Steven Erikson - Malazan Book of the Fallen 04 - House of Chains

======================

Notes:

This book was scanned by JASC

If you correct any minor errors, please change the version number below (and in the file

name) to a slightly higher one e.g. from 1.0 to 1.1 or if major revisions, to v. 2.0 etc..

Current e-book version is 1.0 (formatting errors have been corrected(for the most part,

was a good scan); semiproofed)

Comments, Questions, Requests(no promises): daytonascan4911@hotmail.com

DO NOT READ THIS BOOK OF YOU DO NOT OWN/POSSES THE PHYSICAL

COPY. THAT IS STEALING FROM THE AUTHOR.

--------------------------------------------

Book Information:

Genre: Epic Fantasy

Author: Steven Erikson

Name: House of Chains

Series: A Tale of the Malazan Book of the Fallen 4

======================

House of Chains

A Tale of the Malazan Book of the Fallen 4

Steven

Erikson

Verge of the Nascent, the 943rd Day of the Search 1139 Burn's Sleep

GREY, BLOATED AND POCKED, THE BODIES LINED THE SILT-LADEN shoreline for as

far as the eye could see. Heaped like driftwood by the rising water, bobbing and rolling

on the edges, the putrefying flesh seethed with black-shelled, ten-legged crabs. The

coin-sized creatures had scarcely begun to make inroads on the bounteous feast the

warren's sundering had laid before them.

The sea mirrored the low sky's hue. Dull, patched pewter above and below, broken

only by the deeper grey of silts and, thirty strokes of the oar distant, the smeared ochre

tones of the barely visible upper levels of a city's inundated buildings. The storms had

passed, the waters were calm amidst the wreckage of a drowned world.

Short, squat had been the inhabitants. Flat-featured, the pale hair left long and loose.

Their world had been a cold one, given the thick-padded clothing they had worn. But

with the sundering that had changed, cataclysmically. The air was sultry, damp and now

foul with the reek of decay.

The sea had been born of a river on another realm. A massive, wide and probably

continent-spanning artery of fresh water, heavy with a plain's silts, the murky depths

home to huge catfish and wagon-wheel-sized spiders, its shallows crowded with the

crabs and carnivorous, rootless plants. The river had poured its torrential volume onto

this vast, level landscape. Days, then weeks, then months.

Storms, conjured by the volatile clash of tropical air-streams with the resident

temperate climate, had driven the flood on beneath shrieking winds, and before the

inexorably rising waters came deadly plagues to take those who had not drowned.

Somehow, the rent had closed sometime in the night just past. The river from

another realm had been returned to its original path.

The shoreline ahead probably did not deserve the word, but nothing else came to

Trull Sengar's mind as he was dragged along its verge. The beach was nothing more

than silt, heaped against a huge wall that seemed to stretch from horizon to horizon. The

wall had withstood the flood, though water now streamed down it on the opposite side.

Bodies on his left, a sheer drop of seven, maybe eight man-heights to his right, the

top of the wall itself slightly less than thirty paces across; that it held back an entire sea

whispered of sorcery. The broad, flat stones underfoot were smeared with mud, but

already drying in the heat, dun-coloured insects dancing on its surface, leaping from the

path of Trull Sengar and his captors.

Trull still experienced difficulty comprehending that notion.

Captors. A word he

struggled with. They were his brothers, after all. Kin. Faces he had known all his life,

faces he had seen smile, and laugh, and faces - at times - filled with a grief that had

mirrored his own. He had stood at their sides through all that had happened, the

glorious triumphs, the soul-wrenching losses.

Captors.

There were no smiles, now. No laughter. The expressions of those who held him

were fixed and cold.

What we have come to.

The march ended. Hands pushed Trull Sengar down, heedless of his bruises, the cuts

and the gouges that still leaked blood. Massive iron rings had been set, for some

unknown purpose, by this world's now-dead inhabitants, along the top of the wall,

anchored in the heart of the huge stone blocks. The rings were evenly spaced down the

wall's length, at intervals of fifteen or so paces, for as far as Trull could see.

Now, those rings had found a new function.

Chains were wrapped around Trull Sengar, shackles hammered into place on his

wrists and ankles. A studded girdle was cinched painfully tight about his midriff, the

chains drawn through iron loops and pulled taut to pin him down beside the iron ring. A

hinged metal press was affixed to his jaw, his mouth forced open and the plate pushed

in and locked in place over his tongue.

The Shorning followed. A dagger inscribed a circle on his forehead, followed by a

jagged slash to break that circle, the point pushed deep enough to gouge the bone. Ash

was rubbed into the wounds. His long single braid was removed with rough hacks that

made a bloody mess of his nape. A thick, cloying unguent was then smeared through his

remaining hair, massaged down to the pate. Within a few hours, the rest of his hair

would fall away, leaving him permanently bald.

The Shorning was an absolute thing, an irreversible act of severance. He was now

outcast. To his brothers, he had ceased to exist. He would not be mourned. His deeds

would vanish from memory along with his name. His mother and father would have

birthed one less child. This was, for his people, the most dire punishment - worse than

execution by far.

Yet, Trull Sengar had committed no crime.

And this is what we have come to.

They stood above him, perhaps only now comprehending what they had done.

A familiar voice broke the silence. 'We will speak of him now, and once we have left

this place, he will cease to be our brother.'

'We will speak of him now,' the others intoned, then one added, 'He betrayed you.'

The first voice was cool, revealing nothing of the gloat that Trull Sengar knew would

be there. 'You say he betrayed me.'

'He did, brother.'

'What proof do you have?'

'By his own tongue.'

'Is it just you who claims to have heard such betrayal spoken?'

'No, I too heard it, brother.'

'And I.'

'And what did our brother say to you all?'

'He said that you had severed your blood from ours.'

'That you now served a hidden master.'

'That your ambition would lead us all to our deaths—'

'Our entire people.'

'He spoke against me, then.'

'He did.'

'By his own tongue, he accused me of betraying our people.'

'He did.'

'And have I? Let us consider this charge. The southlands are aflame. The enemy's

armies have fled. The enemy now kneels before us, and begs to be our slaves. From

nothing, was forged an empire. And still our strength grows. Yet. To grow stronger,

what must you, my brothers, do?'

'We must search.'

'Aye. And when you find what must be sought?'

'We must deliver. To you, brother.'

'Do you see the need for this?'

'We do.'

'Do you understand the sacrifice I make, for you, for our people, for our future?'

'We do.'

'Yet, even as you searched, this man, our once-brother, spoke against me.'

'He did.'

'Worse, he spoke to defend the new enemies we had found.'

'He did. He called them the Pure Kin, and said we should not kill them.'

'And, had they been in truth Pure Kin, then…'

'They would not have died so easily.'

'Thus.'

'He betrayed you, brother.'

'He betrayed us all.'

There was silence.

Ah, now you would share out this crime of yours. And they

hesitate.

'He betrayed us all, did he not, brothers?'

'Yes.' The word arrived rough, beneath the breath, mumbled - a chorus of dubious

uncertainty.

No-one spoke for a long moment, then, savage with barely bridled anger: 'Thus,

brothers. And should we not heed this danger? This threat of betrayal, this poison, this

plague that seeks to tear our family apart? Will it spread? Will we come here yet again?

We must be vigilant, brothers. Within ourselves. With each other. Now, we have spoken

of him. And now, he is gone.'

'He is gone.'

'He never existed.'

'Let us leave this place, then.'

'Yes, let us leave.'

Trull Sengar listened until he could no more hear their boots on the stones, nor feel

the tremble of their dwindling steps. He was alone, unable to move, seeing only the

mud-smeared stone at the base of the iron ring.

The sea rustled the corpses along the shoreline. Crabs scuttled. Water continued to

seep through the mortar, insinuate the Cyclopean wall with the voice of muttering

ghosts, and flow down on the other side.

Among his people, it was a long-known truth, perhaps the only truth, that Nature

fought but one eternal war. One foe. That, further, to understand this was to understand

the world. Every world.

Nature has but one enemy. And that is imbalance.

The wall held the sea.

And there are two meanings to this. My brothers, can you not see the truth of that?

Two meanings. The wall holds the sea.

For now.

This was a flood that would not be denied. The deluge had but just begun -

something his brothers could not understand, would, perhaps, never understand.

Drowning was common among his people. Drowning was not feared. And so, Trull

Sengar would drown. Soon.

And before long, he suspected, his entire people would join him. His brother had

shattered the balance.

And Nature shall not abide.

The slower the river, the redder it runs.

Nathü saying

CHAPTER ONE

Children from a dark house choose shadowed paths.

Nathü folk saying

THE DOG HAD SAVAGED A WOMAN, AN OLD MAN AND A CHILD BEFORE the warriors

drove it into an abandoned kiln at the edge of the village. The beast had never before

displayed an uncertain loyalty. It had guarded the Uryd lands with fierce zeal, one with

its kin in its harsh, but just, duties. There were no wounds on its body that might have

festered and so allowed the spirit of madness into its veins. Nor was the dog possessed

by the foaming sickness. Its position in the village pack had not been challenged.

Indeed, there was nothing, nothing at all, to give cause to the sudden turn.

The warriors pinned the animal to the rounded back wall of the clay kiln with spears,

stabbing at the snapping, shrieking beast until it was dead. "When they withdrew their

spears they saw the shafts chewed and slick with spit and blood; they saw iron dented

and scored.

Madness, they knew, could remain hidden, buried far beneath the surface, a subtle

flavour turning blood into something bitter. The shamans examined the three victims;

two had already died of their wounds, but the child still clung to life.

I'n solemn procession he was carried by his father to the Faces in the Rock, laid down

in the glade before the Seven Gods of the Teblor, and left there.

He died a short while later. Alone in his pain before the hard visages carved into the

cliff-face.

This was not an unexpected fate. The child, after all, had been too young to pray.

All of this, of course, happened centuries past. Long before the Seven Gods opened

their eyes.

Urugal the Woven's Year 1159 Bum's Sleep

They were glorious tales. Farms in flames, children dragged behind horses for

leagues. The trophies of that day, so long ago, cluttered the low walls of his

grandfather's longhouse. Scarred skull-pates, frail-looking mandibles. Odd fragments of

clothing made of some unknown material, now smoke-blackened and tattered. Small

ears nailed to every wooden post that reached up to th'e thatched roof.

Evidence that Silver Lake was real, that it existed in truth, beyond the forest-clad

mountains, down through hidden passes, a week - perhaps two - distant from the lands

of the Uryd clan. The way itself was fraught, passing through territories held by the

Sunyd and Rathyd clans, a journey that was itself a tale of legendary proportions.

Moving silent and unseen through enemy camps, shifting the hearthstones to deliver

deepest insult, eluding the hunters and trackers day and night until the borderlands were

reached, then crossed - the vista ahead unknown, its riches not even yet dreamed of.

Karsa Orlong lived and breathed his grandfather's tales. They stood like a legion,

defiant and fierce, before the pallid, empty legacy of Synyg - Pahlk's son and Karsa's

father. Synyg, who had done nothing in his life, who tended his horses in his valley and

had not once ventured into hostile lands. Synyg, who was both his father's and his son's

greatest shame.

True, Synyg had more than once defended his herd of horses from raiders from

other clans, and defended well, with honourable ferocity and admirable skill. But this was

only to be expected from those of Uryd blood. Urugal the Woven was the clan's Face in

the Rock, and Urugal was counted among the fiercest of the seven gods. The other clans

had reason to fear the Uryd.

Nor had Synyg proved less than masterful in training his only son in the Fighting

Dances. Karsa's skill with the bloodwood blade far surpassed his years. He was counted

among the finest warriors of the clan. While the Uryd disdained use of the bow, they

excelled with spear and atlatl, with the toothed-disc and the black-rope, and Synyg had

taught his son an impressive efficiency with these weapons as well.

None the less, such training was to be expected from any father in the Uryd clan.

Karsa could find no reason for pride in such things. The Fighting Dances were but

preparation, after all. Glory was found in all that followed, in the contests, the raids, in

the vicious perpetuation of feuds.

Karsa would not do as his father had done. He would not do…

nothing. No, he would

walk his grandfather's path. More closely than anyone might imagine. Too much of the

clan's reputation lived only in the past. The Uryd had grown complacent in their position

of preeminence among the Teblor. Pahlk had muttered that truth more than once, the

nights when his bones ached from old wounds and the shame that was his son burned

deepest.

A

return to the old ways. And I, Karsa Orlong, shall lead. Delum

Thord is with me. As is Bairoth Gild. All in our first year of scarring.

We have counted coup. We have slain enemies. Stolen horses. Shifted

the hearthstones of the Kellyd and the Buryd.

And now, with the new moon and in the year of your naming,

Urugal, we shall weave our way to Silver Lake. To slay the children

who dwell there.

He remained on his knees in the glade, head bowed beneath the Faces in the Rock,

knowing that Urugal's visage, high on the cliff-face, mirrored his own savage desire; and

that those of the other gods, all with their own clans barring 'Siballe, who was the

Unfound, glared down upon Karsa with envy and hate. None of their children knelt

before them, after all, to voice such bold vows.

Complacency plagued all the clans of the Teblor, Karsa suspected. The world beyond

the mountains dared not encroach, had not attempted to do so in decades. No visitors

ventured into Teblor lands. Nor had the Teblor themselves gazed out beyond the

borderlands with dark hunger, as they had often done generations past. The last man to

have led a raid into foreign territory had been his grandfather. To the shores of Silver

Lake, where farms squatted like rotted mushrooms and children scurried like mice. Back

then, there had been two farms, a half-dozen outbuildings. Now, Karsa believed, there

would be more. Three, even four farms. Even Pahlk's day of slaughter would pale to that

delivered by Karsa, Delum and Bairoth.

So I

vow, beloved Urugal. And I shall deliver unto you a feast of trophies such as

never before blackened the soil of this glade. Enough, perhaps, to free you from the

stone itself, so that once more you will stride in our midst, a deliverer of death upon all

our enemies.

I, Karsa Orlong, grandson of Pahlk Orlong, so swear. And, should you doubt,

Urugal, know that we leave this very night. The journey begins with the descent of this

very sun. And, as each day's sun births the sun of the next day, so shall it look down

upon three warriors of the Uryd clan, leading their destriers through the passes, down

into

the unknown lands. And Silver Lake shall, after more than four centuries, once again

tremble to the coming of the Teblor.

Karsa slowly lifted his head, eyes travelling up the battered cliff-face, to find the

harsh, bestial face of Urugal, there, among its kin. The pitted gaze seemed fixed upon

him and Karsa thought he saw avid pleasure in those dark pools. Indeed, he was certain

of it, and would describe it as truth to Delum and Bairoth, and to Dayliss, so that she

might voice her blessing, for he so wished her blessing, her cold words… I,'

Dayliss, yet

to find a family's name, bless you, Karsa Orlong, on your dire raid. May you slay a legion

of children. May their cries feed your dreams. May their blood give you thirst for more.

May flames haunt the path of your life. May you return to me, a thousand deaths upon

your soul, and take me as your wife.

She might indeed so bless him. A first yet undeniable expression of her interest in

him. Not Bairoth - she but toyed with Bairoth as any young unwedded woman might, for

amusement. Her Knife of Night remained sheathed, of course, for Bairoth lacked cold

ambition - a flaw he might deny, yet the truth was plain that he did not lead, only follow,

and Dayliss would not settle for that.

No, she would be his, Karsa's, upon his return, the culmination of his triumph that

was the raid on Silver Lake. For him, and him alone, Dayliss would unsheathe her Knife

of Night.

May you slay a legion of children. May flames haunt the path of your

life.

Karsa straightened. No wind rustled the leaves of the birch trees encircling the glade.

The air was heavy, a lowland air that had climbed its way into the mountains in the wake

of the marching sun, and now, with light fading, it was trapped in the glade before the

Faces in the Rock. Like a breath of the gods, soon to seep into the rotting soil.

There was no doubt in Karsa's mind that Urugal was present, as close behind the

stone skin of his face as he had ever been. Drawn by the power of Karsa's vow, by the

promise of a return to glory. So too hovered the other gods. Beroke Soft Voice, Kahlb

the Silent Hunter, Thenik the Shattered, Halad Rack Bearer, Imroth the Cruel and 'Siballe

the Unfound, all awakened once more and eager for blood.

And I have but just begun on this path. Newly arrived to my eightieth year of life,

finally a warrior in truth. I have heard the oldest words, the whispers, of the One, who

will unite the Teblor, who will bind the clans one and all and lead them into the lowlands

and so begin the War of the People. These whispers, they are the voice of promise, and

that voice is mine.

Hidden birds announced the coming of dusk. It was time to leave.

Delum and Bairoth awaited him in the village. And Dayliss, silent yet holding to the

words she would speak to him.

Bairoth will be furious.

The pocket of warm air in the glade lingered long after Karsa Orlong's departure. The

soft, boggy soil was slow to yield the imprint of his knees, his moccasined feet, and the

sun's deepening glare continued to paint the harsh features of the gods even as shadows

filled the glade itself.

Seven figures rose from the ground, skin wrinkled and stained dark brown over

withered muscles and heavy bones, hair red as ochre and dripping stagnant, black water.

Some were missing limbs, others stood on splintered, shattered or mangled legs. One

lacked a lower jaw while another's left cheekbone and brow were crushed flat,

obliterating the eye-socket. Each of the seven, broken in some way. Imperfect.

Flawed.

Somewhere behind the wall of rock was a sealed cavern that had been their tomb for

a span of centuries, a short-lived imprisonment as it turned out. None had expected their

resurrection. Too shattered to remain with their kin, they had been left behind, as was

the custom of their kind. Failure's sentence was abandonment, an eternity of immobility.

When failure was honourable, their sentient remnants would be placed open to the sky,

to vistas, to the outside world, so that they might find peace in watching the passing of

eons. But, for these seven, failure had not been honourable. Thus, the darkness of a

tomb had been their sentence. They had felt no bitterness at that.

That dark gift came later, from outside their unlit prison, and with it, opportunity.

All that was required was the breaking of a vow, and the swearing of fealty to

another. The reward: rebirth, and freedom.

Their kin had marked this place of internment, with carved faces each a likeness,

mocking the vista with blank, blind eyes. They had spoken their names to close the ritual

of binding, names that lingered in this place with a power sufficient to twist the minds of

the shamans of the people who had found refuge in these mountains, and on the plateau

with the ancient name of Laederon.

The seven were silent and motionless in the glade as the dusk deepened. Six were

waiting for one to speak, yet that one was in no hurry. Freedom was raw exultation and,

even limited as it was to this glade, the emotion persisted still. It would not be long,

now, until that freedom would break free of its last chains - the truncated range of vision

from the eye-sockets carved into the rock. Service to the new master promised travel, an

entire world to rediscover and countless deaths to deliver.

Urual, whose name meant Mossy Bone and who was known to the Teblor as Urugal,

finally spoke. 'He will suffice.'

Sin'b'alle - Lichen For Moss - who was 'Siballe the Unfound, did not hide the

scepticism in her voice. 'You place too much faith in these fallen Teblor.

Teblor. They

know naught, even their true name.'

'Be glad that they do not,' said Ber'ok, his voice a rough rasp through a crushed

throat. Neck twisted and head leaning to one side, he was forced to turn his entire body

to stare at the rock-face. 'In any case, you have your own children, Sin'b'alle, who are

the bearers of the truth. For the others, lost history is best left lost, for our purposes.

Their ignorance is our greatest weapon.'

'Dead Ash Tree speaks the truth,' Urual said. 'We could not have so twisted their faith

were they cognizant of their legacy.'

Sin'b'alle shrugged disdainfully. 'The one named Pahlk also…

sufficed. In your

opinion, Urual. A worthy prospect to lead my children, it seemed. Yet he failed.'

'Our fault, not his,' Haran'alle growled. 'We were impatient, too confident of our

efficacy. Sundering the Vow stole much of our power—'

'Yet what has our new master given of his, Antler From Summer?' Thek 1st

demanded. 'Naught but a trickle.'

'And what do you expect?' Urual enquired in a quiet tone. 'He recovers from his

ordeals as we do from ours.'

Emroth spoke, her voice like silk. 'So you believe, Mossy Bone, that this grandson of

Pahlk will carve for us our path to freedom.'

'I do.'

'And if we are disappointed yet again?'

'Then we begin anew. Bairoth's child in Dayliss's womb.'

Emroth hissed. 'Another century of waiting! Damn these long-lived Teblor!'

'A century is as nothing—'

'As nothing, yet as everything, Mossy Bone! And you know precisely what I mean.'

Urual studied the woman, who was aptly named Fanged Skeleton, recalling her

Soletaken proclivities, and its hunger that had so clearly led to their failure so long ago.

'The year of my name has returned,' he said. 'Among us all, who has led a clan of the

Teblor as far along our path as I have? You, Fanged Skeleton? Lichen For Moss? Spear

Leg?'

No-one spoke.

Then finally Dead Ash Tree made a sound that might have been a soft laugh. 'We are

as Red Moss, silent. The way

will be opened. So our new master has promised. He finds

his power. Urual's chosen warrior already possesses a score of souls in his slayer's train.

Teblor souls at that. Recall, also, that Pahlk journeyed alone. Yet Karsa shall have two

formidable warriors flanking him. Should he die, there is always

Bairoth, or Delum.'

'Bairoth is too clever,' Emroth snarled. 'He takes after Pahlk's son, his uncle. Worse,

his ambition is only for himself. He feigns to follow Karsa, yet has his hand on Karsa's

back.'

'And mine on his,' Urual murmured. 'Night is almost upon us. We must return to our

tomb.' The ancient warrior turned. 'Fanged Skeleton, remain close to the child in

Dayliss's womb.'

'She feeds from my breast even now,' Emroth asserted.

'A girl-child?'

'In flesh only. What I make within is neither a girl, nor a child.'

'Good.'

The seven figures returned to the earth as the first stars of night blinked awake in the

sky overhead. Blinked awake, and looked down upon a glade where no gods dwelt.

Where no gods had ever dwelt.

The village was situated on the stony bank of Laderü River, a mountain-fed, torrential

flow of bitter-cold water that cut a valley through the conifer forest on its way down to

some distant sea. The houses were built with boulder foundations and rough-hewn cedar

walls, the roofs thick-matted, humped and overgrown with moss. Along the bank rose

latticed frames thick with strips of drying fish. Beyond a fringe of woods, clearings had

been cut to provide pasture for horses.

Mist-dimmed firelight flickered through the trees as Karsa reached his father's house,

passing the dozen horses standing silent and motionless in the glade. Their only threat

came from raiders, for these beasts were bred killers and the mountain wolves had long

since learned to avoid the huge animals. Occasionally a rust-collared bear would venture

down from its mountain haunt, but this usually coincided with salmon runs and the

creatures showed little interest in challenging the horses, the village's dogs, or its fearless

warriors.

Synyg was in the training kraal, grooming Havok, his prized destrier. Karsa could feel

the animal's heat as he approached, though it was little more than a black mass in the

darkness. 'Red Eye still wanders loose,' Karsa growled. 'You will do nothing for your

son?'

His father continued grooming Havok. 'Red Eye is too young for such a journey, as I

have said before—'

'Yet he is mine, and so I shall ride him.'

'No. He lacks independence, and has not yet ridden with the mounts of Bairoth and

Delum. You will lodge a thorn in his nerves.'

'So I am to walk?'

'I give you Havok, my son. He has been softly run this night and still wears the

bridle. Go collect your gear, before he cools too much.'

Karsa said nothing. He was in truth astonished. He swung about and made his way to

the house. His father had slung his pack from a ridgepole near the doorway to keep it

dry. His bloodwood sword hung in its harness beside it, newly oiled, the Uryd warcrest

freshly painted on the broad blade. Karsa drew the weapon down and strapped the

harness in place, the sword's leather-wrapped two-handed grip jutting over his left

shoulder. The pack would ride Havok's shoulders, affixed to the stirrup-rig, though

Karsa's knees would take most of the weight.

Teblor horse-trappings did not include a rider's seat; a warrior rode against flesh,

stirrups high, the bulk of his weight directly behind the mount's shoulders. Lowlander

trophies included saddles, which revealed, when positioned on the smaller lowlander

horses, a clear shifting of weight to the back. But a true destrier needed its hindquarters

free of extra weight, to ensure the swiftness of its kicks. More, a warrior must needs

protect his mount's neck and head, with sword and, if necessary, vambraced forearms.

Karsa returned to where his father and Havok waited.

'Bairoth and Delum await you at the ford,' Synyg said.

'Dayliss?'

Karsa could see nothing of his father's expression as he replied tone-lessly, 'Dayliss

voiced her blessing to Bairoth after you'd set out for the Faces in the Rock.'

'She blessed Bairoth?'

'She did.'

'It seems I misjudged her,' Karsa said, struggling against an unfamiliar stricture that

tightened his voice.

'Easy to do, for she is a woman.'

'And you, Father? Will you give me your blessing?'

Synyg handed Karsa the lone rein and turned away. 'Pahlk has already done so. Be

satisfied with that.'

'Pahlk is not my father!'

Synyg paused in the darkness, seemed to consider, then said, 'No, he is not.'

'Then will you bless me?'

'What would you have me bless, son? The Seven Gods who are a lie? The glory that

is empty? Will I be pleased in your slaying of children? In the trophies you will tie to

your belt? My father, Pahlk, would polish bright his own youth, for he is of that age.

What were his words of blessing, Karsa? That you surpass his achievements? I imagine

not. Consider his words carefully, and I expect you will find that they served him more

than you.'

'"Pahlk, Finder of the Path that you shall follow, blesses your journey." Such were his

words.'

Synyg was silent for a moment, and when he spoke his son could hear the grim

smile though he could not see it. 'As I said.'

'Mother would have blessed me,' Karsa snapped.

'As a mother must. But her heart would have been heavy. Go, then, son. Your

companions await you.'

With a snarl, Karsa swung himself onto the destrier's broad back. Havok swung his

head about at the unfamiliar seating, then snorted.

Synyg spoke from the gloom. 'He dislikes carrying anger. Calm yourself, son.'

'A warhorse afraid of anger is next to useless. Havok shall have to learn who rides

him now.' At that, Karsa drew a leg back and with a flick of the single rein swung the

destrier smartly round. A gesture with his rein hand sent the horse forward onto the

trail.

Four blood-posts, each marking one of Karsa's sacrificed siblings, lined the path

leading to the village. Unlike others, Synyg had left the carved posts unadorned; he had

only gone so far as to cut the glyphs naming his three sons and one daughter given to

the Faces in the Rock, followed by a splash of kin blood which had not lasted much

beyond the first rain. Instead of braids winding up the man-high posts to a feathered

and gut-knotted headdress at the peak, only vines entwined the weathered wood, and

the blunted top was smeared with bird droppings.

Karsa knew the memory of his siblings deserved more, and he resolved to carry their

names close to his lips at the moment of attack, that he might slay with their cries sharp

in the air. His voice would be their voice, when that time arrived. They had suffered their

father's neglect for far too long.

The trail widened, flanked by old stumps and low-spreading juniper. Ahead, the lurid

glare of hearths amidst dark, squat, conical houses glimmered through the woodsmoke

haze. Near one of those firepits waited two mounted figures. A third shape, on foot,

stood wrapped in furs to one side.

Dayliss. She blessed Bairoth Gild, and now comes to

see him off.

Karsa rode up to them, holding Havok back to a lazy lope. He was the leader, and he

would make the truth of that plain. Bairoth and Delum awaited him, after all, and which

of the three had gone to the

Faces in the Rock? Dayliss had blessed a follower. Had Karsa held himself too aloof?

Yet such was the burden of those who commanded. She must have understood that. It

made no sense.

He halted his horse before them, was silent.

Bairoth was a heavier man, though not as tall as Karsa or, indeed, Delum. He

possessed a bear-like quality that he had long since recognized and had come to

self-consciously affect. He rolled his shoulders now, as if loosening them for the journey,

and grinned. 'A bold beginning, brother,' he rumbled,'the theft of your father's horse.'

'I did not steal him, Bairoth. Synyg gave me both Havok and his blessing.'

'A night of miracles, it seems. And did Urugal stride out from the rock to kiss your

brow as well, Karsa Orlong?'

Dayliss snorted at that.

If he had indeed stridden onto mortal ground, he would have found but one of us

three standing before him. To Bairoth's jibe Karsa said nothing. He slowly swung his

gaze to Dayliss. 'You have blessed Bairoth?'

Her shrug was dismissive.

'I grieve,' Karsa said, 'your loss of courage.'

Her eyes snapped to his with sudden fury.

Smiling, Karsa turned back to Bairoth and Delum.' "The stars wheel. Let us ride."'

But Bairoth ignored the words and instead of voicing the ritual reply he growled, 'll1

chosen, to unleash your wounded pride on her. Dayliss is to be my wife upon our return.

To strike at her is to strike at me.'

Karsa went motionless. 'But Bairoth,' he said, low and smooth, 'I strike where I will.

A failing of courage can spread like a disease - has her blessing settled upon you as a

curse? I am warleader. I invite you to challenge me, now, before we quit our home.'

Steven Erikson - Malazan Book of the Fallen 04 - House of Chains

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: