House of Chains

watching.

It was understood, then. As she had known it would be.

Vague, distant shouts behind her. She smiled. Of course, in the end, it is the two warriors who first found me. I was foolish to have doubted them. And I know, either one would stand in my stead.

But they cannot.

This fight belongs to me. And the goddess.

‘Enter.’

Captain Keneb paused for a moment, seeking to collect himself, then he strode into the command tent.

She was donning her armour. A mundane task that would have been easier with a servant at hand, but that, of course, was not Tavore’s way.

Although, perhaps, that was not quite the truth. ‘Adjunct.’

‘What is it, Captain?’

‘I have just come from the Fist’s tent. A cutter and a healer were summoned at once, but it was far too late. Adjunct Tavore, Gamet died last night. A blood vessel burst in his brain-the cutter believes it was a clot, and that it was born the night he was thrown from his horse. I am… sorry.’

A pallor had come to her drawn, plain face. He saw her hand reach down to steady herself against the table edge. ‘Dead?’

‘In his sleep.’

She turned away, stared down at the accoutrements littering the table. ‘Thank you, Captain. Leave me now, and have T’amber-’

There was a commotion outside, then a Wickan’youth pushed in. ‘Adjunct! Sha’ik has walked down into the basin! She challenges you!’

After a long moment, Tavore nodded. ‘Very well. Belay that last order, Captain. You both may go.’ She turned to resume strapping on her armour.

Keneb gestured the youth ahead and they strode from the tent.

Outside, the captain hesitated. It’s what Gamet would do… isn’t it?

‘Will she fight her?’ the Wickan asked.

He glanced over. ‘She will. Return to Temul, lad. Either way, we have a battle ahead of us this day.’ He watched the young warrior hurry off.

Then swung to face the modest tent situated twenty paces to his left. There were no guards stationed before its flap. Keneb halted before the entrance. ‘Lady T’amber, are you within?’

A figure emerged. Dressed in hard leathers-light armour, Keneb realized with a start-and a longsword strapped to her hip. ‘Does the Adjunct wish to begin her morning practice?’

Keneb met those calm eyes, the colour of which gave the woman her name. They seemed depthless. He mentally shook himself. ‘Gamet died last night. I have just informed the Adjunct.’

The woman’s gaze flicked towards the command tent. ‘I see.’

‘And in the basin between the two armies, Sha’ik now stands… waiting. It occurred to me, Lady, that the Adjunct might appreciate some help with her armour.’

To his surprise she turned back to her tent. ‘Not this morning, Captain. I understand your motives… but no. Not this morning. Good day, sir.’

Then she was gone.

Keneb stood motionless in surprise. All right, then, so I do not understand women.

He faced the command tent once more, in time to see the Adjunct emerge, tightening the straps on her gauntlets. She was helmed, the cheek guards locked in place. There was no visor covering her eyes-many fighters found their vision too impaired by the slits-and he watched her pause, lifting her gaze to the morning sky for a moment, before she strode forward.

He gave her some distance, then followed.

L’oric clawed his way through the swirling shadows, scraped by skeletal branches and stumbling over gnarled roots. He had not expected this. There had to be a path, a way through this blackwood forest.

That damned goddess was here. Close. She had to be-if he could but find the trail.

The air was sodden and chill, the boles of the trees leaning this way and that, as if an earthquake had just shaken the ground. Wood creaked overhead to some high wind. And everywhere flitted wraiths, lost shadows, closing on the High Mage then darting away again. Rising from the humus like ghosts, hissing over his head as he staggered on.

And then, through the trees, the flicker of fire.

Gasping, L’oric ran towards it.

It was her. And the flames confirmed his suspicion. An Imass, trailing the chains of Tellann, the Ritual shattered-oh, she has no place here, no place at all.

Chthonic spirits swarmed her burning body, the accretions of power she had gathered unto herself over hundreds of thousands of years. Hatred and spite had twisted them all into malign, vicious creatures.

Marsh water and mould had blackened the limbs of the Imass. Moss covered the torso like dangling, knotted fur. Ropes of snarled, grey hair hung down, tangled with burrs. From her scorched eye sockets, living flames licked out. The bones of her cheeks were white, latticed in cracks from the heat.

Toothless, the heavy lower jaw hanging-barely held in place by rotting strips of tendon and withered muscle.

The goddess was keening, a wavering, eerie cry that did not pause for breath, and it seemed to L’oric that she was struggling.

He drew closer.

She had stumbled into a web of vines, the twisted ropes entangling her arms and legs, wrapped like serpents about her torso and neck. He wondered that he had not seen them earlier, then realized that they were flickering, one moment there, the other gone-although no less an impediment for their rhythmic disappearance-and they were changing…

Into chains.

Suddenly, one snapped. And the goddess howled, redoubled her efforts.

Another broke, whipping to crack against a tree.

L’oric edged forward. ‘Goddess! Hear me! Sha’ik-she is not strong enough for you!’

‘My-my-my child! Mine! I stole her from the bitch! Mine!’

The High Mage frowned. Who? What bitch? ‘Goddess, listen to me, please! I offer myself in her stead! Do you understand?’

Another chain broke.

And a voice spoke low behind L’oric. ‘Interfering bastard.’

He spun, but too late, as a wide-bladed knife was driven deep between his ribs, tearing a savage path to his heart.

Or where his heart should have been, had L’oric been human.

The serrated tip missed, sliding in front of the deep-seated organ, then jammed into the side of the sternum.

L’oric groaned and sagged.

The killer dragged his knife free, crouched and pulled L’oric’s head back by the jaw. Reached down with the blade.

‘Never mind that, fool!’ hissed another voice. ‘She’s breaking the chains!’

L’oric watched the man hesitate, then growl and move away.

The High Mage could feel blood filling his chest. He slowly turned onto his side, and could feel the warm flow seep down from the wound. The change in position gave him a mostly unobscured view of the goddess-

– and the assassins now closing in on her.