House of Chains

A shield struck him a body blow from his left, lifting Cutter upward, his moccasins leaving the flagstones. He twisted and slashed out at the attacker, and missed. The shield’s impact had turned his left side into a mass of thrumming pain. He hit the ground and folded into a roll.

Something thumped in pursuit, bounced once, then twice, and as the Daru regained his feet an Edur’s decapitated head cracked hard against his right shin.

The agony of this last blow-absurdly to his mind-overwhelmed all else thus far. He screamed a curse, hopped backward one-legged.

An Edur was rushing him.

A fouler word grated out from Cutter. He flung the knife from his left hand. Shield surged up to meet it, the warrior ducking from view.

Grimacing, Cutter lunged after the weapon-while the Edur remained blind-and stabbed overhand above the shield. The knife sank down behind the man’s left collarbone, sprouting a geyser of blood as he pulled it back out.

There were shouts now in the courtyard-and suddenly it seemed the fighting was everywhere, on all sides. Cutter reeled back a step to see that other Tiste Andu had arrived-and, in their midst, Apsalar.

Three Edur were on the ground in her wake, all writhing amidst blood and bile.

The rest, barring their kin who had fallen to Apsalar, Cutter and Darist, were retreating, back through the archway.

Apsalar and her Tiste Andu companions pursued only so far as the gate.

Slowly, the spinning wind dwindled, the leaf fragments drifting down like ash.

Cutter glanced over to see Darist still standing, though he leaned against a side wall, his long, lean frame sheathed in blood, helm gone, his hair matted and hanging down over his face, dripping. The sword Grief remained in his two hands, point once more on the flagstones.

One of the new Tiste Andu moved to the three noisily dying Edur and unceremoniously slit their throats. When finished, she raised her gaze to study Apsalar for a long moment.

Cutter realized that all of Darist’s kin were white-haired, though none were as old-indeed, they appeared very young, in appearance no older than the Daru himself. They were haphazardly armed and armoured, and none held their weapons with anything like familiarity. Quick, nervous glances were thrown at the gateway-then over to Darist.

Sheathing her Kethra knives, Apsalar strode up to Cutter. ‘I am sorry we were late.’

He blinked, then shrugged. ‘I thought you’d drowned.’

‘No, I made shore easily enough-though everything else went with you. There was sorcerous questing, then, but I evaded that.’ She nodded to the youths. ‘I found these camped a fair distance inland. They were… hiding.’

‘Hiding. But Darist said-’

‘Ah, so that is Darist. Andarist, to be more precise.’ She turned a thoughtful gaze on the ancient Tiste Andu. ‘It was by his command. He didn’t want them here… because I imagine he expected they would die.’

‘And so they shall,’ Darist growled, finally lifting his head to meet her eyes. ‘You have condemned them all, for the Edur will now hunt them down in earnest-the old hatreds, rekindled once more.’

She seemed unaffected by his words. ‘The throne must be protected.’

Darist bared red-stained teeth, his eyes glittering in the half-shadows. ‘If he truly wants it protected, then he can come here and do it himself.’

Apsalar frowned. ‘Who?’

Cutter answered, ‘His brother, of course. Anomander Rake.’

It had been a guess, but Darist’s expression was all the affirmation needed. Anomander Rake’s younger brother. In his veins, nothing of the Son of Darkness’s Draconian blood. And in his hands, a sword that its maker had judged insufficient, when compared to Dragnipur. But this knowledge alone was barely a whisper-the twisted, dark storm of all that existed between the two siblings was an epic neither man was ever likely to orate, or so Cutter suspected.

And the skein of bitter grievances proved even more knotted than the Daru had first imagined, for it was then revealed that the youths were, one and all, close kin to Anomander-grandchildren. Their parents had inherited their sire’s flaw, the hunger for wandering, for vanishing into the mists, for shaping private worlds in forgotten, isolated places. ‘The search for loyalty and honour’, Darist had said, with a sneer, whilst Phaed- the young woman who had shown mercy to Apsalar’s victims-bound his wounds.

A task not done quickly. Darist-Andarist-had been slashed at least a dozen times, each time the heavy scimitar parting chain then flesh down to the bone, in various places on his body. How he had managed to stand upright, much less continue fighting, belied his earlier claim that his will was not of sufficient purity to match the sword, Grief. Now that the skirmish had been suspended, however, the force that had fired the old warrior fast dissipated. His right arm was incapacitated; the wound on his hip dragged him onto the flagstones-and he could not rise again without help.

There were nine dead Tiste Edur. Their retreat had probably been triggered by a desire to regroup rather than being hard-pressed.

Worse, they were but an advance party. The two ships just off the shore were massive: each could easily hold two hundred warriors. Or so Apsalar judged, having scouted the inlet where they were moored.

‘There is plenty of wreckage in the water,’ she added, ‘and both Edur ships have the look of having been in a fight-’

‘Three Malazan war dromons,’ Cutter said. ‘A chance encounter. Darist says the Malazans gave a good account of themselves.’

They were seated on some tumbled rubble a dozen paces from the Tiste Andu, watching the youths hover and fuss over Darist. Cutter’s left side ached, and though he did not look beneath his clothes he knew that bruises were spreading. He struggled to ignore the discomfort and continued eyeing the Tiste Andu.

‘They are not what I expected,’ he said quietly. ‘Not even schooled in the art of fighting-’

‘True. Darist’s desire to protect them could prove a fatal one.’

‘Now that the Edur know they exist. Not a part of Darist’s plan.’

Apsalar shrugged. ‘They were given a task.’

He fell silent, pondering that brusque statement. He’d always believed that a singular capacity to inflict death engendered a certain wisdom-of the fragility of the spirit, of its mortality-as he had known, and experienced first- hand, with Rallick Nom in Darujhistan. But Apsalar revealed nothing of such wisdom; her words were hard with judgement, often flatly dismissive. She had taken focus and made of it a weapon… or a means of self- defence.

She had not intended any of the three Edur she had taken down to die swiftly. Yet it seemed she drew no pleasure, as a sadist might. It is more as if she was trained to do so… trained as a torturer. Yet Cotillion-Dancer-was no torturer. He was an assassin. So where does the vicious streak come from? Does it belong to her own nature? An unpleasant, disturbing thought.

He lifted his left arm, gingerly, wincing. Their next fight would likely be a short one, even with Apsalar at their side.

‘You are in no condition to fight,’ she observed.

‘Nor is Darist,’ Cutter retorted.

‘The sword will carry him. But you will prove a liability. I would not be distracted by protecting you.’

‘What do you suggest? I kill myself now so I’m not in your way?’

She shook her head-as if the suggestion had been, on its face, entirely reasonable, just not what she had in mind-and spoke in a low voice. ‘There are others on this island. Hiding well, but not well enough to escape my notice. I want you to go to them. I want you to enlist their help.’

‘Who are these others?’

‘You yourself identified them, Cutter. Malazans. Survivors, I would assume, from the three war dromons. There is one of power among them.’

Cutter glanced over at Darist. The youths had moved the old man so that he sat with his back against the wall beside the inside doorway, opposite the gate. His head was lowered, bearded chin to chest, and only the faint rise and fall of his chest indicated that he still lived. ‘All right. Where will I find them?’