Steven Erikson - House of Chains

‘Wise words,’ Malachar observed.

‘A brief stay in our realm,’ Jorrude continued, ‘to resupply and requisition new horses, along with repairs and such, seems to reasonably obtain in this instance.’

‘Truly judged, brother.’

From the other side of the crater sounded another cough.

At least, Jorrude dourly reflected, they were all still alive.

It’s all the dragon’s fault, in fact. Who would refute that?

They rode into the sandstorm, less than fifty strides behind the fleeing horse warriors, and found themselves floundering blind in a maelstrom of shrieking winds and whipping gravel.

Fiddler heard a horse scream.

He drew hard on his own reins, the wind hammering at him from all sides. Already he’d lost sight of his companions. This is wide-eyed stupid .

Now, if I was the commander of those bastards, I’d -

And suddenly figures flashed into view, scimitars and round shields, swathed faces and ululating warcries. Fiddler threw himself down against his horse’s withers as a heavy blade slashed, slicing through sand-filled air where his head had been a moment earlier.

The Wickan mare lunged forward and to one side, choosing this precise moment to buck its hated rider from the saddle.

With profound success.

Fiddler found himself flying forward, his bag of munitions rolling up his back, then up over his head.

Still in mid-air, but angling down to the ground, he curled himself into a tight ball-though he well knew, in that instant, that there was no hope of surviving. No hope at all. Then he pounded into the sand, and rolled-to see, upside-down, a huge hook-bladed sword spinning end over end across his own wake. And a stumbling horse. And its rider, a warrior thrown far back on his saddle-with the munition bag wrapped in his arms.

A surprised look beneath the ornate helm-then rider, horse and munitions vanished into the whirling sands.

Fiddler clambered to his feet and began running. Sprinting, in what he hoped-what he prayed-was the opposite direction.

A hand snagged his harness from behind. ‘Not that way, you fool!’

And he was yanked to one side, flung to the ground, and a body landed on top of him.

The sergeant’s face was pushed into the sand and held there.

Corabb bellowed. The bulky, heavy sack was hissing in his arms. As if filled with snakes. It had clunked hard against his chest, arriving like a flung boulder out of the storm, and he’d time only to toss his sword away and raise both arms.

The impact threw him onto the horse’s rump, but his feet stayed in the stirrups.

The bag’s momentum carried it over his face, and the hissing filled his ears.

Snakes!

He slid on his back down one side of the mount’s heaving hindquarters, letting the bag’s weight pull his arms with it. Don’t panic ! He screamed.

Snakes!

The bag tugged in his hands as it brushed the ground.

He held his breath, then let go.

Tumbling clunks, a burst of frenzied hissing-then the horse’s forward charge carried him blissfully away.

He struggled to right himself, his leg and stomach muscles fiercely straining, and finally was able to grasp the horn and pull himself straight.

One pass, Leoman had said. Then wheel and into the storm’s heart.

He’d done that much. One pass. Enough.

Time to flee.

Corabb Bhilan Thun’alas leaned forward, and bared muddy teeth.

Spirits below, it is good to be alive!

The detonation should have killed Fiddler. There was fire. Towering walls of sand. The air concussed, and his breath was torn from his lungs even as blood spurted from his nose and both ears.

And the body lying atop him seemed to wither in shreds.

He’d recognized the voice. It was impossible. It was… infuriating.

Hot smoke rolled over them.

And that damned voice whispered, ‘Can’t leave you on your own for a Hood-damned minute, can I? Say hello to Kalam for me, will ya? I’ll see you again, sooner or later. And you’ll see me, too. You’ll see us all.’ A laugh. ‘Just not today. Damned shame ’bout your fiddle, though.’

The weight vanished.

Fiddler rolled over. The storm was tumbling away, leaving a white haze in its wake. He groped with his hands.

A terrible, ragged moan ripped from his throat, and he lifted himself onto his knees. ‘Hedge!’ he screamed. ‘Damn you! Hedge !’

Someone jogged into view, settled down beside him. ‘Slamming gates, Fid-you’re Hood-damned alive!’

He stared at the man’s battered face, then recognized it. ‘Cuttle? He was here. He-you’re covered in blood-’

‘Aye. I wasn’t as close as you. Luckily. ’Fraid I can’t say the same for Ranal. Someone had taken down his horse. He was stumbling around.’

‘That blood-’

‘Aye,’ Cuttle said again, then flashed a hard grin. ‘I’m wearing Ranal.’

Shouts, and other figures were closing in. Every one of them on foot.

‘-killed the horses. Bastards went and-’

‘Sergeant! You all right? Bottle, get over here-’

‘Killed the-’

‘Be quiet, Smiles, you’re making me sick. Did you hear that blast? Gods below-’

Cuttle clapped Fiddler on one shoulder, then dragged him to his feet.

‘Where’s the lieutenant?’ Koryk asked.

‘Right here,’ Cuttle answered, but did not elaborate.

He’s wearing Ranal.

‘What just happened?’ Koryk asked.

Fiddler studied his squad. All here. That’s a wonder .

Cuttle spat. ‘What happened, lad? We got slapped down. That’s what happened. Slapped down hard.’

Fiddler stared at the retreating storm. Aw, shit. Hedge .

‘Here comes Borduke’s squad!’

‘Find your horses, everyone,’ Corporal Tarr said. ‘Sergeant’s been knocked about. Collect whatever you can salvage-we gotta wait for the rest of the company, I reckon.’

Good lad.

‘Look at that crater,’ Smiles said. ‘Gods, Sergeant, you couldn’t have been much closer to Hood’s Gate and lived, could you?’

He stared at her. ‘You’ve no idea how right you are, lass.’

And the song rose and fell, and he could feel his heart matching that cadence. Ebb and flow. Raraku has swallowed more tears than can be imagined. Now comes the time for the Holy Desert to weep . Ebb and flow, his blood’s song, and it lived on.

It lives on.

They had fled in the wrong direction. Fatal, but unsurprising. The night had been a shambles. The last survivor of Korbolo Dom’s cadre of mages, Fayelle rode a lathered horse in the company of thirteen other Dogslayers down the channel of a long-dead river, boulders and banks high on either side.

Herself and thirteen battered, bloodied soldiers. All that was left.

The clash with Leoman had begun well enough, a perfectly sprung ambush. And would have ended perfectly, as well.

If not for the damned ghosts.

Ambush turned over, onto its back like an upended tortoise. They’d been lucky to get out with their lives, these few. These last.

Fayelle well knew what had happened to the rest of Korbolo’s army. She had felt Henaras’s death. And Kamist Reloe’s.

And Raraku was not finished with them. Oh no. Not at all finished.

They reached a slope leading out of the defile.

She had few regrets-

Crossbow quarrels whizzed down. Horses and soldiers screamed. Bodies thumped onto the ground. Her horse staggered, then rolled onto its side. She’d no time to kick free of the stirrups, and as the dying beast pinned her leg its weight tore the joint from her hip, sending pain thundering through her. Her left arm was trapped awkwardly beneath her as her own considerable weight struck the ground-and bones snapped.