Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  'Given the Destriant's exhaustion,' the Mortal Sword said, 'they found them, it seems.'

  Sidlis nodded.

  'There is more, sir?' Karnadas asked.

  'Sir. Accompanying me are emissaries from these potential allies. The Shield Anvil judged that such negotiation as may follow be solely between the Grey Swords and our guests; and that any decision of revelation, to the prince or to the Mask Council, should only follow considered counsel among yourselves, sirs.'

  Brukhalian grunted his agreement. 'The emissaries await in the compound?'

  The answer to his question rose in swirls of dust to the outrider's left. Three desiccated, fur-clad figures shimmered into being, rising up from the stone floor. Rotted furs and leathers, skin polished deep brown, massive shoulders and long, muscle-twisted arms.

  The Destriant staggered back out of his chair, eyes wide.

  Brukhalian had not moved. His eyes narrowed on the three apparitions.

  The air suddenly smelled of thawed mud.

  'They call themselves the Kron T'lan Imass,' Sidlis said calmly. 'The Shield Anvil judged their warriors to number perhaps fourteen thousand.'

  'T'lan Imass,' Karnadas whispered. 'This is a most disturbing… convergence.'

  'If I may make introductions,' Sidlis continued, 'these are Bonecasters—shamans. The one to the far left, upon whose shoulders is the fur of a snow bear, is Bek Okhan. Next to him, in the white wolf fur, is Bendal Home. The Bonecaster at my side, in the skin of a plains bear, is Okral Lom. I specify the nature of the furs as it relates directly to their… Soletaken forms. Or so they have informed me.'

  The one named Bendal Home stepped forward. 'I bring greeting from Kron of Kron T'lan Imass, mortal,' he said in a soft, smooth whisper. 'Further, I have recent news from the clans escorting your Shield Anvil and his soldiers. Additional K'Chain Che'Malle K'ell Hunters were found, engaged in an attack on a cavaran. These hunters have been despatched. Your soldiers have administered to the wounds of the caravan survivors. All are now returning to Capustan. No further engagements are anticipated, and their arrival will coincide with the dawn.'

  Trembling, Karnadas once more sat down in his chair. He struggled to speak past a suddenly parched throat. 'K'Chain Che'Malle? Animated?'

  'Thank you, Sidlis,' Brukhalian said. 'You may now depart.' He faced Bendal Home. 'Do I understand correctly that Kron seeks an alliance against the Pannion Domin, and these… K'Chain Che'Malle?'

  The Bonecaster cocked his head, his long, pale hair dangling loose from beneath the wolf-skull helmet. 'Such a battle is not our primary task. We have come to this land in answer to a summons. The presence of K'Chain Che'Malle was unexpected—and unacceptable. Further, we are curious as to the identity of the one named Pannion—we suspect he is not the mortal human you believe him to be. Kron has judged that our involvement in your conflict is required for the present. There is a caveat, however. The one who has summoned us approaches. With her arrival, the Second Gathering of the T'lan Imass will commence. At this time, our disposition will be for her to decide. Furthermore, it may well be that we become… of less value to you… upon completion of the Gathering.'

  Brukhalian slowly turned to Karnadas. 'Sir? You have questions for the one named Bendal Home?'

  'So many that I do not know where to begin, Mortal Sword. Bonecaster, what is this "Gathering" that you speak of?'

  'That is a matter for the T'lan Imass, mortal.'

  'I see. Well, that shuts the door on one line of inquiry, and its attendant multitude of questions. Regards the Pannion Seer—he is indeed a mortal human. I have seen him myself, and there is no scent of illusion to his flesh and bone. He is an old man, and nothing more.'

  'And who stands in his shadow?' the Bonecaster named Bek Okhan rasped.

  The Destriant blinked. 'No-one, as far as I can tell.' The three T'lan Imass said nothing, yet Karnadas suspected a silent exchange among them, and perhaps with their distant kin as well.

  'Mortal Sword,' the priest said in a low voice, 'do we inform the prince of this? What of the Mask Council?'

  'Further counsel is indeed required before that decision can be made, sir,' Brukhalian replied. 'At the very least, we shall await the return of the Shield Anvil. Furthermore, there is the issue of additional communications this night, is there not?'

  Fener's blessing, I'd forgotten. 'Indeed there is.' Quick Ben… by the cloven hoof, we have allies stepping out of every closet…

  Bendal Home spoke. 'Mortal Sword Brukhalian, your soldier Itkovian has decided that their public arrival into the city—with the company of the caravan's wounded—will include six of the T'lan Ay that now accompany our kin.'

  'T'lan Ay?' Karnadas asked. 'Not a name I've heard before.'

  'Wolves from the times of ice, long ago. Like us, undead.' Brukhalian smiled.

  A moment later, Karnadas also smiled. 'The prince asked for… leverage, did he not, Mortal Sword?'

  'He shall have it, sir.'

  'So he shall.'

  'If you have further need of us this evening,' Bendal Home said to Brukhalian, 'simply call upon us.'

  'Thank you, sirs.'

  The three T'lan Imass fell into clouds of dust.

  'I take it,' the Destriant murmured, 'we need not offer our guests accommodation.'

  'Evidently not. Walk with me, sir, we have much to discuss and scant time.'

  Karnadas rose. 'No sleep this night.'

  'None, alas.'

  Two bells before dawn, Brukhalian stood alone in his private chamber. Exhaustion hung on him like a rain-sodden cloak, yet he would not yield to it. The Shield Anvil and his troop were soon to arrive, and the Mortal Sword was determined to await them—a commander could do no less.

  A single lantern defied the gloom in the chamber, throwing lurid shadows before it. The centre hearth remained a grey smudge of dead coals and ashes. The air was bitter cold, and it was this alone that kept Brukhalian wakeful.

  The sorcerous meeting with Quick Ben and Caladan Brood had proved, beneath its surface courtesies, strained—it was clear to both the Mortal Sword and Karnadas that their distant allies were holding back. The uncertainties plaguing their final intentions, and their guardedness, though understandable in the circumstances, left the two Grey Swords uncomfortable. Relief of Capustan was not, it seemed, their primary goal. An attempt would be made, but the Mortal Sword began to suspect it would be characterized by feints and minor skirmishes—late arriving at best—rather than a direct confrontation. This led Brukhalian to suspect that Caladan Brood's vaunted army, worn down by years of war with this Malazan Empire, had either lost the will to fight, or was so badly mauled that its combat effectiveness was virtually gone.

  None the less, he could still think of ways in which to make these approaching allies useful. Often, the perception of threat was sufficient… if we can hurt the Septarch badly enough to make him lose his nerve upon the imminent arrival of Brood's relieving army. Or, if the defence crumbled, then an avenue of withdrawal for the Grey Swords was possible. The question then would be, at what point could the Mortal Sword honourably conclude that the contract's objectives no longer obtained? The death of Prince Jelarkan? Collapse of wall defences? Loss of a section of the city?

  He sensed the air suddenly tear behind him, the sound like the faintest whisper as of parting fabric. A breath of lifeless wind flowed around him. The Mortal Sword slowly turned.

  A tall, gauntly armoured figured was visible within the warren's grey-smeared portal. A face of pallid, lined skin over taut bones, eyes set deep within ridged sockets and brow, the glimmer of tusks protruding above the lower lip. The figure's mouth curved into a faint, mocking smile. 'Fener's Mortal Sword,' he said in the language of the Elin, his voice low and soft, 'I bring you greetings from Hood, Lord of Death.'

  Brukhalian grunted, said nothing.

  'Warrior,' the apparition continued after a moment, 'your reaction to my arrival seems almost… laconic. Are you truly as calm as you would have me
believe?'

  'I am Fener's Mortal Sword,' Brukhalian replied.

  'Yes,' the Jaghut drawled, 'I know. I, on the other hand, am Hood's Herald, once known as Gethol. The tale that lies behind my present… servitude, is more than worthy of an epic poem. Or three. Are you not curious?'

  'No.'

  The face fell into exaggerated despondency, then the eyes flashed. 'How unimaginative of you, Mortal Sword. Very well, hear then, without comforting preamble, the words of my lord. While none would deny Hood's eternal hunger, and indeed his anticipation for the siege to come, certain complexities of the greater scheme lead my lord to venture an invitation to Fener's mortal soldiers—'

  'Then you should be addressing the Tusked One himself, sir,' Brukhalian rumbled.

  'Ah, alas, this has proved no longer posssible, Mortal Sword. Fener's attention is elsewhere. In fact, your lord has been drawn, with great reluctance, to the very edge of his realm.' The Herald's unhuman eyes narrowed. 'Fener is in great peril. The loss of your patron's power is imminent. The time has come, Hood has decided, for compassionate gestures, for expressions of the true brotherhood that exists between your lord and mine.'

  'What does Hood propose, sir?'

  'This city is doomed, Mortal Sword. Yet your formidable army need not join in the inevitable crush at Hood's gate. Such a sacrifice would be pointless, and indeed a great loss. The Pannion Domin is no more than a single, rather minor, element in a far vaster war—a war in which all the gods shall partake… allied one and all… against an enemy who seeks nothing less than the annihilation of all rivals. Thus. Hood offers you his warren, a means of extrication for you and your soldiers. Yet you must choose quickly, for the warren's path here cannot survive the arrival of the Pannion's forces.'

  'What you offer, sir, demands the breaking of our contract.'

  The Herald's laugh was contemptuous. 'As I most vehemently told Hood, you humans are a truly pathetic lot. A contract? Scratchings on vellum? My lord's offer is not a thing to be negotiated.'

  'And in accepting Hood's warren,' Brukhalian said quietly, 'the face of our patron changes, yes? Fener's… inaccessibility… has made him a liability. And so Hood acts quickly, eager to strip the Boar of Summer's mortal servants, preferably intact, to thereafter serve him and him alone.'

  'Foolish man,' Gethol sneered. 'Fener shall be the first casualty in the war with the Crippled God. The Boar shall fall—and none can save him. The patronage of Hood is not casually offered, mortal, to just anyone. To be so honoured—'

  'Honoured?' Brukhalian cut in, his voice the slide of iron on stone, his eyes flickering with a strange light. 'Allow me, on Fener's behalf,' he said in a low whisper, 'to comment on the question of honour.' The Mortal Sword's broadsword hissed in a blur from its scabbard, the blade cleaving upward to strike the Herald across the face. Bone snapped, dark blood sprayed.

  Gethol reared back a step, withered hands rising to his shattered features.

  Brukhalian lowered his weapon, his eyes burning with a deep rage. 'Come forward again, Herald, and I shall resume my commentary.'

  'I do not,' Gethol rasped through torn lips, 'appreciate your… tone. It falls to me to answer in kind, not on Hood's behalf. Not any more. No, this reply shall be mine and mine alone.' A longsword appeared in each gauntleted hand, the blades shimmering like liquid gold. The Herald's eyes glittered like mirrors to the weapons. He took a step, forward.

  Then stopped, swords lifting into a defensive position.

  A soft voice spoke behind Brukhalian. 'We greet you, Jaghut.'

  The Mortal Sword turned to see the three T'lan Imass, each one strangely insubstantial, as if moments from assuming new forms, new shapes. Moments, Brukhalian realized, from veering into their Soletaken beasts. The air filled with a stale stench of spice.

  'Not your concern, this fight,' Gethol hissed.

  'The fight with this mortal?' Bek Okhan asked. 'No. However, Jaghut, you are.'

  'I am Hood's Herald—do you dare challenge a servant of the lord of death?'

  The T'lan Imass's desiccated lips peeled back. 'Why would we hesitate, Jaghut? Now ask of your lord, does he dare challenge us?'

  Gethol grunted as something dragged him bodily back, the warren snapping shut, swallowing him. The air swirled briefly in the wake of the portal's sudden vanishing, then settled.

  'Evidently not,' Bek Okhan said.

  Sighing, Brukhalian sheathed his sword and faced the T'lan Imass Bonecasters. 'Your arrival has left me disappointed, sirs.'

  'We understand this, Mortal Sword. You were doubtless well matched. Yet our hunt for this Jaghut demanded our… interruption. His talent for escaping us is undiminished, it seems, even to the point of bending a knee in the service of a god. Your defiance of Hood makes you a worthwhile companion.'

  Brukhalian grimaced. 'If only to improve your chances of closing with this Jaghut, I take it.'

  'Indeed.'

  'So we are understood in this.'

  'Yes. It seems we are.'

  He stared at the three creatures for a moment, then turned away. 'I think we can assume the Herald will not be returning to us this evening. Forgive my curtness, sirs, but I wish solitude once again.'

  The T'lan Imass each bowed, then disappeared.

  Brukhalian walked to the hearth, drawing his sword once more. He set the blunt end amongst the cold embers, slowly stirred the ashes. Flames licked into life, the coals burgeoning a glowing red. The spatters and streaks of Jaghut blood on the blade sizzled black, then burned away to nothing.

  He stared down at the hearth for a long time, and despite the unveiled power of the sanctified sword, the Mortal Sword saw before him nothing but ashes.

  Up from the darkness, a clawing, gasping struggle. Explosive blooms of pain, like a wall of fire rising behind his eyes, the shivering echoes of wounds, a tearing and puncturing of flesh—his own flesh.

  A low groan escaped him, startled him into an awareness—he lay propped at an angle, taut skins stretched beneath him. There had been motion, a rocking and bumping and scraping, but that had ceased. He opened his eyes, found himself in shadow. A stone wall reared to his left, within reach. The air smelled of horses and dust and, much closer, blood and sweat.

  Morning sunlight bathed the compound to his right, glimmered off the blurred figures moving about there. Soldiers, horses, impossibly huge, lean wolves.

  Boots crunched on gravel and the shadow over him deepened. Blinking, Gruntle looked up.

  Stonny's face was drawn, spattered with dried blood, her hair hanging in thick, snarled ropes. She laid a hand on his chest. 'We've reached Capustan,' she said in a ragged voice.

  He managed a nod.

  'Gruntle—'

  Pain filled her eyes, and he felt a chill sweep over him.

  'Gruntle… Harllo's dead. They—they left him, buried under rocks. They left him. And Netok—Netok, that dear boy… so wide-eyed, so innocent. I gave him his manhood, Gruntle, I did that, at least. Dead—we lost them both.' She reeled away then, out of the range of his vision, though he heard her rushed footsteps, dwindling.

  Another face appeared, a stranger's, a young woman, helmed, her expression gentle. 'We are safe now, sir,' she said, her accent Capan. 'You have been force-healed. I grieve for your losses. We all do—the Grey Swords, that is. Rest assured, sir, you were avenged against the demons…'

  Gruntle stopped listening, his eyes pulling away, fixing on the clear blue sky directly overhead. I saw you, Harllo. You bastard. Throwing yourself in that creature's path, between us. I saw, damn you.

  A corpse beneath rocks, a face in the darkness, smeared in dust, that would never again smile.

  A new voice. 'Captain.'

  Gruntle turned his head, forced words through the clench of his throat. 'It's done, Keruli,' he said. 'You've been delivered. It's done. Damn you to Hood, get out of my sight.'

  The priest bowed his head, withdrew through the haze of Gruntle's anger; withdrew, then was gone.

  Chapte
r Eight

  The harder the world, the fiercer the honour.

  Dancer

  THE BONES FORMED HILLS, STRETCHING OUT ON ALL SIDES. Clattering, shifting beneath Gethol as the Jaghut struggled for purchase against the slope. The blood had slowed its flow down his ruined face, though the vision of one eye was still obscured—blocked by an upthrust shard that glimmered pink-white—and the pain had dulled to a pulsing throb.

  'Vanity,' he mumbled through scabbed lips, 'is not my curse.' He gained his balance, straightened, tottering, on the hillside. 'No predicting mortal humans—no, not even Hood could have imagined such… insolence. But ah! The Herald's visage is now broken, and that which is broken must be discarded. Discarded…'

  Gethol looked around. The endless hills, the formless sky, the cool, dead air. The bones. The Jaghut's undamaged eyebrow lifted. 'None the less, I appreciate the joke, Hood. Ha ha. Here you have tossed me. Ha ha. And now, I have leave to crawl free. Free from your service. So be it.'

  The Jaghut opened his warren, stared into the portal that formed before him, his path into the cold, almost airless realm of Omtose Phellack. 'I know you, now, Hood. I know who—what—you are. Delicious irony, the mirror of your face. Do you in turn, I now wonder, know me?'

  He strode into the warren. The familiar gelid embrace eased his pain, the fire of his nerves. The steep, jagged walls of ice to either side bathed him in blue-green light. He paused, tested the air. No stench of Imass, no signs of intrusion, yet the power he sensed around him was weakened, damaged by millennia of breaches, the effrontery of T'lan. Like the Jaghut themselves, Omtose Phellack was dying. A slow, wasting death.

  'Ah, my friend,' he whispered, 'we are almost done. You and I, spiralling down into… oblivion. A simple truth. Shall I unleash my rage? No. After all, my rage is not enough. It never was.'