Karsa struggled, seeking to flee, but he was surrounded. The very bones at his feet held him fast, clattering and shifting tighter about his ankles.
A hiss, a susurration of voices through rotting throats. ‘Lead us, Warleader.’
He shrieked.
‘Lead us, Warleader.’
Climbing closer, arms reaching up, nails clawing the air-
A hand closed about his ankle.
Karsa’s head snapped back, struck wood with a resounding crunch. He gulped air that slid like sand down his throat, choking him. Eyes opening, he saw before him the gently pitching decks of the ship, figures standing motionless, staring at him.
He coughed behind his gag, each convulsion a rage of fire in his lungs. His throat felt torn, and he realized that he had been screaming. Enough to spasm his muscles so they now clenched tight, cutting off the flow of his air passages.
He was dying.
The whisper of a voice deep in his mind: Perhaps we will not abandon you, yet. Breathe, Karsa Orlong. Unless, of course, you wish to once more meet your dead.
Breathe.
Someone snatched the gag from his mouth. Cold air flooded his lungs.
Through watering eyes, Karsa stared down at Torvald Nom. The Daru was barely recognizable, so dark was his skin, so thick and matted his beard. He had used the very chains holding Karsa to climb up within reach of the gag, and was now shouting unintelligible words the Teblor barely heard-words flung back at the frozen, fear-stricken Malazans.
Karsa’s eyes finally made note of the sky beyond the ship’s prow. There were colours there, amidst churning clouds, flashing and blossoming, swirls bleeding out from what seemed huge, open wounds. The storm-if that was what it was-commanded the entire sky ahead. And then he saw the chains, snapping down through the clouds to crack thunderously on the horizon. Hundreds of chains, impossibly huge, black, whipping in the air with explosions of red dust, crisscrossing the sky. Horror filled his soul.
There was no wind. The sails hung limp. The ship lolled on lazy, turgid seas. And the storm was coming.
A sailor approached with a tin cup filled with water, lifted it up to Torvald, who took it and brought it to Karsa’s scabbed, crusted lips. The brackish liquid entered his mouth, burning like acid. He drew his head away from the cup.
Torvald was speaking in low tones, words that slowly grew comprehensible to Karsa. ‘… long lost to us. Only your beating heart and the rise and fall of your chest told us you still lived. It has been weeks and weeks, my friend. You’d keep hardly anything down. There’s almost nothing left of you-you’re showing bones where no bones should be.
‘And then this damned becalming. Day after day. Not a cloud in the sky… until three bells past. Three bells, when you stirred, Karsa Orlong. When you tilted your head back and began screaming behind your gag. Here, more water-you must drink.
‘Karsa, they’re saying you’ve called this storm. Do you understand? They want you to send it away-they’ll do anything, they’ll unchain you, set you free. Anything, friend, anything at all-just send this unholy storm away. Do you understand?’
Ahead, he could see now, the seas were exploding with each lash of the black, monstrous chains, twisting spouts of water skyward as each chain retreated upward once more. The billowing, heaving clouds seemed to lean forward over the ocean, closing on their position from all sides now.
Karsa saw the Malazan captain descend from the foredeck, the blue-tinged skin on his face a sickly greyish hue. ‘This is no Mael-blessed squall, Daru, meaning it don’t belong.’ He jerked a trembling finger at Karsa. ‘Tell him he’s running out of time. Tell him to send it away. Once he does that, we can negotiate. Tell him, damn you!’
‘I have been, Captain!’ Torvald retorted. ‘But how in Hood’s name do you expect him to send anything away when I’m not even sure he knows where he is? Worse, we don’t even know for sure if he’s responsible!’
‘Let’s see, shall we?’ The captain spun round, gestured. A score of crewmen rushed forward, axes in hand.
Torvald was dragged down and thrown to the deck.
The axes chopped through the heavy ropes binding the platform to the mast. More crew came forward then. A ramp was laid out, angled up to the starboard gunnel. Log rollers were positioned beneath the platform as it was roughly lowered.
‘Wait!’ Torvald cried out. ‘You can’t-’
‘We can,’ the captain growled.
‘At least unchain him!’
‘Not a chance, Torvald.’ The captain grabbed a passing sailor by the arm. ‘Find everything this giant owned-all that stuff confiscated from the slavemaster. It’s all going with him. Hurry, damn you!’
Chains ripped the seas on all sides close enough to lift spray over the ship, each detonation causing hull, masts and rigging to tremble.
Karsa stared up at the tumbling stormclouds as the platform was dragged along the rollers, up the ramp.
‘Those chains will sink it!’ Torvald said.
‘Maybe, maybe not.’
‘What if it lands wrong way up?’
‘Then he drowns, and Mael can have him.’
‘Karsa! Damn you! Cease playing your game of mindlessness! Say something!’
The warrior croaked out two words, but the noise that came from his lips was unintelligible even to him.
‘What did he say?’ the captain demanded.
‘I don’t know!’ Torvald screamed. ‘Karsa, damn you, try again!’
He did, yielding the same guttural noise. He began repeating the same two words, over and over again, as the sailors pushed and pulled the platform up onto the gunnel until it was balanced precariously, half over the deck, half over the sea.
Directly above them, as he uttered his two words once more, Karsa watched the last patch of clear sky vanish, like the closing of a tunnel mouth. A sudden plunge into darkness, and Karsa knew it was too late, even as, in the sudden terror-stricken silence, his words came out clear and audible.
‘Go away.’
From overhead, chains snapped down, massive, plunging, reaching directly for-it seemed-Karsa’s own chest.
A blinding flash, a detonation, the splintering crackle of masts toppling, spars and rigging crashing down. The entire ship was falling away beneath Karsa, beneath the platform itself, which slid wildly down the length of the gunnel before crunching against the foredeck railing, pivoting, then plunging for the waves below.
He stared down at the water’s sickly green, heaving surface.
The entire platform shuddered in its fall as the cargo ship’s hull rolled up and struck its edge.
Karsa caught an upside-down glimpse of the ship-its deck torn open by the impact of the huge chains, its three masts gone, the twisted forms of sailors visible in the wreckage-then he was staring up at the sky, at a virulent, massive wound directly overhead.
A fierce impact, then darkness.
His eyes opened to a faint gloom, the desultory lap of waves, the sodden boards beneath him creaking as the platform rocked to someone else’s movement. Thumps; low, gasping mutters.
The Teblor groaned. The joints of every limb felt torn inside.
‘Karsa?’ Torvald Nom crawled into view.
‘What-what has happened?’
The shackles remained on the Daru’s wrists, the chains connected on the other end to arm-length, roughly broken fragments of the deck. ‘Easy for you, sleeping through all the hard work,’ he grumbled as he moved into a sitting position, pulling his arms around his knees. ‘This sea’s a lot colder than you’d think, and these chains didn’t help. I’ve nearly drowned a dozen times, but you’ll be glad to know we now have three water casks and a bundle of something that might be food-I’ve yet to untie its bindings. Oh, and your sword and armour, both of which float, of course.’