House of Chains

‘Aye, lad, it was. Can you still… speak with that Eres?’

‘No. All I wanted to do was get out of there-out of that blood-’

‘My blood.’

‘Well, most of it’s your blood, Sergeant.’

‘And the rest?’

‘Belongs to that song. The, uh, Bridgeburners’ song.’

Strings closed his eyes, settled his head against the boulder behind him. Kimloc, that damned Tanno Spiritwalker in Ehrlitan. I said no, but he did it anyway. He stole my story-not just mine, but the Bridgeburners’-and he made of it a song. The bastard’s gone and given us back to Raraku…

‘Go help the others, Bottle.’

‘Aye, Sergeant.’

‘And… thanks.’

‘I’ll pass that along, when next I meet the Eres witch.’

Strings stared after the mage. So there’ll be a next time, will there? Just how much didn’t you tell me, lad? He wondered if the morrow would indeed be witness to his last battle. Hardly a welcome thought, but maybe it was necessary. Maybe he was being called to join the fallen Bridgeburners. Not so bad, then. Couldn’t ask for more miserable company. Damn, but I miss them. I miss them all. Even Hedge.

The sergeant opened his eyes and climbed to his feet, collecting then donning his helm. He turned to stare out over the basin to the northeast, to the enemy emplacements and the dust and smoke of the city hidden within the oasis. You too, Kalam Mekhar. I wonder if you know why you’re here…

The shaman was in a frenzy, twitching and hissing as he scuttled like a crab in dusty circles around the flat slab of bone that steadily blackened on the hearth. Corabb, his mouth filled with a half-dozen of the scarab shells strung round his neck to ward off evil, winced as his chattering teeth crunched down on one carapace, filling his mouth with a bitter taste. He plucked the necklace from his mouth and began spitting out pieces of shell.

Leoman strode up to the shaman and grabbed the scrawny man by his telaba, lifted him clear off the ground, then shook him. A flurry of cloth and hair and flying spittle, then Leoman set the shaman down once more and growled, ‘What did you see?’

‘Armies!’ the old man shrieked, tugging at his nose as if it had just arrived on his face.

Leoman scowled. ‘Aye, we can see those too, you damned fakir-’

‘No! More armies!’ He scrabbled past and ran to the southern crest of the tel, where he began hopping about and pointing at the Malazans entrenching on the island opposite the old drainage channel.

Leoman made no move to follow. He walked over to where Corabb and three other warriors crouched behind a low wall. ‘Corabb, send another rider to Sha’ik-no, on second thought, you go yourself. Even if she will not bother acknowledging our arrival, I want to know how Mathok’s tribes will be arrayed come the dawn. Find out, once you have spoken with Sha’ik-and Corabb, be certain you speak with her in person. Then return here.’

‘I shall do as you command,’ Corabb announced, straightening.

Twenty paces away the shaman wheeled round and screamed, ‘They are here! The dogs, Leoman! The dogs! The Wickan dogs!’

Leoman scowled. ‘The fool’s gone mad…’

Corabb jogged over to his horse. He would waste no time saddling the beast, especially if it meant hearing more of the shaman’s insane observations. He vaulted onto the animal, tightened the straps holding the lance crossways on his back, then collected the reins and spurred the animal into motion.

The route to the oasis was twisting and tortured, winding between deep sand and jagged outcrops, forcing him to slow his mount’s pace and let it pick its own way along the trail.

The day was drawing to a close, shadows deepening where the path wound its way into high-walled gullies closer to the southwestern edge of the oasis. As his horse scrabbled over some rubble and walked round a sharp bend, the sudden stench of putrefaction reached both animal and man simultaneously.

The path was blocked. A dead horse and, just beyond it, a corpse.

Heart thudding, Corabb slipped down from his mount and moved cautiously forward.

Leoman’s messenger, the one he had sent as soon as the troop had arrived. A crossbow quarrel had taken him on the temple, punching through bone then exploding out messily the other side.

Corabb scanned the jagged walls to either side. If there’d been assassins stationed there he would already be dead, he reasoned. Probably, then, they weren’t expecting any more messengers.

He returned to his horse. It was a struggle coaxing the creature over the bodies, but eventually he led the beast clear of them and leapt onto its back once more. Eyes roving restlessly, he continued on.

Sixty paces later and the trail ahead opened out onto the sandy slope, beyond which could be seen the dusty mantles of guldindha trees.

Breathing a relieved sigh, Corabb urged his horse forward.

Two hammer blows against his back flung him forward. Without stirrups or saddlehorn to grab on to, Corabb threw his arms out around the horse’s neck-even as the animal squealed in pain and bolted. The motion almost jolted loose his panicked grip, and the horse’s right knee cracked hard, again and again, into his helm, until it fell away and the knobby joint repeatedly pounded against his head.

Corabb held on, even as he continued slipping down, then around, until his body was being pummelled by both front legs. The encumbrance proved sufficient to slow the animal as it reached the slope, and Corabb, one leg dangling, his heel bouncing over the hard ground, managed to pull himself up under his horse’s head.

Another quarrel cracked into the ground and skittered away off to the left.

The horse halted halfway up the slope.

Corabb brought his other leg down, then pivoted around to the opposite side and vaulted onto the animal once more. He’d lost the reins, but closed both fingers in the horse’s mane as he drove his heels into the beast’s flanks.

Yet another quarrel caromed from the rocks, then hooves were thudding on sand, and sudden sunlight bathed them.

Directly ahead lay the oasis, and the cover of trees.

Corabb leaned onto the mount’s neck and urged it ever faster.

They plunged onto a trail between the guldindhas. Glancing back, he saw a deep rip running down his horse’s left flank, leaking blood. And then he caught sight of his lance, dangling loose now from his back. There were two quarrels embedded in the shaft. Each had struck at a different angle, and the impact must have been nearly simultaneous, since the splits had bound against each other, halting the momentum of both quarrels.

Corabb lifted the ruined weapon clear and flung it away.

He rode hard down the trail.

‘A tiger’s barbs,’ she murmured, her eyes veiled behind rust-leaf smoke, ‘painted onto a toad. Somehow, it makes you look even more dangerous.’

‘Aye, lass, I’m pure poison,’ Heboric muttered as he studied her in the gloom. There was life in her gaze once more, a sharpness that went beyond the occasional cutting remark, hinting at a mind finally cleared of durhang’s dulling fog. She still coughed as if her lungs were filled with fluid, although the sage mixed in with the rust-leaf had eased that somewhat.

She was returning his regard with an inquisitive-if slightly hard-expression, drawing steadily on the hookah’s mouthpiece, smoke tumbling down from her nostrils.

‘If I could see you,’ Heboric muttered, ‘I’d conclude you’ve improved some.’

‘I have, Destriant of Treach, though I would have thought those feline eyes of yours could pierce every veil.’

He grunted. ‘It’s more that you no longer slur your words, Scillara.’

‘What do we do now?’ she asked after a moment.

‘Dusk will soon arrive. I would go out to find L’oric, and I would that you accompany me.’

‘And then?’

‘Then, I would lead you to Felisin Younger.’