Memories of Ice (Malazan Book of the Fallen, #3)

by Steven Erikson

Nerruse and Beru both, the Lady for her failure to maintain reasonable order upon her waters, the Lord for his evidently senseless outrage at being so thoroughly exploited. Of course, such a curse might well weaken the pantheon yet further, and that would not be appreciated.

Baaljagg still carried a spearhead in her shoulder, though it seemed to be slowly making its way out, and the flow of blood had slowed considerably. She would have liked to have healed the ay’s wound, but the beast would not let her come close enough.

Garath looked hale, though a solid mass of old scars etched the hound’s mottled hide.

The trenches and tunnel entrances had been well disguised, beneath cedar branches and piles of moss, and without the preternatural skills of the mages the Bridgeburners might not have found them.

‘What kind of ritual, Shank?’ ‘The ingenious kind, Captain – Bluepearl loaned me the spell, but I can’t describe it, can’t write it down and show you, neither. Words and meanings hang around in the air, you know, seep into suspicious minds and trigger gut instinct. There’s nothing to blocking it if you know it’s coming – it only works when you don’t.’

In the soft earth before Quick Ben, the wizard had set a half-dozen twigs, upright, in a rough line. Faint sorcery whispered between them that the captain’s eyes could only register peripherally.

Twenty paces behind the two men, Shank sat hunched over his modest, pebble-ringed circle of ritual; six twigs from the same branch that Quick Ben had used, jabbed into the moss before the squad mage, surrounding a bladder filled with water. Beads of condensation glistened from these twigs.

Paran heard Quick Ben’s soft sigh. The wizard reached out, hovered an index finger over the ...

Shank saw one of his twigs twitch. He grinned, whispered the last word of his ritual, releasing its power. The bl...

Shank’s eyes closed, his face runnelled in sweat as he swiftly added binding spells to the water that filled the Seerdomin’s lungs, holding it down against their desperate, spasming efforts to expel the deadly fluid.

He glanced over at Quick Ben. The wizard’s eyes were closed. Faint movement on the man’s shoulder caught the captain’s attention – a tiny figure of sticks and twine – Paran blinked.

glared until the four men settled, surveyed the bleak expressions for a moment, then grinned. ‘Twelve of the bastards, right? And who is this, standing here before you? Quick Ben. Right? Ben Adaephon Delat. Now, if any of you has already filled his breeches, go change, then rejoin the companies you’ve been attached to—whatever gets through me is for you to handle.

‘So, we could just pull out and leave the Pannions to retake … a steaming mess of nothing.’ ‘We could, sir.’ ‘Meaning, we’ll have travelled half the continent, only to retreat before our first engagement.’ ‘A temporary retreat, sir,’ Paran pointed out. ‘Or we can bloody their noses … maybe take out ten thousand Beklites, ten, twelve mages and a Septarch. At the possible cost of this army, including Quick Ben here. Gentlemen, is that a fair exchange?’

made a promise to Burn. The captain and I had … plans. To keep all of that, I say no right now. And we blow the entrenchments and scamper. But then again, I’m a soldier. A Bridgeburner. And the brutal truth is, tactically, it’s more than a fair exchange. We make it for Whiskeyjack. For the siege to come. We save lives. He glanced at Paran, saw the same knowledge in the captain’s eyes. The wizard turned back to Dujek. ‘High Fist, it is a fair exchange.’

She hurried off. Well, damn me. The lass buys a worthless piece of stone from a Gral swindler and suddenly she’s invisible. Raw but pure talent, right in her bones, and she doesn’t even know it.

Grey sorcery spun a wall of tangled webbing before the chanting Beklites. The Seerdomin commanders were wreathed in the magic, advancing now on foot ahead of their companies, marching upslope with an air of

The wizard was good, she knew, but good only because he kept his head low and did whatever he did behind backs, in the shadows, unseen. He wasn’t Tattersail, wasn’t Hairlock or Calot. In all the years she had known him, she had not once seen him openly unveil a warren and let loose. Not only wasn’t it his style, it also wasn’t, she suspected, within his capacity.

‘They’re illusions, Lieutenant. Can’t you tell?’ No. ‘It’s all that uncertainty – they don’t know what they’re facing. Quick Ben’s playing on their fears.’ ‘Blend! Wait! How in Hood’s name can you tell?’ ‘Not sure, but I can.’ The Seerdomin unleashed waves of grey sorcery that broke up over the legion, sent snaking roots down towards the eight demons. ‘That will have to knock them out,’ Blend said. ‘If Quick Ben ignored the attack, the Pannions will get suspicious – let’s see how – oh!’ The magic darted like plummeting nests of adders, en wreathed the roaring demons. Their death-throes were frenzied, lashing, killing and maiming yet more soldiers on all sides. But die they did, one by one.

The first legion’s formation was a shambles, torn bodies lying everywhere. Its onward climb had been shattered, and the reassertion of order was going to take a while. ‘Amazing what happens when you believe.’ Blend said after a time.

Another Seerdomin wizard appeared from the legion’s ranks, mounted on a huge dun charger. Sorcery danced over his armour, pale, dull, flickering on the double-bladed axe in his right hand. ‘Oh,’ Blend whispered. ‘That’s a sharp illusion.’ He rode to join one of his fellow mages. Who turned. The axe flew from the rider’s hand, its wake sparkling with suspended ice. Changed shape, blackening, twisting, reaching out clawed, midnight limbs. The victim screamed as the wraith struck him. Death-magic punched through the protective weave of chaotic sorcery like a spearpoint through chain armour, plunged into the man’s chest. The wraith reappeared even as the Seerdomin toppled – up through his helmed head in an explosion of iron, bone, blood and brains – clutching in its black, taloned hands the Seerdomin’s soul – a thing that flared, radiating terror. The wraith, hunched over its prize, flew a zigzag path towards the forest. Vanished into the gloom.

The wizard had built a wall of heaving stone before him, and it began to move amidst the flowing shadows, leaning, shifting, pushing humus before it. Suddenly the shadows raced downslope, between the trees, in a confusing, overwhelming wave. A moment later, the boulders followed – an avalanche that thundered, took trees with it, pouring like liquid towards the ragged lines of soldiers climbing the slope.

A murderous glance revealed Quick Ben’s sorry state – blood streamed from the man’s ears, nose and mouth. His leather armour had split along every seam. Paran looked down to see that his own banded armour was similarly mangled. He wiped at his mouth – his gauntlet came away smeared red.

Ten paces away, on his knees – too battered to do more than simply watch – Quick Ben stared, disbelieving, as the two figures thrashed in battle. Paran was almost invisible within a writhing, shadow-woven Hound. Not a Soletaken – not a veering. These are two creatures – man and beast – woven together … somehow. And the power behind it – it’s Shadow. Kurald Emurlahn.

The wizard’s eyes widened as the ghastly figure slowly climbed to its feet. The skin along his right temple hung down, away from the bone. Half the ear on that side was gone, cut in a curved line that streamed blood.

‘With, among your soldiers, my remaining kin – mages all, my love — I shall not be as alone as you imagine.’ Whiskeyjack gathered his reins.

Had their conversation continued for another half-dozen heartbeats, Korlat – with her preternatural vision – would have seen the first flight of Black Moranth rise from the mountain’s forested slope, forty in all, and, flying low, wing hard and fast for the city. A half-dozen heartbeats, within which Oponn’s coin spun … A single, lazy turn … From Lady to Lord.

Paran watched the spirits, six of them now somehow carrying hooks, slither up the wall. The other six had closed ghostly hands on Toes and were lifting him to follow. The squad mage did not look happy, legs flailing. ‘I

You’ve got the Bridgeburners now, Lieutenant.’ ‘Aye, Captain. So, who do you figure will die first, you or us?’ ‘That’s too close to call.’ She grinned. ‘Half my back pay, Captain, we’ll be a step behind you. Pay up at Hood’s Gate.’ ‘You’re on, Lieutenant. Now, leave Hedge and his sappers to blowing that tower, gather up Blend and the rest of you get going.’

Spindle had already unleashed his warren, and its effect was instantaneous. The condors shrilled with terror, wings thundering in panic, heads twisting on spasming necks as the mortal beast within each body – gripped with blind fear engendered by Spindle’s twisted talent – warred with demon for command.

Outside the city’s west wall, close to the shoreline’s broken, jagged edge, a lazy swirl of dust rose from the ground, took form. Tool slowly settled the flint sword into its shoulder-hook, his depthless gaze ignoring the abandoned shacks to either side and fixing on the massive stone barrier before him. Dust on the wind could rise and sweep high over this wall. Dust could run in streams through the rubble fill beneath the foundation stones. The T’lan Imass could make his arrival unknown. But the Pannion Seer had taken Aral Fayle. Toc the Younger. A mortal man … who had called Tool friend. He strode forward, hide-wrapped feet kicking through scattered bones. The time had come for the First Sword of the T’lan Imass to announce himself.

Condors had been seen following the Black Moranth flying back to the mountain entrenchments – but there they would meet Orfantal. In his Soletaken form, her brother was second only to Rake himself. Korlat envied him his chance for immediate vengeance.

Kallor, with a delighted roar, charged towards Silverfox, chain armour flowing like a cloak. Grey-veined magic danced on the ground around the warrior.

The women were superb, fighting as one.

‘Mortal Sword.’ ‘What is it, Itkovian?’ ‘What lies ahead, sir, that troubles you so?’ ‘I’m not sure, friend, but I’m feeling sick to my stomach. I believe we are about to be betrayed.’ Itkovian had said nothing to that for a long moment, then, ‘Sir, if one regards recent events with an unclouded eye, then one might observe that the betrayal has already occurred.’

She got no further, as before them Gruntle and his legion seemed to blur, to meld together in an indistinct flicker of barbed stripes, a single form, massive, low to the ground – that suddenly flowed forward, cat-like, and was gone in the night.

Once more, betrayal, the dark-hearted slayer of faith. Nightchill’s ancient legacy. Tattersail and Bellurdan Skullcrusher both – killed by the machinations of Tayschrenn, the hand of the Empress. And now … Whiskeyjack. The two marines, my twin shadows for so long. Murdered.

The beast waits for me-the man waits for me. We must reach out to each other. To touch, to give proof to both of us that we are not alone. Is this what awaits us? The cage of ribs, the prison, must be broken from the outside. Daughter, you may have forsaken me. But this man, this brother of mine, him I shall not forsake. She could not be entirely sure, but she believed that she started crawling once more. The beast howled in her mind, a voice raw with agony. She would have to free it, if she could. Such was pity’s demand. Not love. Ah, now I see … Thus.

Hear me, mortal! There is a place – I can lead you! You must carry all we give you – not far, not long – carry us, mortal! There is a place! Fading … Mortal! For the Grey Swords – you must do this! Hold on – succeed – and you will gift them. I can lead you! For the Grey Swords … Itkovian reached out— —and a hand, solid, warm, clasped his forearm—

Please. You must comprehend. Memories belong in the soil, in stone, in wind. They are the land’s unseen meaning, such that touches the souls of all who would look – truly look – upon it. Touches, in faintest whisper, old, almost shapeless echoes – to which a mortal life adds its own. Feed this dreamscape, mortal.

Silverfox wandered. Lost, half blinded by the tears that streamed without surcease. What she had begun as a child, on a long forgotten barrow outside the city of Pale – what she had begun so long ago – now seemed pathetic.

She had denied the T’lan Imass. Denied the T’lan Ay.

she had meant them to bring healing to the T’lan Imass, to their long-bereft souls. A world where her mother was young once more. A dreamworld, gift of K’rul. Gift of the Daru, Kruppe. Gift of love, in answer to all she had taken from her mother. But the T’lan Ay had turned away, were silent to her desperate call – and now Whiskeyjack was dead. Two marines, two women whose solid presence she had come to depend on – more than they could ever have realized. Two marines, killed defending her. Whiskeyjack. All that was Tattersail keened with inconsolable grief. She had turned from him as well. Yet he had stepped into Kallor’s path. He had done that, for he remained the man he had always been.

Courage had defeated her, but not her own – which had never been strong – no, the courage of those around her. On all sides – Coll and Murillio, with their misguided honour, who had stolen her mother and were no doubt guarding her even now, as she slowly died. Whiskeyjack and the two marines. Itkovian. And even Tayschrenn, who had torn himself – badly – unleashing his warren to drive Kallor away. Such extraordinary, tragically misguided courage—

I am Nightchill, Elder Goddess. I am Bellurdan, Thelomen Skullcrusher. I am Tattersail, who was once mortal. And I am Silverfox, flesh and blood Bonecaster, Summoner of the T’lan. And I have been defeated. By mortals—

The Seer stood before him, moving in desperate, jerky motions – the old man’s body, that the Jaghut had occupied for so long, was falling to pieces – and muttering a singsong chant as, ignoring Toc, he edged ever closer to the Matron, to Mother. The enormous beast cringed, claws scraping as it pushed itself against the wall. Its shrieks did not pause, resounding through the cavern. The Seer held something in his hands, pallid, smooth and oblong – an egg, not from a bird. A lizard’s egg, latticed in grey magic. Magic that waxed with every word of the Seer’s song. Toc watched as something exploded from the Matron’s body, a coruscation of power that sought to flee upward— —but was, instead, snared by the web of sorcery; snared, then drawn into the egg in the Seer’s hands.

‘Ah, my friend,’ the figure replied in a rasp. ‘It is I, Onos T’oolan, once of the Tarad Clan, of the Logros T’lan Imass, but now kin to Aral Fayle, to Toc the Younger.’ Kin. Withered arms gathered him up. ‘We are leaving now, young brother.’ Leaving?

A golden wave appeared suddenly behind the K’Chain Che’Malle, rose for a moment, building, then tumbled forward. The ground it rolled over on its way to the wall burned with fierce zeal, then the wave lifted, climbed towards the Pannion mages. This – this is what was launched against Moon’s Spawn. This is what my Lord struggled against. Alone, in the face of such power— The ground trembled beneath her boots as the wave crashed into the top of the wall to the west of the gate. Blinding – this is High Telas, the Warren of Fire – child of Tellann—

‘You stabbed me, you bastard!’ Even as he said it, his words fell away as he looked at the Barghast. The huge warrior had taken more wounds than Mallet had thought possible. He had been chopped to pieces. Yet he did not ever so much as waver as he grinned down at the healer. ‘Stabbed you, did I? Good.’ Mallet grimaced. ‘I see your point, you blue-toothed cattle-dog. Why should you get all the fun?’

Fires lit the city beyond the wall. The sky was filling with Black Moranth, Great Ravens – Kurald Galain spreading out, down, onto Coral— A true unveiling. All of the Tiste Andii, joined in ritual magic – the world has never known this – in all the millennia since their arrival – never known this. Burn’s heart, what will come of this unveiling? He continued staring, overcome with a vast, soul-numbing helplessness.

‘You grieve for this mortal,’ she whispered, reaching down to rest her hand on the beast’s lowered head. ‘For him, you hold back on what you so long for – your reunion with your lost mate. Was this man truly worthy of such loyalty? No, answer not – that is plain enough in your eyes. ‘And so I will tell you something, Baaljagg, that you clearly fail to realize. This mortal’s soul – it rides Togg’s own – and your mate would deliver it, but not to Hood’s Gate. Go, then, pursue that trail. Here, I shall open the way.’ She straightened, gestured. The Warren of Tellann opened. The chamber’s musty air was swept away. A sweet smell of wet tundra, acrid mosses and softened lichen flowed in on a soft, warm breeze.