoman—with an escort. My orders to him are as follows—are you listening?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Leoman is to ride immediately back to me. He is to take over command of my armies.’

  Corabb blinked. ‘Chosen One?’

  ‘Leoman of the Flails is to assume command of my armies. Before the dawn. L’oric, go to Korbolo Dom and convey to him my summons. He is to attend me immediately.’

  L’oric hesitated, then nodded. ‘As you command, Chosen One. I will take my leave of you now.’

  He exited the chamber, made his way through the intervening rooms and passageways, passing guard after guard, seeing weapons drawn and feeling hard eyes on him. Korbolo Dom would be a fool to attempt to reach her with his assassins. Even so, the night had begun, and in the oasis beyond starlight now played on drawn blades.

  Emerging onto the concourse before the palace, L’oric paused. His warren was unveiled, and he made that fact visible through a spark-filled penumbra surrounding his person. He wanted no-one to make any fatal mistakes. Feeling strangely exposed none the less, he set out towards Korbolo Dom’s command tent.

  The Dogslayers were ready in their reserve trenches, a ceaseless rustling of weapons and armour and muted conversations that fell still further as he strode past, only to rise again in his wake. These soldiers, L’oric well knew, had by choice and by circumstance made of themselves a separate force. Marked by the butchery of their deeds. By the focus of Malazan outrage. They know that no quarter will be given them. Their bluster was betrayed by diffidence, their reputed savagery streaked now with glimmers of fear. And their lives were in Korbolo Dom’s stained hands. Entirely. They will not sleep this night.

  He wondered what would happen when Leoman wrested command from the Napan renegade. Would there be mutiny? It was very possible. Of course, Sha’ik possessed the sanction of the Whirlwind Goddess, and she would not hesitate to flex that power should Leoman’s position be challenged. Still, this was not the way to ready an army on the night before battle.

  She has waited too long. Then again, perhaps this was intended. Designed to knock Korbolo off balance, to give him no time to prepare any counter-moves. If so, then it is the boldest of risks, on this, the most jagged-edged of nights.

  He made his way up the steep pathway to the Napan’s command tent. Two sentries emerged from near the entrance to block his progress.

  ‘Inform Korbolo Dom that I bring word from Sha’ik.’

  He watched the two soldiers exchange a glance, then one nodded and entered the tent.

  A few moments later the sorceress, Henaras, strode out from the entrance. Her face knotted in a scowl. ‘High Mage L’oric. You shall have to relinquish your warren to seek audience with the Supreme Commander of the Apocalypse.’

  One brow rose at that lofty title, but he shrugged and lowered his magical defences. ‘I am under your protection, then,’ he said.

  She cocked her head. ‘Against whom do you protect yourself, High Mage? The Malazans are on the other side of the basin.’

  L’oric smiled.

  Gesturing, Henaras swung about and entered the command tent. L’oric followed.

  The spacious chamber within was dominated by a raised dais at the end opposite the doorway, on which sat a massive wooden chair. The high headrest was carved in arcane symbols that L’oric recognized—with a shock—as Hengese, from the ancient city of Li Heng in the heart of the Malazan Empire. Dominating the carvings was a stylized rendition of a raptor’s talons, outstretched, that hovered directly over the head of the seated Napan, who sat slouched, his hooded gaze fixed on the High Mage.

  ‘L’oric,’ he drawled. ‘You foolish man. You are about to discover what happens to souls who are far too trusting. Granted,’ he added with a smile, ‘you might have assumed we were allies. After all, we have shared the same oasis for some time now, have we not?’

  ‘Sha’ik demands that you attend her, Korbolo Dom. Immediately.’

  ‘To relieve me of my command, yes. With the ill-informed belief that my Dogslayers will accept Leoman of the Flails—did you peruse them on your way here, L’oric? Were you witness to their readiness? My army, High Mage, is surrounded by enemies. Do you understand? Leoman is welcome to attempt an approach, with all the desert warriors he and Mathok care to muster—’

  ‘You would betray the Apocalypse? Turn on your allies and win the battle for the Adjunct, Korbolo Dom? All to preserve your precious position?’

  ‘If Sha’ik insists.’

  ‘Alas, Sha’ik is not the issue,’ L’oric said. ‘The Whirlwind Goddess, however, is, and I believe her toleration of you, Korbolo Dom, is about to end.’

  ‘Do you think so, L’oric? Will she also accept the destruction of the Dogslayers? For destroy them she must, if she is to wrest control from me. The decimation of her vaunted Army of the Apocalypse. Truly, will the goddess choose this?’

  L’oric slowly cocked his head, then he slowly sighed. ‘Ah, I see now the flaw. You have approached this tactically, as would any soldier. But what you clearly do not understand is that the Whirlwind Goddess is indifferent to tactics, to grand strategies. You rely upon her common sense, but Korbolo, she has none. The battle tomorrow? Victory or defeat? The goddess cares neither way. She desires destruction. The Malazans butchered on the field, the Dogslayers slaughtered in their trenches, an enfilade of sorcery to transform the sands of Raraku into a red ruin. This is what the Whirlwind Goddess desires.’

  ‘What of it?’ the Napan rasped, and L’oric saw sweat beading the man’s scarred brow. ‘Even the goddess cannot reach me, not here, in this sanctified place—’

  ‘And you call me the fool? The goddess will see you slain this night, but you are too insignificant for her to act directly in crushing you under thumb.’

  Korbolo Dom bolted forward on the chair. ‘Then who?’ he shrieked. ‘You, L’oric?’

  The High Mage spread his hands and shook his head. ‘I am less than a messenger in this, Korbolo Dom. I am, if anything at all, merely the voice of . . . common sense. It is not who she will send against you, Supreme Commander. It is, I believe, who she will allow through her defences. Don’t you think?’

  Korbolo stared down at the High Mage, then he snarled and gestured.

  The knife plunging into his back had no chance of delivering a fatal wound. L’oric’s tightly bound defences, his innermost layers of Kurald Thyrllan, defied the thirst of iron. Despite this, the blow drove the High Mage to his knees. Then he pitched forward onto the thick carpets, almost at the Napan’s boots.

  And already, he was ignored as he lay there, bleeding into the weave, as Korbolo rose and began bellowing orders. And none were close enough to hear the High Mage murmur, ‘Blood is the path, you foolish man. And you have opened it. You poor bastard . . .’

  ‘Grim statement. Grey frog must leave your delicious company.’

  Felisin glanced over at the demon. Its four eyes were suddenly glittering, avid with palpable hunger. ‘What has happened?’

  ‘Ominous. An invitation from my brother.’

  ‘Is L’oric in trouble?’

  ‘There is darkness this night, yet the Mother’s face is turned away. What comes cannot be chained. Warning. Caution. Remain here, lovely child. My brother can come to no further harm, but my path is made clear. Glee. I shall eat humans this night.’

  She drew her telaba closer about herself and fought off a shiver. ‘I am, uh, pleased for you, Greyfrog.’

  ‘Uncertain admonition. The shadows are fraught—no path is entirely clear, even that of blood. I must needs bob and weave, hop this way and that, grow still under baleful glare, and hope for the best.’

  ‘How long should I wait for you, Greyfrog?’

  ‘Leave not this glade until the sun rises, dearest she whom I would marry, regardless of little chance for proper broods. Besotted. Suddenly eager to depart.’

  ‘Go, then.’

  ‘Someone a
pproaches. Potential ally. Be kind.’

  With that the demon scrambled into the shadows.

  Potential ally? Who would that be?

  She could hear the person on the trail now, bared feet that seemed to drag with exhaustion, and a moment later a woman stumbled into the glade, halting in the gloom to peer about.

  ‘Here,’ Felisin murmured, emerging from the shelter.

  ‘Felisin Younger?’

  ‘Ah, there is but one who calls me that. Heboric has sent you?’

  ‘Yes.’ The woman came closer, and Felisin saw that she was stained with blood, and a heavy bruise marred her jaw. ‘They tried to kill him. There were ghosts. Defending him against the assassins—’

  ‘Wait, wait. Catch your breath. You’re safe here. Does Heboric still live?’

  She nodded. ‘He heals—in his temple. He heals—’

  ‘Slow your breathing, please. Here, I have wine. Say nothing for now—when you are ready, tell me your tale.’

  Shadow-filled hollows rippled the hills that marked the northwest approach to the oasis. A haze of dust dulled the starlight overhead. The night had come swiftly to Raraku, as it always did, and the day’s warmth was fast dissipating. On this night, there would be frost.

  Four riders sat still on motionless horses in one such hollow, steam rising from their lathered beasts. Their armour gleamed pale as bone, the skin of their exposed faces a pallid, deathly grey.

  They had seen the approaching horse warrior from a distance, sufficient to permit them this quiet withdrawal unseen, for the lone rider was not their quarry, and though none said it out loud, they were all glad for that.

  He was huge, that stranger. Astride a horse to match. And a thousand ravaged souls trailed him, bound by ethereal chains that he dragged as if indifferent to their weight. A sword of stone hung from his back, and it was possessed by twin spirits raging with bloodthirst.

  In all, a nightmarish apparition.

  They listened to the heavy hoofs thump past, waited until the drumming sound dwindled within the stone forest on the edge of the oasis.

  Then Jorrude cleared his throat. ‘Our path is now clear, brothers. The trespassers are camped nearby, among the army that has marched to do battle with the dwellers of this oasis. We shall strike them with the dawn.’

  ‘Brother Jorrude,’ Enias rumbled, ‘what conjuration just crossed our trail?’

  ‘I know not, Brother Enias, but it was a promise of death.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Malachar growled.

  ‘Our horses are rested enough,’ Jorrude pronounced.

  The four Tiste Liosan rode up the slope until they reached the ridge, then swung their mounts southward. Jorrude spared a last glance back over his shoulder, to make certain the stranger had not reversed his route—had not spied them hiding there in that hollow. Hiding. Yes, that is the truth of it, ignoble as the truth often proves to be. He fought off a shiver, squinting into the darkness at the edge of the stone forest.

  But the apparition did not emerge.

  ‘In the name of Osric, Lord of the Sky,’ Jorrude intoned under his breath as he led his brothers along the ridge, ‘thank you for that . . .’

  At the edge of the glade, Karsa Orlong stared back at the distant riders. He had seen them long before they had seen him, and had smiled at their cautious retreat from his path.

  Well enough, there were enemies aplenty awaiting him in the oasis, and no night lasted for ever.

  Alas.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Hear them rattle

  These chains of living

  Bound to every moment passed

  Until the wreckage clamours

  In deafening wake

  And each stride trails

  A dirge of the lost

  House of Chains

  Fisher kel Tath

  HE SAT CROSS-LEGGED IN THE DARKNESS, PERCHED IN HIS USUAL place on the easternmost ridge, his eyes closed, a small smile on his withered face. He had unveiled his warren in the most subtle pattern, an unseen web stretched out across the entire oasis. It would be torn soon, he well knew, but for the moment he could sense every footpad, every tremble. The powers were indeed converging, and the promise of blood and destruction whispered through the night.

  Febryl was well pleased. Sha’ik had been isolated, utterly. The Napan’s army of killers were even now streaming from their places of hiding, as panic closed hands around Korbolo Dom’s throat. Kamist Reloe was returning from his secret sojourn through the warrens. And, across the basin, the Malazan army was entrenching, the Adjunct whetting her otataral sword in anticipation of the morning’s battle.

  There was but one troubling detail. A strange song, faint yet growing. The voice of Raraku itself. He wondered what it would bring to this fated night. Hood was close—aye, the god himself—and this did much to mask other . . . presences. But the sands were stirring, awakened perhaps by the Lord of Death’s arrival. Spirits and ghosts, no doubt come to witness the many deaths promised in the hours to come.

  A curious thing, but he was not unduly concerned.

  There will be slaughter. Yet another apocalypse on Raraku’s restless sands. It is as it should be.

  To all outward appearances, L’oric was dead. He had been roughly dragged to one wall in the command tent and left there. The knife had been yanked from his back, and he now lay with his face to the rough fabric of the wall, eyes open and seemingly sightless.

  Behind him, the Supreme Commander of the Apocalypse was speaking.

  ‘Unleash them all, Henaras, barring my bodyguards. I want every one of Bidithal’s cute little spies hunted down and killed—and find Scillara. That bitch has played her last game.

  ‘You, Duryl, take another and ride out to the Adjunct. Deliver my missive—and make certain you are not seen by anyone. Mathok has his warriors out. Fayelle will work sorcery to aid you. And impress upon Tavore the need to withdraw her killers, lest they do the Whirlwind Goddess’s work for her.’

  ‘Supreme Commander,’ a voice spoke, ‘what of Leoman of the Flails?’

  ‘The 4th Company and Fayelle are to leave quietly with the next bell. Leoman will get nowhere near us, or the army. Corporal Ethume, I want you within crossbow range of Febryl—the bastard’s hiding in the usual place. Now, have I missed anything?’

  ‘My fear is deepening,’ Henaras murmured. ‘Something is happening . . . in the holy desert. Worse, I feel the approach of terrible powers—’

  ‘Which is why we need the Adjunct and her damned sword. Are we safe enough in here, Henaras?’

  ‘I think so—the wards Kamist, Fayelle and I have woven about this tent would confound a god.’

  ‘That claim might well be challenged,’ Korbolo Dom growled.

  He added something more, but a strange gurgling sound, from just beyond the tent wall in front of L’oric, overrode the Napan’s voice. A wetness, spattering the opposite side, then a sigh—audible to L’oric only because he was so close. Talons then raked along the base of the wall, reducing the fabric to ribbons. A four-eyed, immeasurably ugly face peered in through the gap.

  ‘Brother, you look unwell.’

  Appearances deceive, Greyfrog. For example, you have never looked prettier.

  The demon reached in and grasped L’oric by one arm. He then began dragging him by increments through the tear. ‘Confident. They are too preoccupied. Disappointed. I have eaten but two guards, the wards sleep and our path of retreat is clear. Things are coming. Suitably ominous. Frankly. I admit to fear, and advise we . . . hide.’

  For a time, yes, we do just that. Find us somewhere, Greyfrog.

  ‘Assured. I shall.’

  Then leave me there and return to Felisin. Assassins are out hunting . . .

  ‘Delightful.’

  Kasanal had been a Semk shaman once, but now he murdered at his new master’s bidding. And he enjoyed it, although, admittedly, he preferred killing Malazans rather than natives. At least his victims this night would not be Semk—to slay t
hose from his own tribe would be a difficult thing to accept. But that did not seem likely. Korbolo Dom had as much as adopted the last survivors of the clans that had fought for him and Kamist Reloe on the Chain of Dogs.

  And these two were mere women, both servants of that butcher, Bidithal.

  He was now lying motionless on the edge of the glade, watching the two. One was Scillara, and Kasanal knew his master would be pleased when he returned with her severed head. The other one was also familiar—he had seen her in Sha’ik’s company, and Leoman’s.

  It was also clear that they were in hiding, and so likely to be principal agents in whatever Bidithal was planning.

  He slowly raised his right hand, and two quick gestures sent his four followers out along the flanks, staying within the trees, to encircle the two women’s position. Under his breath, he began murmuring an incantation, a weaving of ancient words that deadened sound, that squeezed lassitude into the victims, dulling their every sense. And he smiled as he saw their heads slowly settle in unison.

  Kasanal rose from his place of concealment. The need for hiding had passed. He stepped into the glade. His four Semk kin followed suit.

  They drew their knives, edged closer.

  Kasanal never saw the enormous blade that cut him in half, from the left side of his neck and out just above his right hip. He had a momentary sense of falling in two directions, then oblivion swallowed him, so he did not hear the cries of his four cousins, as the wielder of the stone sword marched into their midst.

  When Kasanal at last opened ethereal eyes to find himself striding towards Hood’s Gate, he was pleased to find his four kinsmen with him.

  Wiping the blood from his sword, Karsa Orlong swung to face the two women. ‘Felisin,’ he growled, ‘your scars burn bright on your soul. Bidithal chose to ignore my warning. So be it. Where is he?’

  Still feeling the remnants of the strange dullness that had stolen her senses, Felisin could only shake her head.