House of Chains

Borduke crawled up to Joyful Union and came as close as was possible without being stung, his face almost inside the small box. Since that draped the motionless creature in shadow he cursed and leaned back slightly. ‘I should know about scorpions, shouldn’t I? But all I ever do is stamp on them-like any sane man would do. Sure, I knew a whore once who kept one on a thong about her neck, as golden as the skin of her breasts-tender nipples, you see, and she didn’t like them manhandled-’



‘Get on with it,’ Gesler snapped.



‘Don’t rush me. I don’t like being rushed.’



‘All right, I won’t rush you. Just swear your damned vow before my heart flies out to fill my breeches.’



‘I, Borduke of the 6th squad in the 9th Company of the 8th Legion, swear on the downy belly of the Queen of Dreams that the creature before me is a natural, unaltered Birdshit scorpion, and may my father’s ghost remain in its tomb, since the inheritance was mine to lose anyway, right? Dead means you don’t care any more, right? It had better, because if it doesn’t, then I’m doomed to paternal haunting for the rest of my days.’



‘The worst kind,’ Lutes muttered.



‘Another word from you, soldier,’ Borduke growled, moving back into the circle, ‘and I’ll make you the only one smiling later tonight.’



‘Besides,’ Balgrid said, ‘it ain’t the worst kind. Maternal haunting-now that’s a killer. How long can a man stand being seven years old?’



‘Will you two be quiet!’ Borduke snarled, his large-knuckled fingers clutching as if squeezing invisible throats.



‘We ready?’ Fiddler quietly asked.



‘She’ll hide, won’t she?’ Gesler demanded. ‘Wait till the other two have chopped and stabbed each other up before pouncing on the mangled survivor! That’s it, isn’t it? Her jelly brains are purer than theirs, purer and smarter, aren’t they?’



Fiddler shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t know about that, Gesler. Are you done?’



The bronzed-hued marine settled back, the muscles of his jaw bunching.



‘How’s the word-line, Cuttle?’



‘Been repeating every word since we first settled, Fid,’ the sapper replied.



‘And so legends were born,’ Koryk rumbled with facetious portent.



‘Into the arena, then,’ Fiddler instructed.



The boxes were gingerly lifted and held over the arena.



‘Equidistant? Good. Tip ’em, lads.’



Mangonel was the first to land, tail arched and pincers out as it scuttled close to the knife-edge barrier, upon which, a hair’s breadth from the iron blades, it halted and then backed away, its carapace flushing red with its characteristic mindless rage. Clawmaster was next, seeming to leap down ready for war, fluids racing beneath its amber-tinted shell.



Joyful Union came last, slow and measured, so low on the sand as to seem belly-down. Pincers tucked away, tail curled to port and quiescent. Dwarfed by the other two scorpions, its black shell somewhere between glossy and flat. Its multiple legs scuttled it forward slightly, then it froze.



Gesler hissed. ‘If she plucks a couple knives from the ring and uses ’em, I’m going to kill you, Fid.’



‘No need,’ Fiddler replied, his attention divided between what was going on in the arena and Ibb’s running commentary, the man’s voice harsh with tension as he waxed creative in describing what had, up to now, been essentially nothing worth comment.



That suddenly changed as three things occurred almost simultaneously. Joyful Union sauntered into the middle of the arena. Mangonel’s assortment of natural weapons all cocked in unison, even as the creature began backing up, its shell turning fiery red. Clawmaster suddenly wheeled and darted straight at the nearest wall of blades, halting a moment before impact, pincers waving wildly.



‘He wants mommy, looks like, Hubb,’ Koryk drily observed.



Clawmaster’s Holder softly whimpered in answer.



Then, after a frozen moment from all three scorpions, Joyful Union finally lifted its tail.



Upon which, all but Fiddler stared in utter disbelief, as Joyful Union seemed to… split . Horizontally. Into two identical, but thinner, flatter scorpions. That then raced outward, one to Mangonel, the other to Clawmaster-each like a village mongrel charging a bull bhederin, so extreme their comparative sizes.



Red-backed Bastard and In Out both did their best, but were no match in speed, nor ferocity, as tiny pincers snipped-audibly-through legs, through tail, through arm-joints, then, with the larger creature immobile and helpless, a casual, almost delicate stab of stinger.