House of Chains

Blind’s forward rush halted in a skid of claws. And the Hound cowered.

‘Beru fend!’ Cutter swore, scrabbling to draw a knife-

The courtyard was suddenly filled with shadows, a strange crackling sound ripping through the air-

And a fifth figure was among the four Edur sorcerers now, grey-clad, gloved, face hidden in a rough hood. In its hands, a rope, that seemed to writhe with a life of its own. Cutter saw it snap out to strike a sorcerer in one eye, and when the rope whipped back out, a stream of blood and minced brains followed. The sorcerer’s magic winked out and the Edur toppled.

The rope was too fast to follow, as its wielder moved among the three remaining mages, but in its twisting wake a head tumbled from shoulders, intestines spilled out from a gaping rip, and whatever felled the last sorcerer happened in a blur that left no obvious result, except that the Edur was dead before he hit the ground.

There were shouts from the Edur warriors, and they converged from both sides.

It was then that the screams began. The rope lashed out from Cotillion’s right hand; a long-knife was in his left, seeming to do little but lick and touch everyone it came close to-but the result was devastating. The air was a mist of suspended blood around the patron god of assassins, and before Cutter drew his fourth breath since the battle began, it was over, and around Cotillion there was naught but corpses.

A final snap of the rope whipped blood across a wall, then the god threw back his hood and wheeled to face Blind. He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it once more. An angry gesture, and shadows swept out to engulf the trembling Hound. When they dissipated a moment later Blind was gone.

There was the sound of fighting beyond the courtyard and Cutter turned. ‘The Malazans need help!’ he shouted to Cotillion.

‘No they don’t,’ the god growled.

Both spun at a loud clatter, to see Darist lying motionless beside Apsalar, the sword lying nearby, its heat igniting the leaves it lay on.

Cotillion’s face fell, as if with a sudden, deep sorrow. ‘When he’s done out there,’ he said to Cutter, ‘guide him to this sword. Tell him its names.’

‘He?’

A moment later, with a final survey of the mayhem surrounding him, Cotillion vanished.

Cutter rushed over to Apsalar. He knelt down beside her. Her clothes were crisped, smoke rising in tendrils in the now still air. Fire had swept through her hair, but only momentarily, it seemed, for she had plenty left; nor was her face burned, although a long red welt, already blistering, was visible in a diagonal slash down her neck. Faint jerks of her limbs-the after-effects of the sorcerous attack-showed him she still lived.

He tried to wake her, failed. A moment later he looked up, listened. The sounds of fighting had ceased and now a single set of boots slowly approached, crunching on scorched ground.

Cutter slowly rose and faced the archway.

Traveller stepped into view. A sword broken three-quarters of the way up the blade was in one gauntleted hand. Though spattered with blood, he seemed unwounded. He paused to study the scene in the courtyard.

Somehow, Cutter knew without asking that he was the last left alive. Yet he moved none the less to look out through the archway. The Malazans were all down, motionless. Surrounding them in a ring were the corpses of half a hundred or more Tiste Edur. Quarrel-studded others lay on the trail approaching the clearing.

I called those Malazans to their deaths. That captain-with the beautiful eyes… He returned to where Traveller walked among the fallen Tiste Andu. And the question he asked came from a constricted throat. ‘Did you speak true, Traveller?’

The man glanced over.

‘This battle,’ Cutter elaborated. ‘Was it truly a Malazan battle?’

Traveller’s answering shrug chilled the Daru. ‘Some of these are still alive,’ he said, gesturing at the Tiste Andu.

‘And there are wounded in the cave,’ Cutter pointed out.

He watched as the man walked over to where lay Apsalar and Darist. ‘She is a friend,’ Cutter said.

Traveller grunted, then he flung his broken sword aside and stepped over Darist. He reached down for the sword.

‘Careful-’

But the man closed his gauntleted hand on the grip and lifted the weapon.

Cutter sighed, closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them and said, ‘It is named Vengeance… or Grief. You can choose which best suits you.’

Traveller turned, met Cutter’s eyes. ‘Do you not wish it for yourself?’

The Daru shook his head. ‘It demands its wielder possess a singular will. I am not for that sword, nor, I think, will I ever be.’

Traveller studied the blade in his hand. ‘Vengeance,’ he murmured, then nodded and crouched down to retrieve the scabbard from Darist’s body. ‘This old man, who was he?’

Cutter shrugged. ‘A guardian. He was named Andarist. And now he’s gone, and so the Throne is without a protector-’

Traveller straightened. ‘I will abide here a time. As you said, there are wounded to tend to… and corpses to bury.’

‘I’ll help-’

‘No need. The god who strode through this place has visited the Edur ships-there are small craft aboard, and supplies. Take your woman and leave this island. If more Edur chance upon this location, your presence will only impede me.’

‘How long will you plan on staying here, in Andarist’s role?’

‘Long enough to do him honour.’

A groan came from Apsalar, drawing Cutter to her. She began thrashing, as if fevered.

‘Carry her from this place,’ Traveller said. ‘The sorcery’s effects linger.’

He looked up, met those eyes-and saw sorrow there, the first emotion yet to be revealed from the man. ‘I would help you bury-’

‘I need no help. It will not be the first time I have buried companions. Go. Take her.’

He lifted her in his arms. Her thrashing stilled and she sighed as if sinking into deep, peaceful sleep. Then he stood studying Traveller for a moment.

The man turned away. ‘Thank your god, mortal,’ he growled, his back still to Cutter, ‘for the sword…’

An elongated mass of the stone floor had fallen away, down to the black rushing water of the subterranean river. Athwart the gaping hole lay a bundle of spears, around which was tied a rope that reached down into the water, snaking about as the current tugged at it. The air of the rough-hewn chamber was chill and damp.

Kalam crouched at the edge and studied the swirling water below for a long moment.

‘The well,’ Sergeant Cord said from where he stood beside the assassin.

Kalam grunted, then asked, ‘What in Hood’s name inspired the captain and lieutenant to climb down there?’

‘If you look long enough, with the torches gone from this room, you’ll see a glow. There’s something lying on the bottom, maybe twice a man’s height in depth.’

‘Something?’

‘Looks like a man… all in armour. Lying spread-eagled.’

‘So take the torches out. I want to see this.’

‘Did you say something, Corporal? Your demon friend has disappeared, remember- vanished.’

Kalam sighed. ‘Demons will do that, and in this case you should be thankful for that. Right now, Sergeant, I am of the opinion that you’ve all been cooped up in this mountain for far too long. I’m thinking maybe you’ve lost your minds. And I have also reconsidered your words about my position in your company, and I’ve reached a decision and it’s this.’ He turned his head and fixed his gaze on Cord’s eyes. ‘I’m not in your company, Cord. I’m a Bridgeburner. You’re Ashok Regiment. And if that’s not enough for you, I am resurrecting my old status… as a Claw, a Leader of a Hand. And as such, I’m only outranked in the field by Clawmaster Topper, the Adjunct, and the Empress herself. Now, take the damned torches out of here!’