‘You rarely get out.’
‘Indeed. What preening empires have risen only to then fall beyond the Jhag Odhan? Pomposity choking…’
Karsa’s eyes narrowed on the Jhag Odhan, then he reached for the wine.
A lone tree stood on ground that was the summit of a hill that in turn abutted a larger hill. Sheltered from the prevailing winds, it had grown vast, its bark thin and peeling as if it was skin unable to contain the muscular breadth underneath. Branches as thick around as Karsa’s thigh reached out from the massive, knotted trunk. Its top third was thickly leaved, forming broad, flattened canopies of dusty green.
‘Looks old, doesn’t it?’ Cynnigig said as they climbed towards it, the Jaghut walking with a hooked, sideways gait. ‘You have no idea how old, my young friend. No idea. I dare not reveal to you the truth of its antiquity. Have you seen its like before? I think not. Perhaps reminiscent of the guldindha, such as can be found here and there across the odhan. Reminiscent, as a ranag is reminiscent of a goat. More than simply a question of stature. No, it is in truth a question of antiquity. An Elder species, this tree. A sapling when an inland sea hissed salty sighs over this land. Tens of thousands of years, you wonder? No. Hundreds of thousands. Once, Karsa Orlong, these were the dominant trees across most of the world. All things know their time, and when that time is past, they vanish—’
‘But this one hasn’t.’
‘No sharper an observance could be made. And why, you ask?’
‘I do not bother, for I know you will tell me in any case.’
‘Of course I shall, for I am of a helpful sort, a natural proclivity. The reason, my young friend, shall soon be made evident.’
They clambered over the last of the rise and came to the flat ground, eternally shadowed beneath the canopy and so free of grasses. The tree and all its branches, Karsa now saw, were wrapped in spiders’ webs that somehow remained entirely translucent no matter how thickly woven, revealed only by a faint flickering reflection. And beneath that glittering shroud, the face of a Jaghut stared back at him.
‘Phyrlis,’ Cynnigig said, ‘this is the one Aramala spoke of, the one seeking a worthy horse.’
The Jaghut woman’s body remained visible here and there, revealing that the tree had indeed grown around her. Yet a single shaft of wood emerged from just behind her right collarbone, rejoining the main trunk along the side of her head.
‘Shall I tell him your story, Phyrlis? Of course, I must, if only for its remarkability.’
Her voice did not come from her mouth, but sounded, fluid and soft, inside Karsa’s head. ‘Of course you must, Cynnigig. It is your nature to leave no word unsaid.’
Karsa smiled, for there was too much affection in the tone to lend the words any edge.
‘My Thelomen Toblakai friend, a most extraordinary tale, for which true explanations remain beyond us all,’ Cynnigig began, settling down cross-legged on the stony ground. ‘Dear Phyrlis was a child—no, a babe, still suckling from her mother’s breast—when a band of T’lan Imass ran them down. The usual fate ensued. The mother was slain, and Phyrlis was dealt with also in the usual fashion—spitted on a spear, the spear anchored into the earth. None could have predicted what then followed, neither Jaghut nor T’lan Imass, for it was unprecedented. That spear, wrought of native wood, took what it could of Phyrlis’s lifespirit and so was reborn. Roots reached down to grip the bedrock, branches and leaves sprang anew, and in return the wood’s own lifespirit rewarded the child. Together, then, they grew, escaping their relative fates. Phyrlis renews the tree, the tree renews Phyrlis.’
Karsa set his sword’s point down and leaned on it. ‘Yet she was the maker of the Jhag horses.’
‘A small role, Karsa Orlong. From my blood came their longevity. The Jhag horses breed infrequently, insufficient to increase, or even maintain, their numbers, were they not so long-lived.’
‘I know, for the Teblor—my own people, who dwell in the mountains of north Genabackis—maintain herds of what must be Jhag horses.’
‘If so, then I am pleased. They are being hunted to extinction here on the Jhag Odhan.’
‘Hunted? By whom?’
‘By distant kin of yours, Thelomen Toblakai. Trell.’
Karsa was silent for a moment, then he scowled. ‘Such as the one known as Mappo?’
‘Yes indeed. Mappo Runt, who travels with Icarium. Icarium, who carries arrows made from my branches. Who, each time he visits me, remembers naught of the previous encounter. Who asks, again and again, for my heartwood, so that he may fashion from it a mechanism to measure time, for my heartwood alone can outlive all other constructs.’
‘And do you oblige him?’ Karsa asked.
‘No, for it would kill me. Instead, I bargain. A strong shaft for a bow. Branches for arrows.’
‘Have you no means to defend yourself, then?’
‘Against Icarium, no-one has, Karsa Orlong.’
The Teblor warrior grunted. ‘I had an argument with Icarium, which neither of us won.’ He tapped his stone sword. ‘My weapon was of wood, but now I wield this one. The next time we meet, even Mappo Trell’s treachery shall not save Icarium.’
Both Jaghut were silent for a long moment, and Karsa realized that Phyrlis was speaking to Cynnigig, for he saw his expression twist with alarm. Ochre eyes flicked momentarily up to the Teblor, then away again.
Finally, Cynnigig loosed a long sigh and said, ‘Karsa Orlong, she now calls upon the nearest herd—the lone herd she knows has come close to this area in answer to her first summons. She had hoped for more—evidence, perhaps, of how few Jhag horses remain.’
‘How many head in this herd?’
‘I cannot say, Karsa Orlong. They usually number no more than a dozen. Those that now approach are perhaps the last left in the Jhag Odhan.’
Karsa lifted his gaze suddenly as the noise of hoofs sounded, rumbling through the ground underfoot. ‘More than a dozen, I think,’ he murmured.
Cynnigig clambered upright, wincing with the effort.
Movement in the valley below. Karsa swung around.
The ground was shaking, the roar of thunder on all sides now. The tree behind him shook as if struck by a sudden gale. In his mind, the Teblor heard Phyrlis cry out.
The horses came in their hundreds. Grey as iron, larger even than those Karsa’s tribe had bred. Streaming, tossing manes of black. Stallions, flinging their heads back and bucking to clear a space around them. Broad-backed mares, foals racing at their flanks.
Hundreds into thousands.
The air filled with dust, lifting on the wind and corkscrewing skyward as if to challenge the Whirlwind itself.
More of the wild horses topped the hill above them, and the thunder suddenly fell away as every beast halted, forming a vast iron ring facing inward. Silence, the dust cloud rolling, tumbling away on the wind.
Karsa faced the tree once more. ‘It seems you need not worry that they near extinction, Phyrlis. I have never seen so many foals and yearlings in a herd. Nor have I ever before seen a herd of this size. There must ten, fifteen thousand head—and we cannot even see all of them.’
Phyrlis seemed incapable of replying. The tree’s branches still shook, the branches rattling in the hot air.
‘You speak true, Karsa Orlong,’ Cynnigig rasped, his gaze eerily intent on the Thelomen Toblakai. ‘The herds have come together—and some have come far indeed in answer to the summons. But not that of Phyrlis. No, not in answer to her call. But in answer to yours, Karsa Orlong. And to this, we have no answer. But now, you must choose.’
Nodding, he turned to study the horses.
‘Karsa Orlong, you spoke earlier of a wooden weapon. What kind of wood?’
‘Ironwood, the only choice remaining to me. In my homeland, we use bloodwood.’
‘And blood-oil?’
‘Yes.’
‘Rubbed into the wood. Blood-oil, staining your hands. They can smell it, Karsa Orlong—’
‘But I have none.
’
‘Not on you. In you. It courses in your veins, Karsa Orlong. Bloodwood has not existed in the Jhag Odhan for tens of thousands of years. Yet these horses remember. Now, you must choose.’
‘Bloodwood and blood-oil,’ Cynnigig said. ‘This is an insufficient explanation, Phyrlis.’
‘Yes, it is. But it is all I have.’
Karsa left them to their argument and, leaving his sword thrust upright in the ground, walked down to the waiting horses. Stallions tossed their heads at his approach and the Teblor smiled—careful not to show his teeth, knowing that they saw him as predator, and themselves as his prey. Though they could easily kill me. Among such numbers I would have no chance. He saw one stallion that was clearly dominant among all others, given the wide space around it and its stamping, challenging demeanour, and walked past it, murmuring, ‘Not you, proud one. The herd needs you more than I do.’ He spied another stallion, this one just entering adulthood, and made his way towards it. Slowly, approaching at an angle so that the horse could see him.
A mane and tail of white, not black. Long-limbed, muscles rippling beneath its sleek hide. Grey eyes.
Karsa halted a single pace away. He slowly reached out his right hand, until his fingertips settled on the beast’s trembling bridge. He began applying pressure. The stallion resisted, backing up a step. He pushed the head further down, testing the flexibility of the neck. Still further, the neck bowing, until the horse’s chin almost rested in the space between its breast bones.
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 milita
ry 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 clastic 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.
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