Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  Silverfox spoke. 'You need not fear the T'lan Imass.'

  He blinked, shook himself. 'So you have explained. Since you command them. We are all wondering, however, precisely what you plan with that undead army? What's the significance of this Gathering?'

  She sighed. 'It is very simple, really. They gather for benediction. Mine.'

  He faced her. 'Why?'

  'I am a flesh and blood Bonecaster—the first such in hundreds of thousands of years.' Then her face hardened. 'But we shall need them first. In their fullest power. There are horrors awaiting us all… in the Pannion Domin.'

  'The others must know of this, this benediction—what it means, Silverfox—and more of the threat that awaits us in the Pannion Domin. Brood, Kallor—'

  She shook her head. 'My blessing is not their concern. Indeed, it is no-one's concern but mine. And the T'lan Imass themselves. As for the Pannion… I myself must learn more before I dare speak. Paran, I have told you these things for what we were, and for what you—we—have become.'

  And what have we become? No, not a question for now. 'Jen'isand Rul.'

  She frowned. 'That is a side of you that I do not understand. But there is more, Paran.' She hesitated, then said, 'Tell me, what do you know of the Deck of Dragons?'

  'Almost nothing.' But he smiled, for he heard Tattersail now, more clearly than at any other time since they'd first met.

  Silverfox drew a deep breath, held it a moment, then slowly released it, her veiled eyes once again on the rising sun. 'The Deck of Dragons. A kind of structure, imposed on power itself. Who created it? No-one knows. My belief—Tattersail's belief—is that each card is a gate into a warren, and there were once many more cards than there are now. There may have been other Decks—there may well be other Decks…'

  He studied her. 'You have another suspicion, don't you?'

  'Yes. I said no-one knows who created the Deck of Dragons. Yet there is another entity equally mysterious, also a kind of structure, focused upon power itself. Think of the terminology used with the Deck of Dragons. Houses… Houses of Dark, of Light, of Life and Death…' She slowly faced him. 'Think of the word "Finnest". Its meaning, as the T'lan Imass know it, is "Hold of Ice". Long ago, among the Elder races, a Hold was synonymous with a House in its meaning and common usage, and indeed, synonymous with Warren. Where resides a Jaghut's wellspring of power? In a Finnest.' She paused again, searching Paran's eyes. 'Tremorlor is Trellish for "House of Life".'

  Finnest… as in Finnest House, in Darujhistan… a House of the Azath. 'I've never heard of Tremorlor.'

  'It is an Azath House in Seven Cities. In Malaz City in your own empire, there is the Deadhouse—the House of Death…'

  'You believe the Houses of the Azath and the Houses of the Deck are one and the same.'

  'Yes. Or linked, somehow. Think on it!'

  Paran was doing just that. He had little knowledge of either, and could not think of any possible way in which he might be connected with them. His unease deepened, followed by a painful roil in his stomach. The captain scowled. He was too tired to think, yet think he must. 'It's said that the old emperor, Kellanved, and Dancer found a way into Deadhouse…'

  'Kellanved and Dancer have since ascended and now hold the House of Shadow. Kellanved is Shadowthrone, and Dancer is Cotillion, the Rope, Patron of Assassins.'

  The captain stared at her. 'What?'

  Silverfox grinned. 'It's obvious when you consider it, isn't it? Who among the ascendants went after Laseen… with the aim of destroying her? Shadowthrone and Cotillion. Why would any ascendant care one way or another about a mortal woman? Unless they thirsted for vengeance.'

  Paran's mind raced back, to a road on the coast of Itko Kan, to a dreadful slaughter, wounds made by huge, bestial jaws—Hounds. Hounds of Shadow—Shadowthrone's pups… From that day, the captain had begun a new path. On the trail of the young woman Cotillion had possessed. From that day, his life had begun its fated unravelling. 'Wait! Kellanved and Dancer went into Deadhouse—why didn't they take that aspect—the aspect of the House of Death?'

  'I've thought about that myself, and have arrived at one possibility. The realm of Death was already occupied, Paran. The King of High House Death is Hood. I believe now that each Azath is home to every gate, a way into every warren. Gain entry to the House, and you may… choose. Kellanved and Dancer found an empty House, an empty throne, and upon taking their places as Shadow's rulers, the House of Shadow appeared, and became part of the Deck of Dragons. Do you see?'

  Paran slowly nodded, struggling to take it all in. Tremors of pain twisted his stomach—he pushed them away. But what has this to do with me?

  'The House of Shadow was once a Hold,' Silverfox went on. 'You can tell—it doesn't share the hierarchical structure of the other Houses. It is bestial, a wilder place, and apart from the Hounds it knew no ruler for a long, long time.'

  'What of the Deck's Unaligned?'

  She shrugged. 'Failed aspects? The imposition of chance, of random forces? The Azath and the Deck are both impositions of order, but even order needs freedom, lest it solidify and become fragile.'

  'And where do you think I fit in? I'm nothing, Silverfox. A stumble-footed mortal.' Gods, leave me out of all this—all that you seem to be leading up to. Please.

  'I have thought long and hard on this, Paran. Anomander Rake is Knight of the House of Dark,' she said, 'yet where is the House itself? Before all else there was Dark, the Mother who birthed all. So it must be an ancient place, a Hold, or perhaps something that came before Holds themselves. A focus for the gate into Kurald Galain… undiscovered, hidden, the First Wound, with a soul trapped in its maw, thus sealing it.'

  'A soul,' Paran murmured, a chill clambering up his spine, 'or a legion of souls…'

  The breath hissed from Silverfox.

  'Before Houses there were Holds,' Paran continued with remorseless logic. 'Both fixed, both stationary. Settled. Before settlement… there was wandering. House from Hold, Hold from… a gate in motion, ceaseless motion…' He squeezed shut his eyes. 'A wagon, burdened beneath the countless souls sealing the gate into Dark…' And I sent two Hounds through that wound, I saw the seal punctured… by the Abyss…

  'Paran, something has happened—to the Deck of Dragons. A new card has arrived. Unaligned, yet, I think, dominant. The Deck has never possessed a… master.' She faced him. 'I now believe it has one. You.'

  His eyes snapped open; he stared at her in disbelief, then scorn. 'Nonsense, Tatter—Silverfox. Not me. You are wrong. You must be—'

  'I am not. My hand was guided in fashioning the card that is you—'

  'What card?'

  She did not answer, continued as if she had not heard him. 'Was it the Azath that guided me? Or some other unknown force? I do not know. Jen'isand Rul, the Wanderer within the Sword.' She met his eyes. 'You are a new Unaligned, Ganoes Paran. Birthed by accident or by some purpose the need of which only the Azath know. You must find the answer for your own creation, you must find the purpose behind what you have become.'

  His brows rose mockingly. 'You set for me a quest? Really, Silverfox. Aimless, purposeless men do not undertake quests. That's for wall-eyed heroes in epic poems. I don't believe in goals—not any more. They're naught but self-delusions. You set for me this task and you shall be gravely disappointed. As shall the Azath.'

  'An unseen war has begun, Paran. The warrens themselves are under assault—I can feel the pressure within the Deck of Dragons, though I have yet to rest a hand upon one. An army is being… assembled, perhaps, and you—a soldier—are part of that army.'

  Oh yes, so speaks Tattersail. 'I have enough wars to fight, Silverfox…'

  Her eyes glistened as she looked up at him. 'Perhaps, Ganoes Paran, they are all one war.'

  'I'm no Dujek, or Brood—I can't manage all these… campaigns. It's—it's tearing me apart.'

  'I know. You cannot hide your pain from me—I see it in your face, and it breaks my heart.'

  He looked
away. 'I have dreams as well… a child within a wound. Screaming.'

  'Do you run from that child?'

  'Aye,' he admitted shakily. 'Those screams are… terrible.'

  'You must run towards the child, my love. Flight will close your heart.'

  He turned to her. 'My love'—words to manipulate my heart? 'Who is that child?'

  She shook her head. 'I don't know. A victim in the unseen war, perhaps.' She attempted a smile. 'Your courage has been tested before, Paran, and it did not fail.'

  Grimacing, he muttered, 'There's always a first time.'

  'You are the Wanderer within the Sword. The card exists.'

  'I don't care.'

  'Nor does it,' she retorted. 'You don't have any choice—'

  He rounded on her. 'Nothing new in that! Now ask Oponn how well I performed!' His laugh was savage. 'I doubt the Twins will ever recover. The wrong choice, Tattersail, I am ever the wrong choice!'

  She stared up at him, then, infuriatingly, simply shrugged.

  Suddenly deflated, Paran turned away. His gaze fell on the Mhybe, Whiskeyjack, Mallet and Quick Ben. The four had not moved in all this time. Their patience—dammit, their faith—made the captain want to scream. You choose wrongly. Every damned one of you. But he knew they would not listen. 'I know nothing of the Deck of Dragons,' he said dully.

  'If we've the time, I will teach you. If not, you will find your own way.'

  Paran closed his eyes. The pain in his stomach was returning, rising, a slowly building wave he could no longer push back. Yes, of course. Tattersail could do no less than she has done. There you have it then, Whiskeyjack. She now leads, and the others follow. A good soldier, is Captain Ganoes Paran…

  In his mind he returned to that fraught, nightmarish realm within the sword Dragnipur, the legions of chained souls ceaselessly dragging their impossible burden… and at the heart of the wagon, a cold, dark void, from whence came the chains. The wagon carries the gate, the gate into Kurald Galain, the warren of Darkness. The sword gathers souls to seal it… such a wound it must be, to demand so many souls… He grunted at a wave of pain. Silverfox's small hand reached up to touch his arm.

  He almost flinched at the contact.

  I will fail you all.

  Chapter Five

  He rises bloodless from dust, with dead eyes that are pits twin reaches to eternal pain. He is the lodestone to the gathering clan, made anew and dream-racked. The standard a rotted hide, the throne a bone cage, the king a ghost from dark fields of battle. And now the horn moans on this grey clad dawn drawing the disparate host. To war, to war, and the charging frenzy of unbidden memories of ice.

  Lay of the First Sword

  Irig Thann Delusa (b. 1091)

  TWO DAYS AND SEVEN LEAGUES OF BLACK, CLINGING CLOUDS OF ASH, and Lady Envy's telaba showed not a single stain. Grumbling, Toc the Younger pulled the caked cloth from his face and slowly lowered his heavy leather pack to the ground. He never thought he'd bless the sight of a sweeping, featureless grassy plain, but, after the volcanic ash, the undulating vista stretching northward beckoned like paradise.

  'Will this hill suffice for a camp?' Lady Envy asked, striding over to stand close to him. 'It seems frightfully exposed. What if there are marauders on this plain?'

  'Granted, marauders aren't usually clever,' Toc replied, 'but even the stupidest bandit would hesitate before trying three Seguleh. The wind you're feeling up here will keep the biting insects away come night, Lady. I wouldn't recommend low ground—on any prairie.'

  'I bow to your wisdom, Scout.'

  He coughed, straightening to scan the area. 'Can't see your four-legged friends anywhere.'

  'Nor your bony companion.' She turned wide eyes on him. 'Do you believe they have stumbled into mischief?'

  He studied her, bemused, and said nothing.

  She raised an eyebrow, then smiled.

  Toc swiftly turned his attention back to his pack. 'I'd best pitch the tents,' he muttered.

  'As I assured you last night, Toc, my servants are quite capable of managing such mundane activities. I'd much rather you assumed for yourself a higher rank than mere menial labourer for the duration of this great adventure.'

  He paused. 'You wish me to strike heroic poses against the sunset, Lady Envy?'

  'Indeed!'

  'I wasn't aware I existed for your entertainment.'

  'Oh, now you're cross again.' She stepped closer, rested a sparrow-light hand on his shoulder. 'Please don't be angry with me. I can hardly hold interesting conversations with my servants, can I? Nor is your friend Tool a social blossom flushed with enlivening vigour. And while my two pups are near-perfect companions in always listening and never interrupting, one yearns for the spice of witty exchanges. You and I, Toc, we have only each other for this journey, so let us fashion the bonds of friendship.'

  Staring down at the bundled tents, Toc the Younger was silent for a long moment, then he sighed. 'I'm a poor excuse for witty exchanges, Lady, alas. I am a soldier and scant else.' More, I've a soldier's scars—who can naught but flinch upon seeing me?

  'Not modesty, but deception, Toc.'

  He winced at the edge to her tone.

  'You have been educated, far beyond what is common for a professional soldier. And I have heard enough of your sharp exchanges with the T'lan Imass to value your wit. What is this sudden shyness? Why the growing discomfort?'

  Her hand had not moved from his shoulder. 'You are a sorceress, Lady Envy. And sorcery makes me nervous.'

  The hand withdrew. 'I see. Or, rather, I do not. Your T'lan Imass was forged by a ritual of such power as this world has not seen in a long time, Toc the Younger. His stone sword alone is invested to an appalling degree—it cannot be broken, not even chipped, and it will cut through wards effortlessly. No warren can defend against it. I would not wager on any blade against it when in Tool's hands. And the creature himself. He is a champion of sorts, isn't he? Among the T'lan Imass, Tool is something unique. You have no idea of the power—the strength—he possesses. Does Tool make you nervous, soldier? I've seen no sign of that.'

  'Well,' Toc snapped, 'he's shrunken hide and bones, isn't he? Tool doesn't brush against me at every chance. He doesn't throw smiles at me like lances into my heart, does he? He doesn't mock that I once had a face that didn't make people turn away, does he?'

  Her eyes were wide. 'I do not mock your scars,' she said quietly.

  He glared over to the three motionless, masked Seguleh. Oh, Hood, I've made a mess of things here, haven't I? Are you laughing behind those face-shields, warriors? 'My apologies, Lady,' he managed. 'I regret my words—'

  'Yet hold to them none the less. Very well, it seems I must accept the challenge, then.'

  He looked up at her. 'Challenge?'

  She smiled. 'Indeed. Clearly, you think my affection for you is not genuine. I must endeavour to prove otherwise.'

  'Lady—'

  'And in your efforts to push me away, you'll soon discover that I am not easily pushed.'

  'To what end, Lady Envy?' All my defences broken down… for your amusement?

  Her eyes flashed and Toc knew, with certainty, the truth of his thoughts. Pain stole through him like cold iron. He began unfolding the first tent.

  Garath and Baaljagg arrived, bounding up to circle around Lady Envy. A moment later a swirl of dust rose from the ochre grasses a few paces from where Toc crouched. Tool appeared, carrying across his shoulders the carcass of a pronghorn antelope, which he shrugged off to thump on the ground.

  Toc saw no wounds on the animal. Probably scared it to death.

  'Oh, wonderful!' Lady Envy cried. 'We shall dine like nobles tonight!' She swung to her servants. 'Come, Senu, you have some butchering to do.'

  Won't be the first time, either.

  'And you other two, uhm, what shall we devise for you? Idle hands just won't do. Mok, you shall assemble the hide bath-tub. Set it on that hill over there. You needn't worry about water or perfumed oils—I shall take c
are of all that. Thurule, unpack my combs and robe, there's a good lad.'

  Toc glanced over to see Tool facing him. The scout grimaced wryly. The T'lan Imass strode over. 'We can begin our arrow-making efforts, soldier.'

  'Aye, once I'm done with the tents.'

  'Very well. I shall assemble the raw material we have collected. We must fashion a tool kit.'

  Toc had put up enough tents in his soldiering days to allow him to maintain fair attention on Tool's preparations while he worked. The T'lan Imass knelt beside the antelope and, with no apparent effort, broke off both antlers down near the base. He then moved to one side and unslung the hide bag he carried, loosening the drawstring so that it unfolded onto the ground, revealing a half-dozen large obsidian cobbles collected on their passage across the old lava flow, and an assortment of different kinds of stones which had come from the shoreline beyond the Jaghut tower, along with bone-reeds and a brace of dead seagulls, both of which were still strapped to Toc's pack.

  It was always a wonder—and something of a shock—to watch the deftness of the undead warrior's withered, almost fleshless hands, as he worked. An artist's hands. Selecting one of the obsidian cobbles, the T'lan Imass picked up one of the larger beach stones and with three swift blows detached three long, thin blades of the volcanic glass. A few more concussive strikes created a series of flakes that varied in size and thickness.

  Tool set down the hammerstone and the obsidian core. Sorting through the flakes, he chose one, gripping it in his left hand, then, with his right, he reached for one of the antlers. Using the tip of the foremost tine of the antler, the T'lan Imass began punching minute flakes from the edge of the larger flake.

  Beside Toc the Younger, Lady Envy sighed. 'Such extraordinary skill. Do you think, in the time before we began to work metal, we all possessed such abilities?'