Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  'Impossible,' the Mhybe whispered. 'The spirits—'

  'Were once flesh, my dear. Once mortal. That first band of Rhivi, perhaps? Faith,' he said with a wistful smile, 'is ever a welcoming mistress. Now, upon completing of morning ablutions, Kruppe expects to see said items adorning you. Through the days to come, through the nights yet to pass, Holy Vessel, hold fast to this faith.'

  She could say nothing. Kruppe offered her the box. She took its weight in her hands.

  How did you know? This morning of mornings, awakening in the ashes of abandonment. Bereft of lifelong beliefs. How, my dear, deceptive man, did you know?

  The Daru stepped back with a sigh. 'The rigours of delivery have left Kruppe exhausted and famished! Said box trembled these all too civilized appendages.'

  She smiled. 'Rigours of delivery, Kruppe? I could tell you a thing or two.'

  'No doubt, but do not despair of ever receiving just reward, lass.' He winked, then swung about and ambled off. A few paces away, Kruppe stopped and turned. 'Oh, Kruppe further informs that Faith has a twin, equally sweet, and that is Dreams. To discount such sweetness is to dismiss the truth of her gifts, lass.' He fluttered one hand in a wave then turned once more.

  He walked on, and moments later was beyond her line of sight. So like Manek, indeed. You buried something there, didn't you, Kruppe? Faith and dreams. The dreams of hope and desire? Or the dreams of sleep?

  Whose path did I cross last night?

  Eighty-five leagues to the northeast, Picker leaned back against the grassy slope, squinting as she watched the last of the quorls—tiny specks against a sea-blue sky—dwindle westward.

  'If I have to sit another heartbeat on one a those,' a voice growled beside her, 'someone kill me now and I'll bless 'em for the mercy.'

  The corporal closed her eyes. 'If you're giving leave to wring your neck, Antsy, I'll lay odds one of us will take you up on it before the day's done.'

  'What an awful thing to say, Picker! What's made me so unpopular? I ain't done nothing to no-one never how, have I?'

  'Give me a moment to figure out what you just said and I'll answer you honestly.'

  'I didn't not make any sense, woman, and you know it.' He lowered his voice. 'Captain's fault, anyhow—'

  'No it ain't, Sergeant, and that kinda muttering's damn unfair and could end up spitting poison right back in your eye. This deal was cooked up by Whiskeyjack and Dujek. You feel like cursing someone, try them.'

  'Curse Whiskeyjack and Onearm? Not a chance.'

  'Then stop your grumbling.'

  'Addressing your superior in that tone earns you the role of duffer today, Corporal. Maybe tomorrow, too, if I feel like it.'

  'Gods,' she muttered, 'I do hate short men with big moustaches.'

  'Gettin' all personal, are ya? Fine, y'can scrub the pots and plates tonight, too. And I got a real complicated meal in mind. Hare stuffed with figs—'

  Picker sat up, eyes wide. 'You're not gonna make us eat Spindle's hairshirt? With figs?'

  'Hare, you idiot! The four-legged things, live in holes, saw a brace of 'em in the foodpack. With figs, I said. Boiled. And rubyberry sauce, with freshwater oysters—'

  Picker sat back with a groan. 'I'll take the hairshirt, thanks.'

  The journey had been gruelling, with few and all too brief rest-stops. Nor were the Black Moranth much in the way of company. Virtually silent, aloof and grim—Picker had yet to see one of the warriors shed his or her armour. They wore it like a chitinous second skin. Their commander, Twist, and his quorl were all that remained of the flight that had transported them to the foot of the Barghast Range. Captain Paran was saddled with the task of communicating with the Black Moranth commander—and Oponn's luck to him, too.

  The quorls had taken them high, flying through the night, and the air had been frigid. Picker ached in every muscle. Eyes closed once more, she sat listening to the other Bridgeburners preparing the gear and food supplies for the journey to come. At her side, Antsy muttered under his breath a seemingly endless list of complaints.

  Heavy boots approached, unfortunately coming to a halt directly in front of her, blocking out the morning sun. After a moment, Picker pried open one eye.

  Captain Paran's attention, however, was on Antsy. 'Sergeant.'

  Antsy's muttering ceased abruptly. 'Sir?'

  'It appears that Quick Ben's been delayed. He will have to catch up with us, and your squad will provide his escort. The rest of us, with Trotts, will move out. Detoran's separated out the gear you'll need.'

  'As you say, sir. We'll wait for the snake, then—how long should we give him afore we chase after you?'

  'Spindle assures me the delay will be a short one. Expect Quick Ben some time today.'

  'And if he don't show?'

  'He'll show.'

  'But if he don't?'

  With a growl, Paran marched off.

  Antsy swung a baffled expression on Picker. 'What if Quick Ben don't show?'

  'You idiot, Antsy.'

  'It's a legit question, dammit! What got him all huffy about it?'

  'You got a brain in there somewhere, Sergeant, why not use it? If the mage don't show up, something's gone seriously wrong, and if that happens we're better off hightailing it—anywhere, so long as it's away. From everything.'

  Antsy's red face paled. 'Why won't he make it? What's gone wrong? Picker—'

  'Ain't nothing's gone wrong, Antsy! Hood's breath! Quick Ben will get here today—as sure as that sun just rose and is even now baking your brain! Look at your new squad members, Sergeant—Mallet, there, and Hedge—you're embarrassing the rest of us!'

  Antsy snarled and clambered to his feet. 'What're you toads staring at? Get to work! You, Mallet, give Detoran a hand—I want those hearth-stones level! If the pot tips because they weren't, you'll be sorry and I ain't exaggerating neither. And you, Hedge, go find Spindle—'

  The sapper pointed up the hill. 'He's right there, Sergeant. Checking out that upside-down tree.'

  Hands on hips, Antsy pivoted, then slowly nodded. 'And it's no wonder. What kinda trees grow upside-down, anyway? A smart man can't help but be curious.'

  'If you're so curious,' Picker muttered, 'why not go and look for yourself?'

  'Nah, what's the point? Go collect Spindle, then, Hedge. Double-time.'

  'Double-time up a hill? Beru fend, Antsy, it's not like we're going anywhere!'

  'You heard me, soldier.'

  Scowling, the sapper began jogging up the slope. After a few strides, he slowed to a stagger. Picker grinned.

  'Now where's Blend?' Antsy demanded.

  'Right here beside you, sir.'

  'Hood's breath! Stop doing that! Where you been skulking, anyway?'

  'Nowhere,' she replied.

  'Liar,' Picker said. 'Caught you sliding up outa the corner of my eye, Blend. You're mortal, after all.'

  She shrugged. 'Heard an interesting conversation between Paran and Trotts. Turns out that Barghast bastard once had some kind of high rank in his own tribe. Something about all those tattoos. Anyway, turns out we're here to find the biggest local tribe—the White Faces—with the aim of enlisting their help. An alliance against the Pannion Domin.'

  Picker snorted. 'Flown then dropped off at the foot of the Barghast Range, what else did you think we were up to?'

  'Only there's a problem,' she continued laconically, examining her nails. 'Trotts will get us face to face without all of us getting skewered, but he might end up fighting a challenge or two. Personal combat. If he wins, we all live. If he gets himself killed…'

  Antsy's mouth hung open, his moustache twitching as if independently alive.

  Picker groaned.

  The sergeant spun. 'Corporal—find Trotts! Sit 'im down with that fancy whetstone of yours and get 'im to sharpen his weapons real good—'

  'Oh, really, Antsy!'

  'We gotta do something!'

  'About what?' a new voice asked.

  Antsy whirled again. 'Spindle, thank
the Queen! Trotts is going to get us all killed!'

  The mage shrugged beneath his hairshirt. 'That explains all those agitated spirits in this hill, then. They can smell him, I guess—'

  'Smell? Agitated? Hood's bones, we're all done for!'

  Standing with the rest of the Bridgeburners, Paran's eyes narrowed on the squad at the foot of the barrow. 'What's got Antsy all lit up?' he wondered aloud.

  Trotts bared his teeth. 'Blend was here,' he rumbled. 'Heard everything.'

  'Oh, that's terrific news—why didn't you say anything?'

  The Barghast shrugged his broad shoulders, was silent.

  Grimacing, the captain strode over to the Black Moranth commander.

  'Is that quorl of yours rested enough, Twist? I want you high over us. I want to know when we've been spotted—'

  The chitinous black helm swung to face him. 'They are already aware, Nobleborn.'

  'Captain will do, Twist. I don't need reminding of my precious blood. Aware, are they? How, and just as important, how do you know they know?'

  'We stand on their land, Captain. The soul beneath us is the blood of their ancestors. Blood whispers. The Moranth hear.'

  'Surprised you can hear anything inside that helm of yours,' Paran muttered, tired and irritated. 'Never mind. I want you over us anyway.'

  The commander slowly nodded.

  The captain turned and surveyed his company. Veteran soldiers—virtually every one of them. Silent, frighteningly professional. He wondered what it would be like to see out through the eyes of any one of them, through the layers of the soul's exhaustion that Paran had barely begun to find within himself. Soldiers now and soldiers to the end of their days—none would dare leave to find peace. Solicitude and calm would unlock that safe prison of cold control—the only thing keeping them sane.

  Whiskeyjack had said to Paran that, once this war was done, the Bridgeburners would be retired. Forcibly if necessary.

  Armies possessed traditions, and these had less to do with discipline than with the fraught truths of the human spirit. Rituals at the beginning, shared among each and every recruit. And rituals at the end, a formal closure that was recognition—recognition in every way imaginable. They were necessary. Their gift was a kind of sanity, a means of coping. A soldier cannot be sent away without guidance, cannot be abandoned and left lost in something unrecognizable and indifferent to their lives. Remembrance and honouring the ineffable. 'Yet, when it's done, what is the once-soldier? What does he or she become? An entire future spent walking backward, eyes on the past—its horrors, its losses, its grief, its sheer heart-bursting living? The ritual is a turning round, a facing forward, a gentle and respectful hand like a guide on the shoulder.

  Sorrow was a steady, faint susurration within Paran, a tide that neither ebbed nor flowed, yet threatened to drown him none the less.

  And when the White Faces find us… each and every man and woman here could end up with slit throats, and Queen help me, I begin to wonder if it would be a mercy. Queen help me…

  A swift flutter of wings and the quorl was airborne, the Black Moranth commander perched on the moulded saddle.

  Paran watched them rise for a moment longer, his stomach churning, then turned to his company. 'On your feet, Bridgeburners. Time to march.'

  The dark, close air was filled with sickly mist. Quick Ben felt himself moving through it, his will struggling like a swimmer against a savage current. After a few more moments he withdrew his questing, slipped sideways into yet another warren.

  It fared little better. Some kind of infection had seeped in from the physical world beyond, was corrupting every sorcerous path he attempted. Fighting nausea, he pushed himself forward.

  This has the stench of the Crippled God… yet the enemy whose lands we approach is the Pannion Seer. Granted, an obvious means of self-defence, sufficient to explain the coincidence. Then again, since when do I believe in coincidences? No, this comingling of scents hinted at a deeper truth. That bastard ascendant may well be chained, his body broken, but I can feel his hand—even here—twitching at invisible threads.

  The faintest of smiles touched the wizard's lips. A worthy challenge.

  He shifted warrens once again, and found himself on the trail of… something. A presence was ahead, leaving a cooled, strangely lifeless wake. Well, perhaps no surprise—I'm striding the edge of Hood's own realm now, after all. None the less… Unease pattered within him like sleet. He pushed his nervousness down. Hood's warren was resisting the poison better than many others Quick Ben had attempted.

  The ground beneath him was clay, damp and clammy, the cold reaching through the wizard's moccasins. Faint, colourless light bled down from a formless sky that seemed no higher than a ceiling. The haze filling the air felt oily, thick enough on either side to make the path seem like a tunnel.

  Quick Ben's steps slowed. The clay ground was no longer smooth. Deep incisions crossed it, glyphs in columns and panels. Primitive writing, the wizard suspected, yet… He crouched and reached down. 'Freshly cut… or timeless.' At a faint tingle from the contact he withdrew his hand. 'Wards, maybe. Bindings.'

  Stepping carefully to avoid the glyphs, Quick Ben padded forward.

  He skirted a broad sinkhole filled with painted pebbles—offerings to Hood from some holy temple, no doubt—benedictions and prayers in a thousand languages from countless supplicants. And there they lie. Unnoticed, ignored or forgotten. Even clerks die, Hood—why not put them to good use cleaning all this up? Of all our traits to survive the passage of death, surely obsessiveness must be counted high among them.

  The incisions grew thicker, more crowded, forcing the wizard to slow his pace yet further. It was becoming difficult to find a clear space on the clay for his feet. Binding sorceries—the whispered skeins of power made manifest, here on the floor of Hood's realm.

  A dozen paces ahead was a small, bedraggled object, surrounded in glyphs. Quick Ben's frown deepened as he edged closer. Like the makings of fire… sticks and twisted grasses on a round, pale hearthstone.

  Then he saw it tremble.

  Ah, these binding spells belong to you, little one. Your soul, trapped. As I once did to that mage, Hairlock, someone's done to you. Curious indeed. He moved as close as he could, then slowly crouched.

  'You're looking a little worse for wear, friend,' the wizard said.

  The minuscule acorn head swivelled slightly, then flinched back. 'Mortal!' the creature hissed in the language of the Barghast. 'The clans must be told! I can go no further—look, the wards pursued, the wards closed the web—I am trapped!'

  'So I see. You were of the White Faces, shaman?'

  'And so I remain!'

  'Yet you escaped your barrow—you eluded the binding spells of your kin, for a while at least, in any case. Do you truly believe they will welcome your return, Old One?'

  'I was dragged from my barrow, fool! You are journeying to the clans—I see the truth of that in your eyes. I shall tell you my tale, mortal, and so they know the truth of all that you tell them, I shall give you my true name—'

  'A bold offer, Old One. What's to prevent me from twisting you to my will?'

  The creature twitched, a snarl in its tone as it replied, 'You could be no worse than my last masters. I am Talamandas, born of the First Hearth in the Knotted Clan. The first child birthed on this land—do you know the significance of that, mortal?'

  'I am afraid not, Talamandas.'

  'My previous masters—those damned necromancers—had worked through, mortal, were mere moments from discovering my true name—worked through, I tell you, with brutal claws indifferent to pain. With my name they would have learned secrets that even my own people have long forgotten. Do you know the significance of the trees on our barrows? No, you do not. Indeed they hold the soul, keep it from wandering, but why?

  'We came to this land from the seas, plying the vast waters in dugouts—the world was young, then, our blood thick with the secret truths of our past. Look upon the faces
of the Barghast, mortal—no, look upon a Barghast skull stripped of skin and muscle…'

  'I've seen… Barghast skulls,' Quick Ben said slowly.

  'Ah, and have you seen their like… animate?'

  The wizard scowled. 'No, but something similar, squatter—the features slightly more pronounced—'

  'Slightly, aye, slightly. Squatter? No surprise, we never went hungry, for the sea provided. Yet more, Tartheno Toblakai were among us…'

  'You were T'lan Imass! Hood's breath! Then… you and your kin must have defied the Ritual—'

  'Defied? No. We simply failed to arrive in time—our pursuit of the Jaghut had forced us to venture onto the seas, to dwell among iceflows and on treeless islands. And in our isolation from kin, among the elder peoples—the Tartheno—we changed… when our distant kin did not. Mortal, wherever land proved generous enough to grant us a birth, we buried our dugouts—for ever. From this was born the custom of the trees on our barrows—though none among my kind remembers. It has been so long…'

  'Tell me your tale, Talamandas. But first, answer me this. What would you do… if I freed you of these bindings?'

  'You cannot.'

  'Not an answer.'

  'Very well, though it be pointless. I would seek to set free the First Families—aye, we are spirits, and now worshipped by the living clans. But the ancient bindings have kept us as children in so many ways. Well meant, yet a curse none the less. We must be freed. To grow into true power—'

  'To ascend into true gods,' Quick Ben whispered, his eyes wide as he stared down at the ragged figure of grasses and twigs.

  'The Barghast refuse to change, the living think now as the living always did. Generation after generation. Our kind are dying out, mortal. We rot from within. For the ancestors are prevented from giving true guidance, prevented from maturing into their power—our power. To answer your question, mortal, I would save the living Barghast, if I could.'

  'Tell me, Talamandas,' Quick Ben asked with veiled eyes, 'is survival a right, or a privilege?'