‘The Apocalyptic, Toblakai. Disintegration. Annihilation. Everything. Every human . . . lowlander. With our twisted horrors—all that we commit upon each other. The depredations, the cruelties. For every gesture of kindness and compassion, there are ten thousand acts of brutality. Loyalty? Aye, I have none. Not for my kind, and the sooner we obliterate ourselves the better this world will be.’
‘The light,’ Karsa said, ‘makes them look almost human.’
Distracted as he was, the Toblakai did not notice Leoman’s narrowing eyes, nor the struggle to remain silent.
One does not step between a man and his gods.
The snake’s head lifted in front of Leoman’s face and hovered there, tongue flicking.
‘The House of Chains,’ Heboric muttered, his expression souring at the words.
Bidithal shivered, though it was hard to tell whether from fear or pleasure. ‘Reaver. Consort. The Unbound—these are interesting, yes? For all the world like shattered—’
‘From whence came these images?’ Heboric demanded. Simply looking upon the wooden cards with their lacquered paintings—blurred as they were—was filling the ex-priest’s throat with bile. I sense . . . flaws. In each and every one. That is no accident, no failing of the hand that brushed them into being.
‘There is no doubting,’ L’oric said in answer to his question, ‘their veracity. The power emanating from them is a sorcerous stench. I have never before witnessed such a vigorous birth within the Deck. Not even Shadow felt—’
‘Shadow!’ Bidithal snapped. ‘Those deceivers could never unveil that realm’s true power! No, here, in this new House, the theme is pure. Imperfection is celebrated, the twist of chaotic chance mars one and all—’
‘Silence!’ Sha’ik hissed, her arms wrapped tight about herself. ‘We must think on this. No-one speak. Let me think!’
Heboric studied her for a moment, squinting to bring her into focus, even though she sat beside him. The cards from the new House had arrived the same day as the news of the Malazan defeats on Genabackis. And the time since then had been one of seething discord among Sha’ik’s commanders, sufficient to dampen her pleasure at hearing of her brother Ganoes Paran’s survival, and now leading her to uncharacteristic distraction.
The House of Chains was woven into their fates. An insidious intrusion, an infection against which they’d had no chance to prepare. But was it an enemy, or the potential source for renewed strength? It seemed Bidithal was busy convincing himself that it was the latter, no doubt drawn in that direction by his growing disaffection with Sha’ik Reborn. L’oric, on the other hand, seemed more inclined to share Heboric’s own misgivings; whilst Febryl was unique in remaining silent on the entire matter.
The air within the tent was close, soured by human sweat. Heboric wanted nothing more than to leave, to escape all this, yet he sensed Sha’ik clinging to him, a spiritual grip as desperate as anything he’d felt from her before.
‘Show once more the new Unaligned.’
Yes. For the thousandth time.
Scowling, Bidithal searched through the Deck, then drew out the card, which he laid down in the centre of the goat-hair mat. ‘If any of the new arrivals is dubious,’ the old man sneered, ‘it is this one. Master of the Deck? Absurd. How can one control the uncontrollable?’
There was silence.
The uncontrollable? Such as the Whirlwind itself?
Sha’ik had clearly not caught the insinuation. ‘Ghost Hands, I would you take this card, feel it, seek to sense what you can from it.’
‘You make this request again and again, Chosen One,’ Heboric sighed. ‘But I tell you, there is no link between the power of my hands and the Deck of Dragons. I am of no help to you—’
‘Then listen closely and I shall describe it. Never mind your hands—I ask you now as a once-priest, as a scholar. Listen. The face is obscured, yet hints—’
‘It is obscured,’ Bidithal interrupted in a derisive tone, ‘because the card is no more than the projection of someone’s wishful thinking.’
‘Cut me off again and you will regret it, Bidithal,’ Sha’ik said. ‘I have heard you enough on this subject. If your mouth opens again I will tear out your tongue. Ghost Hands, I will continue. The figure is slightly above average in height. There is the crimson streak of a scar—or blood perhaps—down one side of the face—a wounding, yes? He—yes, I am certain it’s a man, not a woman—he stands on a bridge. Of stone, shot through with cracks. The horizon is filled with flames. It seems he and the bridge are surrounded, as if by followers, or servants—’
‘Or guardians,’ L’oric added. ‘Your pardon, Chosen One.’
‘Guardians. Yes, a good possibility. They have the look of soldiers, do they not?’
‘On what,’ Heboric asked, ‘do these guardians stand? Can you see the ground they stand upon?’
‘Bones—there is much fine detail there, Ghost Hands. How did you know?’
‘Describe those bones, please.’
‘Not human. Very large. Part of a skull is visible, long-snouted, terribly fanged. It bears the remnants of a helmet of some sort—’
‘A helmet? On the skull?’
‘Yes.’
Heboric fell silent. He began rocking yet was only remotely aware of the motion. There was a sourceless keening growing in his head, a cry of grief, of anguish.
‘The Master,’ Sha’ik said, her voice trembling, ‘he stands strangely. Arms held out, bent at the elbows so that the hands depend, away from the body—it is the strangest posture—’
‘Are his feet together?’
‘Almost impossibly so.’
As if forming a point. Dull and remote to his own ears, Heboric asked, ‘And what does he wear?’
‘Tight silks, from the way they shimmer. Black.’
‘Anything else?’
‘There is a chain. It cuts across his torso, left shoulder down to right hip. It is a robust chain, black wrought iron. There are wooden discs on his shoulders—like epaulets, but large, a hand’s span each—’
‘How many in all?’
‘Four. You know something now, Ghost Hands. Tell me!’
‘Yes,’ L’oric murmured, ‘you have thoughts on this—’
‘He lies,’ Bidithal growled. ‘He has been forgotten by everyone—even his god—and he now seeks to invent a new importance.’
Febryl spoke in a mocking rasp. ‘Bidithal, you foolish man. He is a man who touches what we cannot feel, and sees what we are blind to. Speak on, Ghost Hands. Why does this Master stand so?’
‘Because,’ Heboric said, ‘he is a sword.’
But not any sword. He is one sword, above all, and it cuts cold. That sword is as this man’s own nature. He will cleave his own path. None shall lead him. He stands now in my mind. I see him. I see his face. Oh, Sha’ik . . .
‘A Master of the Deck,’ L’oric said, then sighed. ‘A lodestone to order . . . in opposition to the House of Chains—yet he stands alone, guardians or no, while the servants of the House are many.’
Heboric smiled. ‘Alone? He has always been thus.’
‘Then why is your smile that of a broken man, Ghost Hands?’
I grieve for humanity. This family, so at war with itself. ‘To that, L’oric, I shall not answer.’
‘I shall now speak with Ghost Hands alone,’ Sha’ik pronounced. But Heboric shook his head. ‘I am done speaking, for now, even with you, Chosen One. I will say this and nothing more: have faith in the Master of the Deck. He shall answer the House of Chains. He shall answer it.’
Feeling ancient beyond his years, Heboric climbed to his feet. There was a stir of motion beside him, then young Felisin’s hand settled on his forearm. He let her guide him from the chamber.
Outside, dusk had arrived, marked by the cries of the goats as they were led into the enclosures. To the south, just beyond the city’s outskirts, rumbled the thunder of horse hoofs. Kamist Reloe and Korbolo Dom had absented themselves from the meeting to o
versee the exercises of the troops. Training conducted in the Malazan style, which Heboric had to admit was the renegade Fist’s only expression of brilliance thus far. For the first time, a Malazan army would meet its match in all things, barring Moranth munitions. Tactics and disposition of forces would be identical, ensuring that numbers alone would decide the day. The threat of the munitions would be answered with sorcery, for the Army of the Whirlwind possessed a full cadre of High Mages, whilst Tavore had—as far as they knew—none. Spies in Aren had noted the presence of the two Wickan children, Nil and Nether, but both, it was claimed, had been thoroughly broken by Coltaine’s death.
Yet why would she need mages? She carries an otataral sword, after all. Even so, its negating influence cannot be extended over her entire army. Dear Sha’ik, you may well defeat your sister after all.
‘Where would you go, Ghost Hands?’ Felisin asked.
‘To my home, lass.’
‘That is not what I meant.’
He cocked his head. ‘I do not know—’
‘If indeed you do not, then I have seen your path before you have, and this I find hard to believe. You must leave here, Ghost Hands. You must retrace your path, else what haunts you will kill you—’
‘And that matters? Lass—’
‘Look beyond yourself for a moment, old man! Something is contained within you. Trapped within your mortal flesh. What will happen when your flesh fails?’
He was silent for a long moment, then he asked, ‘How can you be so sure of this? My death might simply negate the risk of escape—it might shut the portal, as tightly sealed as it had been before—’
‘Because there is no going back. It’s here—the power behind those ghostly hands of yours—not the otataral, which is fading, ever fading—’
‘Fading?’
‘Yes, fading! Have not your dreams and visions worsened? Have you not realized why? Yes, my mother has told me—on the Otataral Isle, in the desert—that statue. Heboric, an entire island of otataral was created to contain that statue, to hold it prisoner. But you have given it a means to escape—there, through your hands. You must return!’
‘Enough!’ he snarled, flinging her hand away. ‘Tell me, did she also tell you of herself on that journey?’
‘That which she was before no longer matters—’
‘Oh, but it does, lass! It does matter!’
‘What do you mean?’
The temptation came close to overwhelming him. Because she is Malazan! Because she is Tavore’s sister! Because this war is no longer the Whirlwind’s—it has been stolen away, twisted by something far more powerful, by the ties of blood that bind us all in the harshest, tightest chains! What chance a raging goddess against that?
Instead, he said nothing.
‘You must undertake the journey,’ Felisin said in a low voice. ‘But I know, it cannot be done alone. No. I will go with you—’
He staggered away at her words, shaking his head. It was a horrible idea, a terrifying idea. Yet brutally perfect, a nightmare of synchronicity.
‘Listen! It need not be just you and I—I will find someone else. A warrior, a loyal protector—’
‘Enough! No more of this!’ Yet it will take her away—away from Bidithal and his ghastly desires. It will take her away . . . from the storm that is coming. ‘With whom else have you spoken of this?’ he demanded.
‘No-one, but I thought . . . Leoman. He could choose for us someone from Mathok’s people—’
‘Not a word, lass. Not now. Not yet.’
Her hand gripped his forearm once more. ‘We cannot wait too long, Ghost Hands.’
‘Not yet, Felisin. Now, take me home, please.’
‘Will you come with me, Toblakai?’
Karsa dragged his gaze from Urugal’s stone face. The sun had set with its characteristic suddenness, and the stars overhead were bright. The snakes had begun dispersing, driven into the eerily silent forest in search of food. ‘Would you I run beside you and your puny horses, Leoman? There are no Teblor mounts in this land. Nothing to match my size—’
‘Teblor mounts? Actually, friend, you are wrong in that. Well, not here, true, as you say. But to the west, in the Jhag Odhan, there are wild horses that are a match to your stature. Wild now, in any case. They are Jhag horses—bred long ago by the Jaghut. It may well be that your Teblor mounts are of the same breed—there were Jaghut on Genabackis, after all.’
‘Why have you not told me this before?’
Leoman lowered his right hand to the ground, watched as the flare-neck unwound down the length of his arm. ‘In truth, this is the first time you have ever mentioned that you Teblor possessed horses. Toblakai, I know virtually nothing of your past. No-one here does. You are not a loquacious man. You and I, we have ever travelled on foot, haven’t we?’
‘The Jhag Odhan. That is beyond Raraku.’
‘Aye. Strike west through the Whirlwind, and you will come to cliffs, the broken shoreline of the ancient sea that once filled this desert. Continue on until you come to a small city—Lato Revae. Immediately to the west lies the tip of the Thalas Mountains. Skirt their south edge, ever westward, until you come to River Ugarat. There is a ford south of Y’Ghatan. From the other side, strike west and south and west, for two weeks or more, and you will find yourself in the Jhag Odhan. Oh, there is some irony in this—there were once nomadic bands of Jaghut there. Hence the name. But these Jaghut were fallen. They had been predated on for so long they were little more than savages.’
‘And are they still there?’
‘No. The Logros T’lan Imass slaughtered them. Not so long ago.’
Karsa bared his teeth. ‘T’lan Imass. A name from the Teblor past.’
‘Closer than that,’ Leoman muttered, then he straightened. ‘Seek leave from Sha’ik to journey into the Jhag Odhan. You would make an impressive sight on the battlefield, astride a Jhag horse. Did your kind fight on horseback, or simply use them for transport?’
Karsa smiled in the darkness. ‘I will do as you say, Leoman. But the journey will take long—do not wait for me. If you and your scouts are still beyond the Whirlwind upon my return, I will ride out to find you.’
‘Agreed.’
‘What of Felisin?’
Leoman was silent for a moment, then he replied, ‘Ghost Hands has been awakened to the . . . threat.’
Karsa sneered. ‘And what value will that be? I should kill Bidithal and be done with it.’
‘Toblakai, it is more than you that troubles Ghost Hands. I do not believe he will remain in camp much longer. And when he leaves, he will take the child with him.’
‘And that is a better option? She will become no more than his nurse.’
‘For a time, perhaps. I will send someone with them, of course. If Sha’ik did not need you—or at least believe she does—I would ask you.’
‘Madness, Leoman. I have travelled once with Ghost Hands. I shall not do so again.’
‘He holds truths for you, Toblakai. One day, you will need to seek him out. You might even need to ask for his help.’
‘Help? I need no-one’s help. You speak unpleasant words. I will hear them no more.’
Leoman’s grin was visible in the gloom. ‘You are as you always are, friend. When will you journey into the Jhag Odhan, then?’
‘I shall leave tomorrow.’
‘Then I had best get word to Sha’ik. Who knows, she might even condescend to see me in person, whereupon I might well succeed in ending her distraction with this House of Chains—’
‘This what?’
Leoman waved a dismissive hand. ‘The House of Chains. A new power in the Deck of Dragons. It is all they talk about these days.’
‘Chains,’ Karsa muttered, swinging round to stare at Urugal. ‘I so dislike chains.’
‘I will see you in the morning, Toblakai? Before you depart?’
‘You shall.’
Karsa listened to the man stride away. His mind was a maelstrom. Chains. They haun
ted him, had haunted him ever since he and Bairoth and Delum rode out from the village. Perhaps even before then. Tribes fashioned their own chains, after all. As did kinship, and companions, and stories with their lessons in honour and sacrifice. And chains as well between the Teblor and their seven gods. Between me and my gods. Chains again, there in my visions—the dead I have slain, the souls Ghost Hands says I drag behind me. I am—all that I am—has been shaped by such chains.
This new House—is it mine?
The air in the clearing was suddenly cold, bitterly so. A final, thrashing rush as the last of the snakes fled the clearing. Karsa blinked his eyes into focus, and saw Urugal’s indurated visage . . . awakening.
A presence, there in the dark holes of the face’s eyes.
Karsa heard a howling wind, filling his mind. A thousand souls moaning, the snapping thunder of chains. Growling, he steeled himself before the onslaught, fixed his gaze on his god’s writhing face.
‘Karsa Orlong. We have waited long for this. Three years, the fashioning of this sacred place. You wasted so much time on the two strangers—your fallen friends, the ones who failed where you did not. This temple is not to be sanctified by sentimentality. Their presence offends us. Destroy them this night.’
The seven faces were all wakeful now, and Karsa could feel the weight of their regard, a deathly pressure behind which lurked something . . . avid, dark and filled with glee.
‘By my hand,’ Karsa said to Urugal, ‘I have brought you to this place. By my hand, you have been freed from your prison of rock in the lands of the Teblor—yes, I am not the fool you believe me to be. You have guided me in this, and now you are come. Your first words are of chastisement? Careful, Urugal. Any carving here can be shattered by my hand, should I so choose.’
He felt their rage, buffeting him, seeking to make him wither beneath the onslaught, yet he stood before it unmoving, and unmoved. The Teblor warrior who would quail before his gods was no more.
‘You have brought us closer,’ Urugal eventually rasped. ‘Close enough to sense the precise location of what we desire. And there you must now go, Karsa Orlong. You have delayed the journey for so long—your journey to ourselves, and on to the path we have set before you. You have hidden too long in the company of this petty spirit who does little more than spit sand.’