House of Chains

  He slowed on the trail as he approached Toblakai’s glade. A faint smell of smoke, the dull gleam of a fast-cooling fire, the murmur of voices.

  Heboric slipped to one side, among the stone trees, then sank down within sight of the two seated at the hearth.

  Too long his self-obsession, the seemingly endless efforts to create his temple—that now struck him as a strange kind of neurotic nesting; he had ignored the world beyond the walls for too long. There had been, he realized with a surge of bitter anger, a host of subtle alterations to his personality, concomitant with the physical gifts he had received.

  He had ceased being mindful.

  And that, he realized as he studied the two figures in the glade, had permitted a terrible crime.

  She’s healed well . . . but not well enough to disguise the truth of what has happened. Should I reveal myself? No. Neither of them has made a move to expose Bidithal, else they would not be hiding here.

  That means they would try to talk me out of what must be done.

  But I warned Bidithal. I warned him, and he was . . . amused. Well, I think that amusement is about to end.

  He slowly backed away.

  Then, deep in the shadows, Heboric hesitated. There was no clash between his new and old instincts on this matter. Both demanded blood. And this night. Immediately. But something of the old Heboric was reasserting itself. He was new to this role as Destriant. More than that, Treach himself was a newly arrived god. And while Heboric did not believe Bidithal held any position—not any more—within the realm of Shadow, his temple was sanctified to someone.

  An attack would draw in their respective sources of power, and there was no telling how swiftly, and how uncontrollably, that clash could escalate.

  Better had I just remained old Heboric. With hands of otataral entwined with an unknown being’s immeasurable power . . . Then I could have torn him limb from limb.

  He realized that, instead, he could do nothing. Not this night, in any case. He would have to wait, seeking an opportunity, a moment of distraction. But to achieve that, he would have to remain hidden, unseen—Bidithal could not discover his sudden elevation. Could not learn that he had become Destriant to Treach, the new god of war.

  The rage suddenly returned, and he struggled to push it away.

  After a moment his breathing slowed. He turned round and edged back onto the trail. This would require more thought. Measured thought. Damn you, Treach. You knew the guise of a tiger. Gift me some of your cunning ways, a hunter’s ways, a killer’s . . .

  He approached the head of the trail, and halted at a faint sound. Singing. Muted, a child’s, coming from the ruins of what had once been a modest building of some sort. Indifferent to the darkness, his eyes caught movement and fixed hard on that spot, until a shape resolved itself.

  A girl in rags, carrying a stick that she held in both hands. A dozen or so dead rhizan hung by their tails from her belt. As he watched, he saw her leap up and swing the stick. It struck something and she scrambled in pursuit, jumping about to trap a tiny shape writhing on the ground. A moment later and she lifted the rhizan into view. A quick twist of the neck, then another tiny body was tied to her belt. She bent down and retrieved her stick. And began singing once more.

  Heboric paused. He would have difficulty passing by her unnoticed. But not impossible.

  Probably an unnecessary caution. Even so. He held to the shadows as he edged forward, moving only when her back was turned, his eyes never leaving her form for a moment.

  A short while later and he was past.

  Dawn was approaching, and the camp was moments from stirring awake. Heboric increased his pace, and eventually reached his tent, slipping inside.

  Apart from the girl, he’d seen no-one.

  And when she judged that he was finally gone, the girl slowly turned about, her singing falling away as she peered out into the gloom. ‘Funny man,’ she whispered, ‘do you remember the dark?’

  A sixth of a bell before dawn, Leoman and two hundred of his desert warriors struck the Malazan encampment. The infantry stationed at the pickets were at the end of their watch, gathered in weary groups to await the sun’s rise—a lapse in discipline that presented easy targets for the archers who had, on foot, closed to within thirty paces of the line. A whispery flit of arrows, all loosed at the same time, and the Malazan soldiers were down.

  At least half of the thirty or so soldiers had not been killed outright, and their screams of pain and fear broke the stillness of the night. The archers had already set their bows down and were darting forward with their kethra knives to finish the wounded sentries, but they had not gone ten paces before Leoman and his horse warriors thundered around them, striking hard through the breach.

  And into the camp.

  Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas rode at his commander’s side, a long-hafted weapon that was half sword, half axe, in his right hand. Leoman was the centre of a curved sweep of attackers, protecting a knot of additional horse warriors from which a steady whirring sound rose. Corabb knew what that sound signified—his commander had invented his own answer to Moranth munitions, employing a pair of clay balls filled with oil and connected by a thin chain. Lit like lamps, they were swung and thrown in the manner of bolas.

  The desert warriors were among the huge supply wagons now, and Corabb heard the first of those bolas whip outward, the sound followed by a whooshing roar of fire. The darkness vanished in a red glare.

  And then Corabb saw a figure running from his horse’s path. He swung his long-bladed axe. The impact, as it struck the back of the fleeing Malazan’s helmed head, nearly dislocated Corabb’s shoulder. A spray of blood spattered hard against his forearm as he dragged the weapon free—it was suddenly heavier, and he glanced down at it, to see that the blade had taken the helm with it, having cut fully half through.

  Brains and bits of bone and scalp were spilling from the bronze bowl.

  Swearing, he slowed his mount’s wild charge and tried to shake the axe clear. There was fighting on all sides, now, as well as raging flames engulfing at least a dozen wagons—and squad-tents. And soldiers appearing, more and more of them. He could hear barked orders in the Malazan tongue, and crossbow quarrels had begun flitting through the air towards the horse warriors.

  A horn sounded, high and wavering. His curses growing fiercer, Corabb wheeled his horse round. He had already lost contact with Leoman, although a few of his comrades were in sight. All of them responding to the call to withdraw. As he must, as well.

  The axe dragged at his aching shoulder, still burdened with that damned helm. He drove his horse back up the broad track between the mess-tents. Smoke tumbled, obscuring the view before him, stinging his eyes and harsh in his lungs.

  Sudden burning agony slashed across his cheek, snapping his head around. A quarrel clattered against the ground fifteen paces ahead and to one side. Corabb ducked low, twisting in search of where it had come from.

  And saw a squad of Malazans, all with crossbows—all but one cocked and trained on the desert warrior, with a sergeant berating the soldier who had fired too early. A scene taken in, in its entirety, between heartbeats. The bastards were less then ten paces distant.

  Corabb flung his axe away. With a scream, he pitched his horse sideways, directly into the wall of one of the mess-tents. Ropes tautened and snapped heavy stakes skyward, poles splintering. Amidst this stumbling chaos, the warrior heard the crossbows loose—but his horse was going down, onto its side—and Corabb was already leaping clear of the saddle, his moccasined feet slipping out from the stirrups as he dived.

  Into the collapsing tent wall, a moment before his horse, rolling with a scream, followed.

  The pressure of that waxed fabric vanished suddenly and Corabb tumbled into a somersault, once, twice, then skidded onto his feet, spinning round—

  —in time to see his horse roll back upright.

  Corabb leapt alongside his mount and vaulted up into the saddle and they were off.

>   And in the desert warrior’s mind: numb disbelief.

  On the opposite side of the avenue, seven Malazan marines stood or crouched with spent crossbows, staring as the rider thundered off into the smoke.

  ‘Did you see that?’ one asked.

  Another frozen moment, shattered at last when the soldier named Lutes flung his weapon down in disgust.

  ‘Pick that up,’ Sergeant Borduke growled.

  ‘If Maybe hadn’t fired early—’

  ‘I wasn’t sure!’ Maybe replied.

  ‘Load up, idiots—there might be a few left.’

  ‘Hey, Sergeant, maybe that horse killed the cook.’

  Borduke spat. ‘The gods smiling down on us this night, Hubb?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Right. The truth remains, then. We’ll have to kill him ourselves. Before he kills us. But never mind that for now. Let’s move . . .’

  The sun had just begun to rise when Leoman drew rein and halted his raiders. Corabb was late in arriving—among the last, in fact—and that earned a pleased nod from his commander. As if he’d assumed that Corabb had been taking up the rear out of a sense of duty. He did not notice that his lieutenant had lost his main weapon.

  Behind them, they could see the columns of smoke rising into sunlit sky, and the distant sound of shouts reached them, followed moments later by the thunder of horse hoofs.

  Leoman bared his teeth. ‘And now comes the real objective of our attack. Well done thus far, my soldiers. Hear those horses? Seti, Wickans and Khundryl—and that will be the precise order of the pursuit. The Khundryl, whom we must be wary of, will be burdened by their armour. The Wickans will range cautiously. But the Seti, once they sight us, will be headlong in their pursuit.’ He then raised the flail in his right hand, and all could see the bloody, matted hair on the spike ball. ‘And where shall we lead them?’

  ‘To death!’ came the roaring reply.

  The rising sun had turned the distant wall of spinning, whirling sand gold, a pleasing colour to Febryl’s old, watery eyes. He sat facing east, cross-legged atop what had once been a gate tower but was now a shapeless heap of rubble softened by windblown sand.

  The city reborn lay to his back, slow to awaken on this day for reasons of which only a scant few were aware, and Febryl was one of those. The goddess devoured. Consuming life’s forces, absorbing the ferocious will to survive from her hapless, misguided mortal servants.

  The effect was gradual, yet, day after day, moment by moment, it deadened. Unless one was cognizant of that hunger, of course. And was able to take preventative measures to evade her incessant demands.

  Long ago, Sha’ik Reborn had claimed to know him, to have plumbed his every secret, to have discerned the hue of his soul. And indeed, she had shown an alarming ability to speak in his mind—almost as if she was always present, and only spoke to occasionally remind him of that terrifying truth. But such moments had diminished in frequency—perhaps as a result of his renewed efforts to mask himself—until, now, he was certain that she could no longer breach his defences.

  Perhaps, however, the truth was far less flattering to his own proficiencies. Perhaps the influence of the goddess had lured Sha’ik Reborn into . . . indifference. Aye, it may be that I am already dead and am yet to know it. That all I have planned is known to the woman and goddess both. Am I alone in having spies? No. Korbolo has hinted of his own agents, and indeed, nothing of what I seek will come to pass without the efforts of the Napan’s hidden cadre of killers.

  It was, he reflected with bitter humour, the nature of everyone in this game to hide as much of themselves from others as they could, from allies as well as enemies, since such appellations were in the habit of reversing without warning.

  None the less, Febryl had faith in Kamist Reloe. The High Mage had every reason to remain loyal to the broader scheme—the scheme that was betrayal most prodigious—since the path it offered was the only one that ensured Reloe’s survival in what was to come. And as for the more subtle nuances concerning Febryl himself, well, those were not Kamist Reloe’s business. Were they?

  Even if their fruition should prove fatal . . . to everyone but me.

  They all thought themselves too clever, and that was a flaw inviting exploitation.

  And what of me? Eh, dear Febryl? Do you think yourself clever? He smiled at the distant wall of sand. Cleverness was not essential, provided one insisted on keeping things simple. Complexity beckoned error, like a whore a soldier on leave. The lure of visceral rewards that proved never quite as straightforward as one would have imagined from the start. But I will avoid that trap. I will not suffer deadly lapses, such as has happened to Bidithal, since they lead to complications—although his failings will lead him into my hands, so I suppose I should not complain too much.

  ‘The sun’s light folds over darkness.’

  He started, twisted around. ‘Chosen One!’

  ‘Deep breaths, old man, will ease your hammering heart. I can wait a moment, for I am patient.’

  She stood almost at his side—of course he had seen no shadow, for the sun was before him. But how had she come with such silence? How long had she been standing there? ‘Chosen One, have you come to join me in greeting the dawn?’

  ‘Is that what you do, when you come here at the beginning of each day? I’d wondered.’

  ‘I am a man of humble habits, mistress.’

  ‘Indeed. A certain bluntness that affects a quality of simplicity. As if by adhering to simple habits in the flesh and bone, your mind will in turn strive towards the same perfection.’

  He said nothing, though his heart had anything but slowed its thundering pace.

  Sha’ik then sighed. ‘Did I say perfection? Perhaps I should tell you something, then, to aid you in your quest.’

  ‘Please,’ he gasped softly.

  ‘The Whirlwind Wall is virtually opaque, barring that diffuse sunlight. And so I am afraid I must correct you, Febryl. You are facing northeast, alas.’ She pointed. ‘The sun is actually over there, High Mage. Do not fret so—you have at least been consistent. Oh, and there is another matter that I believe must be clarified. Few would argue that my goddess is consumed by anger, and so consumes in turn. But what you might see as the loss of many to feed a singular hunger is in truth worthy of an entirely different analogy.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. She does not strictly feed on the energies of her followers, so much as provide for them a certain focus. Little different, in fact, from that Whirlwind Wall out there, which, while seeming to diffuse the light of the sun, in fact acts to trap it. Have you ever sought to pass through that wall, Febryl? Particularly at dusk, when the day’s heat has most fully been absorbed? It would burn you down to bone, High Mage, in an instant. So, you see how something that appears one way is in truth the very opposite way? Burnt crisp—a horrible image, isn’t it? One would need to be desert-born, or possess powerful sorcery to defy that. Or very deep shadows . . .’

  Living simply, Febryl belatedly considered, should not be made synonymous with seeing simply, since the former was both noble and laudable, whilst the latter was a flaw most deadly. A careless error, and, alas, he had made it.

  And now, he concluded, it was too late.

  And as for altering the plans, oh, it was too late for that as well.

  Somehow, the newly arriving day had lost its glamour.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was said the captain’s adopted child—who at that time was known by the unfortunate name of Grub—refused the wagon on the march. That he walked the entire way, even as, in the first week beneath the year’s hottest sun, fit and hale soldiers stumbled and fell.

  This is perhaps invention, for by all accounts he was at that time no more than five years of age. And the captain himself, from whose journals much of that journey and the clash in which it culminated is related in detail, writes very little of Grub, more concerned as he was with the rigours of command. As a result, of the future First S
word of the Late Empire period, scant details, beyond the legendary and probably fictitious, are known.

  Lives of the Three

  Moragalle

  THE SOUND OF FLIES AND WASPS WAS A SOLID, BUZZING HUM IN THE hot air of the gorge, and already the stench had grown overpowering. Fist Gamet loosened the clasp on the buckle and lifted the battered iron helmet from his head. The felt liner was sodden with sweat, itching against his scalp, but, as the flies swarmed him, he did not remove it.

  He continued watching from the slight rise at the south end of the gorge as the Adjunct walked her horse through the carnage below.

  Three hundred Seti and over a hundred horses lay dead, mostly from arrows, in the steep-sided ravine they had been led into. It could not have taken long, even including rounding up and leading off the surviving mounts. There had been less than a bell between the advance Seti riders and the Khundryl, and had Temul not ordered his Wickans back to cover the main army . . . well, we would have lost them as well. As it was, those Wickans had prevented another raid on the supply train, their presence alone sufficient to trigger a sudden withdrawal by the enemy—with not a single drop of blood spilled. The warleader commanding the desert horse warriors had been too cagey to see his force ensnared in an out-and-out battle.

  Far better to rely upon . . . errors in judgement. The Seti not assigned as flanking riders to the vanguard had defied orders, and had died as a result. And all the bastard needs from us is more stupid mistakes.

  Something in the scene below was raising the hairs on his neck. The Adjunct rode alone through the slaughter, her back straight, unmindful of her horse’s skittish progress.

  It’s never the flies that are the trouble, it’s the wasps. One sting and that well-bred beast will lose its mind. Could rear and throw her off, break her neck. Or could bolt, straight down the gorge, and then try to take one of the steep sides . . . like some of those Seti horses tried to do . . .

  Instead, the horse simply continued picking its way over the bodies, and the clouds of wasps did little more than rise and then wheel from its path, alighting once more upon their feast as soon as mount and rider had passed.