House of Chains

The mud covering Gamet’s leather-clad legs was drying to a stiff, crack-latticed skin that shed dust as he clambered in Tavore’s wake. He was breathing hard, his undergarments soaked with sweat.



They reached the summit, emerging once more into sunlight. A brisk, hot wind swept the barren, flat rock. A ring of stones on a lower shelf, on what passed for the lee side, marked where a hearth or watch-fire had once been constructed, possibly at the time of the Chain of Dogs.



The Adjunct wiped dust from her gloves, then strode to the north edge. After a moment, Gamet followed.



The city of Ubaryd was visible, dun-coloured and sheathed in smoke, to the northeast. Beyond it glittered the Dojal Hading Sea. The city’s harbour was crowded with ships.



‘Admiral Nok,’ the Adjunct said.



‘He’s retaken Ubaryd, then.’



‘Where we will resupply, yes.’ Then she pointed northward. ‘There, Gamet. Do you see it?’



He squinted, wondering what he was supposed to look at across the vast wasteland that was the Ubaryd Odhan. Then the breath hissed between his teeth.



A fiery wall of red on the horizon, as if a second sun was setting.



‘The Whirlwind,’ Tavore said.



Suddenly, the wind was much colder, pushing hard against Gamet where he stood.



‘Beyond it,’ the Adjunct continued, ‘waits our enemy. Tell me, do you think Sha’ik will contest our approach?’



‘She would be a fool not to,’ he replied.



‘Are you certain of that? Would she rather not face unblooded recruits?’



‘It is a huge gamble, Adjunct. The march alone will have hardened the Fourteenth. Were I her, I would prefer to face a battle-weary, bruised enemy. An enemy burdened with wounded, with a shortage of arrows, horses and whatnot. And by that time of final meeting, I would also have learned something of you, Adjunct. Your tactics. As it is, Sha’ik has no way to take your measure.’



‘Yes. Curious, isn’t it? Either she is indifferent to me, or she feels she has already taken my measure-which of course is impossible. Even assuming she has spies in our army, thus far I have done little more than ensure that we march in an organized fashion.’



Spies? Gods below, I hadn’t even considered that!



Neither spoke for a time, each lost in their own thoughts as they stared northward.



The sun was vanishing on their left.



But the Whirlwind held its own fire.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN



Power has voice, and that voice is the Song of the Tanno Spiritwalker.



Kimloc

He awoke to a faint, damp nuzzling against his side. eyes slowly opened, head tilted downward, to see a bhok’aral pup, patchy with some sort of skin infection, curled against his stomach.



Kalam sat up, suppressing the urge to grab the creature by the neck and fling it against a wall. Compassion was not the consideration, of course. Rather, it was the fact that this subterranean temple was home to hundreds, perhaps even thousands of bhok’arala, and the creatures possessed a complex social structure-harm this pup and Kalam might find himself beneath a swarm of bull males. And small as the beasts were, they had canines to rival a bear’s. Even so, he fought to contain his revulsion as he gently pushed the mottled pup away.



It mewled pathetically and looked up at him with huge, liquid eyes.



‘Don’t even try,’ the assassin muttered, slipping free of the furs and rising. Flecks of mouldy skin covered his midriff, and the thin woollen shirt was sodden from the pup’s runny nose. Kalam removed the shirt and flung it into a corner of the small chamber.



He’d not seen Iskaral Pust in over a week. Apart from occasional tingling sensations at the tips of his fingers and toes, he was more or less recovered from the enkar’al demon’s attack. Kalam had delivered the diamonds and was now chafing to leave.



Faint singing echoed from the hallway. The assassin shook his head. Maybe one day Mogora will get it right, but in the meantime… gods below, it grates ! He strode to his tattered backpack and rummaged inside until he found a spare shirt.



Sudden thumping sounded outside his door, and he turned in time to see it flung open. Mogora stood framed in the doorway, a wooden bucket in one hand, a mop in the other. ‘Was he here? Just now? Was he here? Tell me!’



‘I haven’t seen him in days,’ Kalam replied.



‘He has to clean the kitchen!’



‘Is this all you do, Mogora? Chase after Iskaral Fust’s shadow?’



‘ All !’ The word was a shriek. She stormed up to him, mop thrust forward like a weapon. ‘Am I the only one using the kitchen! No!’