iwillberunningfromdemons

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Karsa Orlong

His maddest fight was with those hounds of darkness. I was bewildered and stunned as to not be able to move for full five minutes.

We should not forget the fight with Icarium too

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Their bristly hackles were raised above their strangely humped, massive shoulders. Thick, long necks and broad, flattened heads, the jaw muscles bulging. Scarred, black hides, and eyes that burned pure and empty of light.

As large as a steppe horse, but bulkier by far, padding with heads lowered into the flagstoned square. There was something about them that resembled a hyena, and a plains bear as well. A certain sly avidness merged with arrogant brutality.

They slowed, then halted, lifting glistening snouts into the air.

They had come to destroy. To tear life from all flesh, to mock all claims of mastery, to shatter all that stood in their path. This was a new world for them. New, yet once it had been old. Changes had come. A world of vast silences where once kin and foe alike had opened throats in fierce challenge.

Nothing was as it had been, and the Deragoth were made uneasy.

They had come to destroy.

But now hesitated.

With eyes fixed on the one who had arrived, who now stood before them, at the far end of the square.

House of Chains, by Steven Erikson (Malazan Book of the Fallen #4)

#malazan #deragoth #hounds of darkness #malazan book of the fallen #the malazan book of the fallen #steven erikson #fantasy #house of chains #books #karsa orlong #book quotes #fantasy books #books and reading #fantasy literature #books and quotes #dark fantasy #epic fantasy #high fantasy

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The wizard cautiously rose into a crouch, scanned the area on the other side of the crumbled wall. “Two Hounds of Darkness, you said. The Deragoth, then. So, who broke their chains, I wonder?”

“That’s just typical!” Kalam snapped. “What don’t you know?”

��A few things,” the wizard replied under his breath. “For example, what are those hounds doing here?”

“So long as we stay out of their path, I couldn’t care less—”

“No, you misunderstood.” Quick Ben nodded towards where his gaze was fixed on the clearing beyond. “What are they doing here?”

Kalam groaned.

–House of Chains, ch. 25

I love these dorks so much oh my god.

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Fist Gamet

With  this  one,  Steven  Erikson  obliterated  my  soul      There  had  been  headaches.  Every  day,  since  his  fall  from  his  horse.  But  nothing   like  this.      The  barely  healed  knife-slash  in  his  palm  had  reopened  during  his  contortions,  smearing  sticky  blood  across  his  face  and  brow  when  he  sought  to  claw  the  pain  out  from  his  head,  and  the  wound  now  felt  as  if  it  was  afire,  scorching  his  veins.      Groaning,  he  clambered  sideways  from  the  cot  and  then  halted,  on  his   hands  and  knees,  head  hanging  down,  as  waves  of  trembling  shivered  through  him.      I  need  to  move.  I  need  to  act.  Something.  Anything.      I  need...      A  time  of  blankness,  then  he  found  himself  standing  near  the  tent  flap.  Weighted  in  armour,  gauntlets  covering  his  hands,  helm  on  his  head.  The  pain  was  fading,  a  cool  emptiness  rising  in  its  wake.      He  needed  to  go  outside.  He  needed  his  horse.      Gamet  strode  from  the  tent.  A  guard  accosted  him  but  he  waved  the  woman  away  and  hurried  towards  the  corrals.      Ride.  Ride  out.  It's  time.      Then  he  was  cinching  the  saddle  of  his  horse,  waiting  for  the  beast  to  release  its  breath,  then  drawing  it  a  notch  tighter.  A  clever  horse.  Paran  stables,  of  course.  Fast  and  almost  legendary  endurance.  Impatient  with  incompetence,  ever  testing  the  rider's  claim  to  being  in  charge,  but   that  was  to  be  expected  from  such  a  fine  breed.      Gamet  swung  himself  into  the  saddle.  It  felt  good  to  be  riding  once  more.  On  the  move,  the  ground  whispering  past  as  he  rode  down  the  back  ramp,  then  round  the  jagged  island  and  towards  the  basin.      He  saw  three  figures  ahead,  standing  at  the  ridge,  and  thought  nothing  strange  as  to   their  presence.  They  are  what  will  come.  These  three.      Nil.  Nether.  The  lad,  Grub.      The  last  turned  as  Gamet  reined  in  beside  them.  And  nodded.  “The  Wickans  and  the  Malazans  are  on  the  flanks,  Fist.  But  your  assault  will  be  straight  up  the  Dogslayers'  main  ramp.’‘  And  he  pointed.      Footsoldiers  and  cavalry  were  massing  in  the  basin,  moving  through  the  thick  gloom.  Gamet  could  hear  the  whisper  of   armour,  feel  the  thud  of  countless  horse  hoofs.  He  saw  banners  and  standards,  hanging  limp  and  ragged.     ’'Ride  to  them,  Fist.’'  Grub  said.      And  he  saluted  the  child  and  set  heels  to  his  mount's  flanks.      Black  and  rust-red  armour,  visored  helms  with  ornate  cheek-guards,  short  thrusting  javelins  and  kite  shields,  the  rumble  of  countless  booted  feet - he  rode  alongside  one  column,  casting  an  appraising  eye  over  the  companies  of  infantry.      Then  a  wing  of  cavalry  swept  round  to  engulf  him.  One  rider  rode  close.  A  dragon-winged  helm  swivelled  to  facae  him.  ’'Ride  with  us,  soldier?”      “I  cannot,’'  Gamet  replied.  ’'I  am  a  Fist.  I  must  command.”      “Not  this  night.’'  the  warrior  replied.  ’'Fight  at  our  sides,  as  the  soldier  you  are.  Remember  the  old  battles?  When  all  that  was  required  was  the  guarding  of  the  companions  flanking  you.  Such  will  be  this  night.  Leave  the  commanding  to  the  lords.  Ride  with  us  in  freedom.  And  glory.”      A  surge  of  exultation  swept  through  Gamet.  The  pain  in  his  head  was  gone.  He  could  feel  his   blood  racing  like  fire  in  his  muscles.  He  wanted  this.  Yes,  he  wanted  this  very  thing.      Gamet  insheathed  his  sword,  the  sound  an  echoing  rasp  in  the  chill  air.      His  helmed  companion  laughed.  “Are  you  with  us,  soldier?”      “I  am,  friend.”      They  reached  the  base  of  the  cobbled  ramp,  slowing  to  firm  up   their   formation.  A  broad  wedge  that  had  began  assailing  the  slope,  hoofs  striking  sparks  off  the  stones.      The   Dogslayers  had  yet  to   sound  an  alarm.      Fools.  They've  slept  through  it  all.  Or  perhaps  sorcery  has  deadened  the  sounds  of  our  preparation.  Ah,  yes.  Nil  and  Nether.  They  are  still  there,  on  the  ridge  the  other  side  of  the  basin.      The  company's  standard  bearer  was  just  a  few  horses  to  Gamet's  left.  He  squinted  up  at  the  banner,  wondered  that  he  had  never  seen  it  before.  There  was  something  of  the  Khundryl  in  its  design,  torn  and  frayed  though  it  was.  A  clan  of  the  Burned  Tears,  then - which  made  sense  given  the  archaic  armour  his  comrades  were  wearing.  Archaic  and  half  rotting,  in  fact.  Too long  stored  in  chests - moths  and  other  vermin  have  assailed  it,  but   the  bronze  looks  sound  enough,  if  tarnished  and  pitted.  A  word  to  the  commanders  later,  I  think…      Cool,  gauging  thoughts,  even  as  his  proud  horse  thundered  alongside   the  others.  Gamet  glared  upward,  and  saw  the  crest  directly  before  them.  He  lifted  high  his  longsword  and  loosed  a  savage  scream.      The  wedge  poured  over  the  crest,  swept  out  into  the  unaware  ranks  of  Dogslayers,  still  huddled  down  in  their  trenches.      Screams  on  all  sides,  strangely  muted,  almost  faint.  Sounds  of  battle,  yet  they  seemed  a  league  distant,  as  if  carried  on  the  wind.  Gamet  swung  his  sword,  his  eyes  meeting  those  of  Dogslayers,  seeing  the  horror  writ  there.  Watching  mouths  open  to  shriek,  yet  hardly  any  sound  came  forth,  as  if  the  sans  were  swallowing  everything,  absorbing  sound  as  eagerly  as  they  did  blood  and  bile.      Masses  surged  over  the  trenches,  blackened  swords  swinging  and  chopping  down.  The  ramp  to  the  east  had  been  overrun  by  the   Wickans.  Gamert  saw  the  waving  standards  and  grinned.  Crow.  Foolish  Dog.  Weasel.      Out   of  the  impenetrably  black  sky  descended  butterflies,  in  swarms,  to  flit  above  the   carnage  in  the  trenches.      On  the  ramp  to  the  west  there  was  the  flash  of  Moranth  munnitions,  sending  grim  reverberations  through  the  earth,  and  Gamet  could  watch  the  salughter  over  there,  a  scene  panoramic  and  dulled,  as  if  he  was  looking  upon  a  mural - a  painting  where  ancient  armies  warred  in  eternal  battle.      They  had  come  for  the  Dogslayers.  For  the  butcherers  of  unarmed  Malazans,  soldier  and  civilian,  the  stubborn  and  the  fleeing,  the   desperate  and  the  helpless.  The  Dogslayers,  who  ahd  given  their   souls  to  betrayal.      The  fight  raged  on,  but   it  was  overwhelmingly  one-sided.  The  enemy  seemed  strangely  incapable  of  mustering  any  kind  of  defence.  They  simply  died  in  their  trenches,  or  seeking  to  retreat  they  were  run  down  after  but  a  few  strides.  Skewered  by  lances,  javelins.  Trampled  beneath  chopping  hoofs.      Gamet  understood  their  horror,  saw  with  a  certain  satisfaction  the   terror  in  their  faces  as  he  and  his  comrades  delivered  death.      He  could  hear  the  battle  song  now,  rising  and  falling  like  waves  on  a  pebbled   shore,  yet  building  towards  a  climax  yet  to  come - yet  to  come,  but  soon.  Soon.  Yes,  we've  needed  a  song.  We've  waited  a  long  time  for  such  a  song.  To  honour  our  deeds,  our  struggles.  Our  lives  and  our  deaths.  We've  needed  our  own  voice,  so  that  our  spirits  could  march,  march  ever  onward.      To  battle.      To  war.      Manning  these  walls  of  crumbled  brick  and  sand.  Defending  the  bone-dry  harbours  and  the  dead  cities  that  once  blazed  with  ancient  dreams,  that  once  flickered  life's  reflection  on  the  warm,  shallow  sea.      Even  memories  need  to  be  defended.      Even  memories.      He  fought  on,  side  by  side  with  his   dark  warrior  companions - and  so  grew  to  love  them,  these  stalwart  comrades,  and  when  at  last  the  dragon-helmed  horse  warrior  rode  up  and  reined  in  before  him,  Gamet  whirled  his   sword  in  greeting.      The  rider  laughed  once  again.  Reached  up  a  blood-spattered,  gauntleted  hand,  and  raised  the  visor - to  reveal  the  face  of  a  dark-skinned  woman,  her  eyes  a  stunning  blue  within  a  web  of  desert  lines.      “There  are  more!’'  Gamet   shouted - though  even  to  his  own  ears  his   voice  sounded  far  away.  ’'More  enemies!  We  must  ride!”      Her  teeth  flashed  white  as  she  laughed  again.  “Not   the  tribes,  my  friend!  They  are  kin.  This  battle  is  done - others  will  shed  blood  come  the  morrow.  We  march  to  the  shores,  soldier - will  you  join  us?”      He  saw  more  than  professional  interest  in  her   eyes.      “I  shall.”      “You  would  leave  your  friends,  Gamet  Ul'Paran?”      “For  you,  yes.”      Her  smile,  and  the  laugh  that  followed,  stole  the  old  man's  heart.      A  final  glance  t  the  other  ramps  showed  no  movement.  The  Wickans  to  the  east  had  ridden  on,  although  a  lone  crow  was  wheeling  verhead.  The  Malazans  to  the  west  had  withdrawn.  And  the  butterflies  had  vanished.  In  the  trenches  of  the  Dogslayers,  an  hour  before  dawn,  only  the  dead  remained.      Vengeance.  She  will  be  pleased.  She  will  understand,  and  be  pleased.      As  am  I.      Goodbye,  Adjunct  Tavore. Good  grief,  this  has  me  every  time  in  tears…

House  of   Chains  (Steven  Erikson)

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Karsa Orlong joy

     “Yes,  Bidithal.  He  hides  within?”      “No - he  wisely  fled,  as  I  am  doing.  The  Claw  and  his  patron  god  are  even  now  slaying  the  last  of  his   shadow  servants.  You  are  the  Knight - you  possess  your  own  patron,  Karsa  Orlong  of  the  Teblor.  Kill  the  enemy - it  is  what  you  must  do - ’‘     Karsa  smiled.  ’'And  so  I  shall.’'  He  reversed  his  grip  on  his  sword  and  drove  the  point  down  between  Silgar's  shoulder  blades,  severing  the  spine  then  punching  out  through  the  sternum  to  bury  itself  a  hand's  width  deep  between  the  flagstones.      Vile  fluids  poured  from  the  Slavemaster.  His  head  cracked  down  on  the  stone,  and  his  life  was  done.  Leoman  was  right,  long  ago - a  quick  death  would  have  been  the  better  choice.      Karsa  pulled  the  sword  free.  ’'I  follow  no  patron  god,’'  he  growled.  He  turned  from  the  temple  entrance.  Bidithal  would  have  used  sorcery  to  escape,  drawing  shadows  about  himself  in  an  effort  to  remain  unseen.  Yet  his  passage  would  leave  footprints  in  the  dust.      The  Toblakai  stepped  past  the  body  of  Silgar,  the  man  who  had  once  sought  to  enslave  him,  and  began  searching. -House  of  Chains  (Steven  Erikson)     

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Everything about House of Chains is superb

     Kalam  approached  them  as  would  the  third  hunter  in  the  line.  Neither  was  paying  attention,  their  gazes  fixed  on a  building  on  the  other  side  of  the  concourse.  At  the  last  moment  Kalam  drew  both  long-knives  and  thrust  them  into  the  backs  of  the  two  assassins.      Soft  grunts,  and  both  men  sank  to  the  dusty  flagstones.  The  blow  to  the  leader  of  the  Talon's  Hand  was  instantly  fatal,  but  Kalam  has  twisted  the  other  thrust  slightly  to  one  side,  and  he  now  crouched  down  beside  the  dying  man.  “If  your  masters  are  listening.’‘  he  murmured.  ’'And  they  should  be.  Compliments  of  the  Claw.  See  you  soon.” -Kalam  Mekhar  (House  of  Chains  by  Steven  Erikson)

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“My brother can come to no further harm, but my path is made clear. Glee. I shall eat humans this night.”

She drew her telaba closer around herself and fought off a shiver. “I am, uh, pleased for you, Greyfrog.”

……

“How long should I wait for you, Greyfrog?”

“Leave not this glade until the sun rises, dearest she whom I would marry, regardless of little chance for proper broods. Besotted. Suddenly eager to depart.”

Oh my god, Greyfrog. COULD YOU BE ANY MORE ADORABLE? NO, I DO NOT THINK SO.

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"If I could see you," Heboric muttered, "I'd conclude you've improved some."

"I have, Destriant of Treach, though I would have thought those feline eyes of yours could pierce every veil."

He grunted. "It's more that you no longer slur your words, Scillara."

"What do we do now?" she asked after a moment.

"Dusk will soon arrive. I would go out to find L'oric, and I would that you accompany me."

"And then?"

"Then, I would lead you to Felisin Younger."

"Sha'ik's adopted daughter."

"Aye."

Scillara glanced away, meditative as she drew deep on the rust-leaf.

"How old are you, lass?"

She shrugged, "As old as I have to be. If I am to take Felisin Younger's orders, so be it. Resentment is pointless."

An awkward conversation, progressing in leaps that left Heboric scrambling. Sha'ik was much the same. Perhaps, he reflected with a grimace, this talent for intuitive thinking was a woman's alone - he admittedly had little experience upon which he could draw, despite his advanced years. Fener's temple was predominantly male, when it came to the holy order itself, and Heboric's life as a thief had, of necessity, included only a handful of close associations. He was, once more, out of his depth. "Felisin Younger has, I believe, little interest in commanding anyone. This is not an exchange of one cult for another, Scillara - not in the way you seem to think it is, at any rate. No-one will seek to manipulate you here."

House of Chains, by Steven Erikson (Malazan Book of the Fallen #4)

#malazan #scillara #heboric light touch #heboric ghost hands #malazan book of the fallen #the malazan book of the fallen #steven erikson #fantasy #house of chains #books #book quotes #fantasy books #l'oric #felisin younger #dark fantasy #high fantasy #books and reading #books and quotes #fantasy literature

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Sketch-a-day 14

Apt and Panek

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RARAKU

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“‘Eres holy sites burned through Tellan. They are too old to be resisted.’ ‘You said their sanctity was born of death. Are they Hood’s, then?’ ‘No. Hood did not exist when these were fashioned, Trull Sengar. Nor are they strictly death-aspected. Their power comes, as Monok Ochem said, from layers. Stone shaped into tools and weapons. Air shaped by throats. Minds that discovered, faint as flickering fires in the sky, the recognition of oblivion, of an end… to life, to love. Eyes that witnessed the struggle to survive, and saw with wonder it’s inevitable failure. To know and to understabd that we must all die, Trull Sengar, is not to worship death. To know and to understand is itself magic, for it made us stand tall.”

—

Onrack the broken to Trull Sengar - House of Chains

Cloaked by Ages, Crowned in Earth:  

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“Innocence is only a virtue, lass, when it is temporary. You must pass from it to look back and recognize its unsullied purity. To remain innocent is to twist beneath invisible and unfathomable forces all your life, until one day you realize yourself, and it comes to you that innocence was a curse that had shackled you, defeated your every expression of living.”

— Cotillion, House of Chains Malazan Book of the Fallen

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Karsa Orlong, a character from the book i’m currently reading called House of Chains from the Malazan book of the fallen serie. Steven Erikson starts the book with more than 150 pages introduction about this character, and i couldn’t help but loath and hate him from the start untill later on where some events and changes that led to my appreciation of this Uryd warleader. 

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“it is human nature to transform loss into a virtue. So that it might be lived with, so that it might be justified.”

— Felisin Younger

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"Why should what you prefer interest me?"

"Because, Karsa Orlong, we are within the same House. The House of Chains. Our master-"

"I have no master," the Teblor growled.

"As he would have it," 'Siballe replied. "The Crippled God does not expect you to kneel. He issues no commands to his Mortal Sword, his Knight of Chains - for that is what you are, the role for which you have been shaped from the very beginning."

"I am not in this House of Chains, T'lan Imass. Nor will I accept another false god."

"He is not false, Karsa Orlong."

"As false as you," the warrior said, baring his teeth. "Let him rise before me and my sword will speak for me. You say I have been shaped. Then there is much to which he must give answer."

"The gods chained him."

"What do you mean?"

"They chained him, Karsa Orlong, to dead ground. He is broken. In eternal pain. He has been twisted by captivity and now knows only suffering."

"Then I shall break his chains-"

"I am pleased-"

"And then kill him."

House of Chains, by Steven Erikson (Malazan Book of the Fallen #4)

#malazan #karsa orlong #'siballe #crippled god #house of chains #books #malazan book of the fallen #the malazan book of the fallen #steven erikson #fantasy books #book quotes #fantasy #fantasy literature #books and reading #books and quotes #dark fantasy #epic fantasy #high fantasy

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tavore and felisin paran.

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