Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  'The latter, mortal. The latter. And it must be earned. I wish for the chance. For all my people, I wish for the chance.'

  The wizard slowly nodded. 'A worthy wish, Old One.' He held out his hand, palm up, stared down at it. 'There's salt in this clay, is there not? I smell it. Clay is usually airless, lifeless. Defiant of the tireless servants of the soil. But the salt, well…' A writhing clump took shape on Quick Ben's palm. 'Sometimes,' he went on, 'the simplest of creatures can defeat the mightiest sorceries, in the simplest way imaginable.' The worms—red like blood, thin, long and ridged with leg-like cilia along their lengths—twisted and heaved, fell in clumps to the glyph-strewn ground. 'These are native to a distant continent. They feed on salt, or so it seems—the mines on the dry sea beds of Setta are thick with these things, especially in the dry season. They can turn the hardest pan of clay into sand. To put it another way, they bring air to the airless.' He dropped the clump onto the ground, watched as the worms spread out, began burrowing. 'And they breed faster than maggots. Ah, see those glyphs—there, on the edges? Their binding's crumbling—can you feel the loosening?'

  'Mortal, who are you?'

  'In the eyes of the gods, Talamandas? Just a lowly saltworm. I'll hear your tale now, Old One…'

  Chapter Nine

  On the subcontinent of Stratem, beyond Korelri's south range, can be found a vast peninsula where even the gods do not tread. Reaching to each coast, encompassing an area of thousands of square leagues, stretches a vast plaza. Aye, dear readers, there is no other word for it. Fashion this in your mind: near-seamless flagstones, unmarred by age and of grey, almost black, stone. Rippled lines of dark dust, minuscule dunes heaped by the moaning winds, these are all that break the breathless monotony. Who laid such stones?

  Should we give credence to Gothos's hoary tome, his glorious 'Folly'? Should we attach a dread name to the makers of this plaza? If we must, then that name is K'Chain Che'Malle. Who, then, were the K'Chain Che'Malle? An Elder Race, or so Gothos tells. Extinct even before the rise of the Jaghut, the T'lan Imass, the Forkrul Assail.

  Truth? Ah, if so, then these stones were laid down half a million—perhaps more—years ago. In the opinion of this chronicler, what utter nonsense.

  My Endless Travels

  Esslee Monot (the Dubious)

  'HOW DO YOU MEASURE A LIFE, TOC THE YOUNGER? PLEASE, darling, I would hear your thoughts. Deeds are the crudest measure of all, wouldn't you say?'

  He cast her a glower as they walked. 'You suggesting that good intentions are enough, Lady?'

  Envy shrugged. 'Can no value be found in good intentions?'

  'What, precisely, are you trying to justify? And to me, or yourself?'

  She glared, then quickened her pace. 'You're no fun at all,' she sniffed as she pulled ahead, 'and presumptuous as well. I'm going to talk with Tool—his moods don't swing!'

  No, they just hang there, twisting in the wind.

  Not entirely true, he realized after a moment. The T'lan Imass had showed the fullest measure of his emotions a week past. With his sister's departure. None of us are immune to tortured hearts, I guess. He rested a hand on Baaljagg's shoulder, squinted towards the distant ridgeline to the northeast, and the washed-out mountains beyond.

  The ridge marked the borders of the Pannion Domin. There was a city at the foot of those mountains, or so the Lady had assured him. Bastion. An ominous name. And strangers aren't welcome … So why in Hood's name are we heading there?

  Onearm's Host had effectively declared war on the theocratic empire. Tool's knowledge of the details had Toc wondering, but not doubting. Every description of the Pannion Domin simply added fuel to the likelihood of Dujek taking… umbrage. The old High Fist despised tyranny. Which is ironic, since the Emperor was a tyrant… I think. Then again, maybe not. Despotic, sure, and monomaniacal, even slightly insane… He scowled, glanced back to the three Seguleh trailing him. Glittering eyes within hard masks. Toc resumed his study of the ridge ahead, shivering.

  Something's awry, somewhere. Maybe right here. Since her return from Callows, with Mok in tow and his mask sporting a crimson, thickly planted kiss—Hood's breath, does the man even know? If I was Senu or Thurule, would I dare tell him? Since her return, yes, there's been a change. A skittery look in her eyes—just the occasional flash, but I'm not mistaken. The stakes have been raised, and I'm in a game I don't even know. I don't know the players ranged against me, either.

  He blinked suddenly, finding Lady Envy walking alongside him once again. 'Tool say the wrong thing?' he asked.

  Her nose wrinkled in distaste. 'Haven't you ever wondered what the undead think about, Toc the Younger?'

  'No. That is, I don't ever recall musing on the subject, Lady.'

  'They had gods, once, you know.'

  He shot her a glance. 'Oh?'

  'Well. Spirits, then. Earth and rock and tree and beast and sun and stars and antler and bone and blood—'

  'Yes, yes, Lady, I grasp the theme.'

  'Your interruptions are most rude, young man—are you typical of your generation? If so, then the world is indeed on a downward spiral into the Abyss. Spirits, I was saying. All extinct now. All nothing more than dust. The Imass have outlasted their own deities. Difficult to imagine, but they are godless in every sense, Toc the Younger. Faith… now ashes. Answer me this, my dear, do you envisage your afterlife?'

  He grunted. 'Hood's gate? In truth, I avoid thinking about it, Lady. What's the point? We die and our soul passes through. I suppose it's up to Hood or one of his minions to decide what to do with it, if anything.'

  Her eyes flashed. 'If anything. Yes.'

  A chill prickled Toc's skin.

  'What would you do,' Lady Envy asked, 'with the knowledge that Hood does nothing with your soul? That it's left to wander, eternally lost, purposeless? That it exists without hope, without dreams?'

  'Do you speak the truth, Lady? Is this knowledge you possess? Or are you simply baiting me?'

  'I am baiting you, of course, my young love. How would I know anything of Hood's hoary realm? Then again, think of the physical manifestations of that warren—the cemeteries in your cities, the forlorn and forgotten barrows—not places conducive to festive occasions, yes? Think of all of Hood's host of holidays and celebrations. Swarming flies, blood-covered acolytes, cackling crows and faces stained with the ash from cremations—I don't know about you, but I don't see much fun going on, do you?'

  'Can't we be having some other kind of conversation, Lady Envy? This one's hardly cheering me up.'

  'I was simply musing on the T'lan Imass.'

  You were? Oh… right. He sighed. 'They war with the Jaghut, Lady. That is their purpose, and it certainly seems sufficient to sustain them. I'd imagine they've little need for spirits or gods or faith, even. They exist to wage their war, and so long as a single Jaghut's still breathing on this world…'

  'And are any? Still breathing, that is?'

  'How should I know? Ask Tool.'

  'I did.'

  'And?'

  'And… he doesn't know.'

  Toc stumbled a step, slowed, staring at her, then at the T'lan Imass striding ahead. 'He doesn't know?'

  'Indeed, Toc the Younger. Now, what do you make of that?'

  He could manage no reply.

  'What if the war's ended? What next, for the T'lan Imass?'

  He considered, then slowly said, 'A second Ritual of Gathering?'

  'Mhmm.'

  'An end? An end to the T'lan Imass? Hood's breath!'

  'And not a single spirit waiting to embrace all those weary, so very weary souls…'

  An end, an end. Gods, she might be right. He stared at Tool's fur-clad back, and was almost overcome with a sense of loss. Vast, ineffable loss. 'You might be wrong, Lady.'

  'I might,' she agreed affably. 'Do you hope that I am, Toc the Younger?'

  He nodded.

  'Why?' she asked.

  Why? Unhuman creatures sworn to genocide. Brutal, deadly, implacab
le. Relentless beyond all reason. Toc nodded towards the T'lan Imass ahead of them. 'Because he's my friend, Lady Envy.'

  They had not been speaking in low tones. At Toc's words, Tool's head turned, the shelf of the brow hiding the pits of eyes that seemed to fix on the Malazan for a moment. Then the head swung forward once more.

  'The summoner of the Gathering,' Lady Envy slowly spoke, 'is among your Malazan punitive army, Toc the Younger. We shall converge within the Pannion Domin. Us, them, and the surviving clans of the T'lan Imass. There will be, without doubt, battles aplenty. The crushing of an empire is never easy. I should know, having crushed a few in my time.'

  He stared at her, said nothing.

  She smiled. 'Alas, they will approach from the north, whilst we approach from the south. Our journey ahead will be fraught indeed.'

  'I admit I have been wondering,' Toc said. 'How, precisely, will we manage to cross a hostile, fanatic territory?'

  'Simple, love, we shall carve our way through.'

  Gods, if I stay with these people, I am a dead man.

  Lady Envy was still smiling, her eyes on Tool. 'Like a white-hot knife through ice, we thrust to the heart… of a frozen, timeless soul.' Her voice rising slightly, she added, 'Or so we suspect, do we not, Onos T'oolan?'

  The T'lan Imass stopped.

  Baaljagg pulled away from beneath Toc's hand, padded forward. The dog Garath followed.

  The Malazan spun upon hearing three sets of swords slide from scabbards.

  'Oh,' Lady Envy said. 'Something's coming.'

  Toc unslung his bow and planted its butt to string it as he scanned the horizon ahead. 'I don't see anything… but I'll take everyone's word for it.'

  Moments later a K'Chain Che'Malle crested the ridgeline a hundred paces ahead, huge, slung forward and seeming to flow over the ground on two legs. Blades flashed at the ends of its arms.

  Ay and dog flinched back.

  Toc's recollection of such a creature—fraught with the pained memories of Trake's death—returned to him with a jolt that shortened his breath.

  'K'ell Hunter,' Tool said. 'Lifeless.' He had not yet reached for his stone sword. The T'lan Imass pivoted, faced the three Seguleh. A frozen moment stretched between them, then Tool nodded.

  Senu on Mok's right, Thurule on his left and both brothers a step ahead of the Third, the Seguleh padded forward to meet the K'Chain Che'Malle.

  'A gamble,' Lady Envy murmured.

  'The time has come,' Tool said, 'to gauge their worth, Lady. Here, at the border to the Domin. We must know our… knife's efficacy.'

  Toc nocked an arrow. 'Something tells me I might as well throw twigs at it,' he muttered, recalling Trake's death.

  'Wrong,' Tool said, 'yet there is no need to test the stone's power of your arrows.'

  'Power, huh? Fine, but that's not the problem. I've only got one eye, Tool. I can't judge distances worth a damn. And that thing's fast.'

  'Leave this one to the Seguleh,' the T'lan Imass said.

  'As you say,' Toc replied, shrugging. His heart did not slow its hammering.

  The K'Chain Che'Malle was blurred lightning as it plunged among the three brothers. The Seguleh were faster. Senu and Thurule had already moved past the creature, throwing savage, unerring blows behind them without turning, sliding effortlessly like snakes to avoid the hunter's whipping tail.

  Mok, standing directly in front of the creature, had not backed up a step.

  The beast's huge arms flew past to either side of the Third—both severed at the shoulder joint by the flanking brothers in their single pass. Mok's swords darted upward, stabbed, cut, twisted, hooked then withdrew with the hunter's massive head balanced on the tips for the briefest of moments before the Third flung its blade-bending weight aside and leapt to the right, barely avoiding the decapitated body's forward pitch.

  The K'Chain Che'Malle thundered as it struck the ground, legs kicking and tail thrashing. Then its movements ceased.

  'Well,' Toc said after he'd regained his breath, 'that wasn't so hard. Those beasts look tougher than they are, obviously. Good thing, too. We'll just stroll into the Domin, now, right? Gawking at Bastion's wonder, then beyond—'

  'You're babbling,' Lady Envy said. 'Very unattractive, Toc the Younger. Please stop, now.'

  Mouth clamped shut, Toc managed a nod.

  'Now, let us go and examine the K'Chain Che'Malle. I, for one, am curious.'

  He watched her walk ahead, then followed at a stumble. As he passed Tool, he offered the T'lan Imass a sickly grin. 'I think you can relax, now, right?'

  The deathless face turned to him. 'The Third's dismantling, Toc the Younger…'

  'Yes?'

  'I could not have done that. I have never seen such… skill.'

  Toc paused, his eye narrowing. 'Tool, that was glorified dissection—are you not his match in speed?'

  'Perhaps.'

  'And could he have done that without his brothers slicing those arms off? What if the beast had attacked with its feet instead of its jaws? Tool, that K'Chain Che'Malle was trying for all three of them at once. Stupid. Arrogant.'

  The T'lan Imass cocked his head. 'Arrogance. A vice of being undead, Toc the Younger.'

  The Malazan's grin broadened. 'And yours has just been shaken, Tool?'

  'An unfamiliar sensation.'

  Toc shrugged, about to turn and rejoin Lady Envy.

  The stone sword was in Tool's hands. 'I must challenge him.'

  Grin falling away, Toc stepped closer. 'Hold on, friend—you don't—'

  'I must challenge him. Now.'

  'Why?'

  'The First Sword of the T'lan Imass must be without equal, Aral Fayle.'

  'Gods, not you too!'

  The T'lan Imass set off towards the Seguleh.

  'Wait! Tool—'

  The First Sword glanced back. 'You share my shaken faith, mortal, despite your earlier words.'

  'Damn it, Tool, now's not the time for this! Think! We need all of you—each in one piece. Intact—'

  'Enough words, Aral Fayle.'

  The brothers stood around the fallen K'Chain Che'Malle. Lady Envy had joined them and was now crouched, examining the creature's corpse.

  Filled with dread, Toc matched Tool's steady, determined pace as they approached.

  Senu was the first of the Seguleh to notice them. He slowly sheathed his swords, stepped back. A moment later Thurule did the same. Mok slowly faced the T'lan Imass.

  'By the Abyss!' Lady Envy snapped, straightening, her expression darkening. 'Not now.' She waved a hand.

  Mok collapsed.

  Tool staggered to a halt. 'Awaken him, Lady,' he rasped.

  'I shall not. Senu, you and Thurule, rig up a travois for your sleeping brother. You two can pull it.'

  'Lady—'

  'I'm not talking to you, T'lan Imass.' And to reinforce her announcement, she crossed her arms and turned her back on Tool.

  After a long moment in which neither moved, the First Sword finally sheathed his blade. 'He cannot remain asleep for ever, Lady Envy,' he said. 'You do naught but prolong the inevitable.'

  She made no reply.

  Toc drew a deep breath. 'What a lovely woman,' he softly sighed.

  She heard, and turned with a heart-stopping smile. 'Why, thank you!'

  'That's not—' He stopped.

  Her brow knitted. 'Excuse me?'

  'Nothing.' Gods, nothing!

  Fashioned of straps, leather webbing and two spear-shafts that Lady Envy conjured from somewhere, the travois carrying the Third was pulled by Senu and Thurule from rigged shoulder slings. The two brothers were clearly agitated by the turn of events but, as was evident to Toc—and doubtless the T'lan Imass too—there would be no challenging the Lady's will.

  They ascended the ridge as the afternoon waned. Rain clouds approached from the north, obscuring the mountains beyond. The air grew cooler.

  The border itself was marked by a series of cairns lining the ridge. Long-abandoned enclosures w
ere visible here and there, the low unmortared stone walls hinting of more affluent times in the past.

  Flagstone byways crisscrossed the land ahead, overgrown with grasses. The hills gave way to a broad, shallow valley, treed at its base where a stream twisted its way northward. Three squat farmhouses were visible on the valley floor, and a cluster of structures positioned at the stream marked a hamlet at what had to be a ford. No livestock was in sight, nor were the chimneys streaming smoke, lending an eerie quality to the pastoral scene.

  None the less, the transition from barren plain to green pastures and signs of human acitivity was something of a shock to Toc the Younger. He realized, with a dull and faint surge of unease, that he'd grown used to the solitude of the plain the Elin called Lamatath. Absence of people—those outside the group… strangers—had diminished what he now understood to be a constant tension in his life. Perhaps in all our lives. Unfamiliar faces, gauging regard, every sense heightened in an effort to read the unknown. The natural efforts of society. Do we all possess a wish to remain unseen, unnoticed? Is the witnessing of our actions by others our greatest restraint?

  'You are looking thoughtful, darling,' Lady Envy murmured at his side.

  He shrugged. 'We're not… unobtrusive, are we? This group of ours. Masked warriors and giant wolf and dog—and a T'lan Imass—'

  Tool stopped and faced them. 'I shall make myself unseen, now.'

  'When you fall to dust the way you do,' Toc asked, 'are you entering your Tellann warren?'

  'No. I simply return to what I was meant to be, had not the Ritual taken place. It would be unwise to employ Tellann within this Domin, Toc the Younger. I shall, however, remain close, and vigilant.'

  Toc grunted. 'I was used to having you around. In the flesh, I mean.' He scowled. 'As it were.'

  The T'lan Imass shrugged, then vanished in a sluice of dust.

  'Other solutions present themselves,' Lady Envy said, 'with respect to our canine companions. Observe.' She walked towards Baaljagg. 'You, pup, are far too… alarming in appearance… in your present form. Shall we make you smaller?'

  The ay had not moved, and watched as she reached out a slim hand and rested a finger on its brow.