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

by Steven Erikson

he refuses! The bastard refuses! To defy the Crippled God’s unleashing of a deadly will, that would see us all dest...

Quick Ben took a step closer to the captain – though the wizard’s eyes held on the Knight of Darkness.

‘She has stolen my life!’ the Mhybe screamed, gnarled hands closing to fists from which the blood within them fled. The Rhivi woman stared at those fists, eyes wide as if they were seeing a stranger’s hands, skeletal and dead, there at the end of her thin arms. ‘Oh, Crone,’ she cried softly. ‘She has stolen my life …’

‘You would make our efforts worthless?’ ‘Not by choice, Korlat – and this is what I am telling you – I have lost all choice. To my daughter. And now, to you. You will create of me a thing of spite, and I beg you again – if you care for me at all – to let me cease this terrible journey.’ ‘I’ll not give you permission to kill yourself, Mhybe. If it must be hate that fuels you, so be it. You are under the care – the guardianship – of the Tiste Andii, now.’

only the one possibility remains, as it always has. I am Tennes – the goddess’s own warren – and what assails her assails me as well. Aye, I could shatter the one who has so infected her—’

The child’s grown five years or more since we arrived, Whiskeyjack – I looked in on the Mhybe this morning. Korlat’s doing what she can, as are the Rhivi shoulder-women, but Silverfox has taken from that old woman almost her entire life-force – Hood knows what’s keeping her alive. The thought of converging T’lan Imass ain’t making me happy, either. And then there’s Anomander Rake – he wants to know all about me—’

The three Barghast were clearly siblings, with the woman the eldest. White paint had been smeared on their faces, giving them a skull-like appearance. Braids stained with red ochre hung down to their shoulders, knotted with bone fetishes. All three wore hauberks of holed coins – the currency ranging from copper to silver and no doubt from some looted hoard, as most of them looked ancient and unfamiliar to Gruntle’s eye. Coin-backed gauntlets covered their hands. A guardblock’s worth of weapons accompanied the trio – bundled lances, throwing axes and copper-sheathed long-hafted fighting axes, hook-bladed swords and assorted knives and daggers.

‘Fast on two legs. Talons like an eagle’s, only much larger, at the ends of those legs. Their arms are blades—’ ‘Blades? What do you mean?’ She shrugged. ‘Bladed. Blood-iron. Their eyes are hollow pits. They stink of urns in the dark circle. They make no sound, no sound at all.’

Blood-iron – that’s iron quenched in snow-chilled blood … a Barghast practice when shamans invest weapons. Thus, the wielder and the weapon are linked. Merged …

Many of the hills edging the traders’ track to Capustan were sacred sites, their summits displaying the inverted tree trunks that were the Barghast custom of anchoring spirits

Thus, the oaks are brought down from the north. The shouldermen carve magic into their trunks. The one to be buried is pinned beneath the tree. Spirits are drawn as well, as guardians, and other traps are placed along the edges of the dark circle. Even so, sometimes the souls escape – imprisoned by one of the traps, yet able to travel the land. Those who return to the clans where they once lived are quickly destroyed, so they have learned to stay away – here, in these lowlands. Sometimes, such a sticksnare retains a loyalty to its mortal kin, and will send dreams to our shouldermen, to tell us of danger.’

Netok jogged up from the river bank, a two-handed axe in his grip. He halted at his sister’s side. ‘Something is loose,’ he growled, his small eyes darting. ‘And still close,’ Hetan nodded. ‘Flank your brother.’

All-metal crossbows, stained black, were cradled on their vambraced forearms, quarrels set and locked. Squat black quivers at their hips showed but a few quarrels remaining in each.

‘Barghast, yes? Extraordinary, isn’t it, that such people can be found on other continents as well, calling themselves by the same name and practising, it seems, virtually identical customs. What vast history lies buried and now lost in their ignorance, I wonder?’

‘These are sorcerors, Hetan. Worse, they’re necromancers. Korbal practises the art of the undead. Bauchelain’s is demonic summoning. The two sides of the skull-faced coin. Hood-cursed and foul … and deadly. Do you understand me? Don’t even think of trying them.’

In any case, they are spinning threads of power across this land, like a web, from which they can sense any tremor. We cannot pass undetected—’ ‘Then let us turn round,’ Stonny snapped. ‘Now, before it’s too late.’ ‘But it already is,’ Keruli replied. ‘These undead servants continue to cross the river from the southlands, all in service to the Pannion Seer. They range ever closer to Saltoan. Indeed, I believe there are now more of them behind us than between here and Capustan.’

A small, man-shaped collection of sticks and twigs and twine scurried into the circle of light, trailing sorcery like smoke. The stick-snared shaman.

‘K’Chain Che’Malle. K’ell Hunters, these ones. Firstborn of every brood. The Matron’s own children. Fading memories even to the Elder gods, this knowledge. Now, in my heart, I feel dismay.’ ‘What in Hood’s name are they waiting for?’ the captain growled. ‘Uneasy – the swirling cloud that is Barghast sorcery. An unknown to their master.’ Disbelieving, the captain asked, ‘The Pannion Seer commands these—’

How long, in your cold, closed-in fashion, have you stared upon your High Priest? Black-mannered Itkovian, will you ever unsheathe your true self?

Alone in the massive, barely furnished chamber stood the Mortal Sword Brukhalian, motionless before the hearth and almost spectral despite his formidable height and build. His back was to the two newcomers, his long, wavy black hair unbound and down to just above his belted hips.

He folded back the sodden sleeves of his shirt, then made a slight gesture with his left hand. A small, pulsing orb of light took form in front of the priest.

The orb brightened, then began growing, its light thinning, the sphere growing translucent. Karnadas stepped back to give it space, fighting down his alarm at the sheer power behind this communication. ‘Sir, there are souls within this. Not two or three – a dozen, maybe more – yet they are bound within one. I have not seen its like before.’

dark-skinned, lean, wearing light leather armour. The man’s face showed an expression of mild surprise.

‘We are an army of the Boar of Summer. Sworn to Fener. Each soldier among us has chosen this path. Schooled in the sacred scriptures, blessed by the Destriant’s hand in the Tusked One’s name. Aye, we are a company of … sword-hackers. We are also our own temple, our acolytes numbering well over seven thousand

‘Our new acolytes number but twelve hundred to date. Since many second- and third-born daughters are cast out onto the city’s streets, none among the rulers have as yet noticed the diminishment of those numbers.

The Grey Swords answer to the prince. Our task is simple – to make the taking of Capustan by the Pannion Domin too costly.

‘Destriant. In Fener’s Reve that means Arch-Priest, doesn’t it? But only in the martial arena – the temple of hallowed ground that is the field of battle. Does Fener’s representative in the Mask Council acknowledge that you outrank him or her, as a tiger does a cat?’

Before the arrival of Daru peoples from the west, the tribes that had founded Capustan had only a generation before been nomadic. And their dead are left standing. Free to wander in their unseen spirit world. That restless mobility resided still in the minds of the Capan, and since the Daru communities held to their own, it was scarcely diluted despite the now dozens of generations who had lived and died in this one place.

The districts making up the city were called Camps, and each Camp was a distinct, self-contained settlement, usually circular, with a private open ground at the central hub. The wide, uneven spaces between each Camp formed Capustan’s streets. This pattern changed only in the area surrounding the old Daru Keep – now the Thrall and home to the Mask Council – called the Temple District, which represented the sole Daru-style imposition of a gridwork layout of streets.

The Camps, Itkovian suspected, had once been precisely that. Tribal encampments, tightly bound in ties of kinship. Positioned on the banks of the Catlin River among sea-fearing peoples, this site had become a focus for trade, encouraging sedentary behaviour. The result was one of the oddest-looking cities Itkovian had ever seen. Wide, open concourses and avenues defined by curving walls; random clay stands of burial pillars; well pools surrounded by sandpits; and, moving through Capustan’s winding spaces, Daru and Capan citizens, the former holding to the disparate styles and ornamentation of their heritage – no two dressed alike – whilst the latter, kin-bound, wore the bright colours of their families, creating a flow in the streets that sharply contrasted with the plain, unpainted architecture.

Even the Daru temples had bowed to the local, modest style of architecture. The effect was that of ceaseless movement, dominating its fixed, simple surroundings. The Capan tribes cel...

Few words were offered at this early stage of training – the recruit either would quickly follow the example set by the experienced soldiers, or would not stay long in the company. She had been taught to ride, well enough not to fall off her horse at a canter, and was wearing her weapons and armour to get used to their weight. Schooling in the art of wielding those weapons would come later. If the wings found themselves in a skirmish, two veterans would guard the recruit at all times.

Towards the centre, at a distance of at least two hundred paces, stood a grey-skinned creature, two-legged, long-tailed, its snout two rows of jagged fangs. Broadbladed swords flashed from the ends of its arms. Motionless, its head, torso and tail almost horizontal as it balanced on its two legs, the creature was watching them.

‘Your soldiers approach,’ the apparition rasped in Elin. ‘From this engagement … you are relieved.’ The archer was still struggling with his startled horse, cursing, then he hissed in surprise. The Shield Anvil frowned up at the undead figure. ‘We are?’ ‘Against undead,’ the corpse said, ‘arises an army in kind.’

‘It seems,’ Itkovian said, staring out upon the vast army arrayed around them, ‘you are not lost to us, after all. The Boar of Summer despises blind obedience. You will ride with us, sir.’

Soldiers are issued armour for their flesh and bones, but they must fashion their own for their souls. Piece by piece.’ She looked down at the blood spattered across her uniform. ‘It has begun.’

Itkovian was silent for a moment, studying the recruit at his side. ‘The Capan are a foolish people, to deny freedom to their women. The truth of that is before me.’ She shrugged. ‘I am not unique.’

These K’Chain Che’Malle are what was once known as K’ell Hunters. Chosen children of a matriarch, bred to battle. However, they are undead, and that which controls them hides well its identity – somewhere to the south, we believe. The K’ell Hunters were freed from tombs situated in the Place of the Rent, called Morn. We do not know if present maps of this land mass know the place by these ancient names—’ ‘Morn,’ Itkovian nodded.

The K’ell Hunters may well be under the command of their matriarch, for we believe she has finally worked her way free from her own imprisonment. This, then, is the enemy you face.’

‘Itkovian,’ Pran Chole rasped, ‘this word “Pannion”. Has it a particular meaning among the natives?’ He shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. ‘Pannion,’ the Bonecaster said. ‘A Jaghut word. A Jaghut name.’

An ay – had a face longer and narrower than the timber wolves the scout recalled seeing in Blackdog Forest, hundreds of leagues to the north. At the shoulder, the creature beside him had two, maybe three hands on those formidable northern wolves. Sloping brow, small ears, with canines to challenge those of a lion or a plains bear. Broadly muscled, the animal nevertheless had a build suggesting both speed and endurance. A swift kill or a league-devouring pursuit, Baaljagg looked capable of both.

palpable compassion, a single touch to the creature’s lowered forehead. The touch, Toc realized, of an Elder God. And a voice: You are the last, now. The very last, and there will be need for you. In time … Thus, I promise that I shall bring to you … a lost spirit. Torn from its flesh. A suitable one, of course. For that reason, my search may be a long one. Patience, little one … and in the meantime, this gift

Wakeful, solitary Baaljagg’s eyes had seen more of the world than could be fathomed. Finally, however the gift had come, the torn soul delivered to her own, where they merged, eventually became one.

Oh, Beru fend. See? Soft inside. Far too soft for this world and its layered histories, its endless tragedies.

While Lady Envy isn’t here, I will treat them as travelling companions, and be honoured by their company.’ He glanced over to find the two warriors staring at him. ‘Even if they won’t talk to me.’

Someone has drawn on my life-force, almost to exhaustion. Ask me no questions regarding this. My Tellann powers none the less discourage mortal beasts. Creatures are given to avoidance when able.

‘I’m not aware of any binding of souls,’ Toc answered, still staring at the sleeping wolf. ‘I was granted … visions. We shared remembrances, I think. How? I don’t know. There were emotions within it, Tool, enough to make one despair.’ After a moment he returned to cleaning the scrawny creature beneath his hands. ‘Every gift is edged.’ Toc grimaced as he gutted the animal. ‘Edged. I suppose so. I’m beginning to suspect the truth of the legends – lose an eye to receive the gift of true vision.’

‘Obelisk,’ Tool said. ‘In the ancient Deck of Holds, it was known as Menhir. Touched by stone, mortal – Chen’re aral lich’fayle – there, on your brow. I give you a new name. Aral Fayle.’

‘You were sent into a Warren of Chaos, mortal. You survived – in itself an unlikely event – and travelled the slow vortex towards the Rent. Then, when Morn’s portal should have taken you, it instead cast you out. Stone has taken one of your eyes. And the ay here has chosen you in the sharing of her soul. Baaljagg has seen in you a rare worthiness, Aral Fayle—’

‘From a single core are struck blades, each finding its own use. If veins or knots of crystal lie hidden within the heart of the core, the shaping of the blades cannot be predicted. Each blow to the core breaks off useless pieces – hinge-fractured, step-fractured. Useless. Thus it was with the family in which I was born. Struck wrong, each and all.’