House of Chains

They settled down side by side to resume studying the army below.



‘These ones could maul us,’ the sergeant muttered. ‘Then again, they’re riding so tight it makes me wonder…’



Cuttle grunted, eyes thinned to slits. ‘Something’s gnawing my knuckles here, Fid. They know we’re close, but they ain’t arrayed for battle. They should’ve held back until night, then hit all along our line. And where are their scouts, anyway?’



‘Well, those outriders-’



‘Way too close. Local tribes here know better-’



A sudden scattering of stones and Strings and Cuttle twisted round-to see riders cresting the ridge on either side of them, and others cantering into view on the back-slope, closing on his squad.



‘Hood take us! Where did-’



Yipping warcries sounded, weapons waving in the air, yet the horse warriors then drew rein, rising in their stirrups as they surrounded the squad.



Frowning, Strings clambered to his feet. A glance back at the army below showed a vanguard climbing the slope at a canter. The sergeant met Cuttle’s eyes and shrugged.



The sapper grimaced in reply.



Escorted by the riders on the ridge, the two soldiers made their way down to where Tarr and Koryk stood. Both had their crossbows loaded, though no longer trained on the tribesmen wheeling their mounts in a prancing circle around them. Further down the ridge Strings saw Gesler and his squad appear, along with Bottle; and their own company of horse warriors.



‘Cuttle,’ the sergeant muttered, ‘did you clash with these anywhere north of the River Vathar?’



‘No. But I think I know who they are.’



None of these scouts wore bronze armour. The grey hide beneath their desert-coloured cloaks and furs looked strangely reptilian. Crow wings had been affixed to their forearms, like swept-back fins. Their faces were pale by local standards, unusual in being bearded and long-moustached. Tattoos of black tears ran down the lengths of their weathered cheeks.



Apart from lances, fur-covered wooden scabbards were slung across their backs, holding heavy-bladed tulwars. All had crow-feet earrings dangling from under their helms.



The tribe’s vanguard reached the crest above them and drew to a halt, as, on the opposite side, there appeared a company of Wickans, Seti and Malazan officers.



Beru fend, the Adjunct herself’s with them . Also Fist Gamet, Nil, Nether and Temul, as well as Captain Keneb and Lieutenant Ranal.



The two mounted forces faced one another on either side of the shallow gully, and Strings could see Temul visibly start, then lean over to speak to the Adjunct. A moment later, Tavore, Gamet and Temul rode forward.



From the tribe’s vanguard a single rider began the descent on the back-slope. A chieftain, Strings surmised. The man was huge; two tulwars were strapped to a harness crossing his chest, one of them broken just above the hilt. The black tears tattooed down his broad cheeks looked to have been gouged into the flesh. He rode down fairly close to where Strings and Cuttle stood and paused beside them.



He nodded towards the approaching group and asked in rough Malazan, ‘This is the Plain Woman who leads you?’



Strings winced, then nodded. ‘Adjunct Tavore, aye.’



‘We have met the Kherahn Dhobri,’ the chieftain said, then smiled. ‘They will harass you no more, Malazan.’



Tavore and her officers arrived, halting five paces away. The Adjunct spoke. ‘I welcome you, Warchief of the Khundryl. I am Adjunct Tavore Paran, commander of the Fourteenth Army of the Malazan Empire.’



‘I am Gall, and we are the Burned Tears of the Khundryl.’



‘The Burned Tears?’



The man made a gesture of grief. ‘Blackwing, leader of the Wickans. I spoke with him. My warriors sought to challenge, to see who were the greatest warriors of all. We fought hard, but we were humbled. Blackwing is dead, his clan destroyed, and Korbolo Dom’s Dogslayers dance on his name. That must be answered, and so we have come. Three thousand-all that fought for Blackwing the first time. We are changed, Adjunct. We are other than we once were. We grieve the loss of ourselves, and so we shall remain lost, for all time.’



‘Your words sadden me, Gall,’ Tavore replied, her voice shaky.



Careful now, lass…



‘We would join you,’ the Khundryl warchief rasped, ‘for we have nowhere else to go. The walls of our yurts look strange to our eyes. The faces of our wives, husbands, children-all those we once loved and who once loved us-strangers, now. Like Blackwing himself, we are as ghosts in this world, in this land that was once our home.’



‘You would join us-to fight under my command, Gall?’