Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  Karnadas moved up behind the young man, hands settling on his shoulders.

  'He convinced them,' Itkovian said.

  The messenger nodded. 'The foreigner—he then… he then took what was left of the child's tunic, and has made of it a standard. I saw it myself. Sir, I ceased arguing, then—I'm sorry—'

  'I understand you, sir.'

  'There was no shortage of weapons. The Tular Capanthall armed themselves—four, five hundred came out. Men and women. The foreigner had sent out his own followers, and they began returning. With them, surviving bands of Capanthall soldiery, a few Gidrath, Coralessian, and Grey Swords, sir. The Trimaster had been killed, you see—'

  'The foreigner rallied them,' Itkovian cut in. 'Then what?'

  'We marched to the relief of Jehbar Tower, sir. Shield Anvil, behind that horrible banner, we delivered slaughter.'

  'The condition of the tower?'

  'Ruined, sir. Alas. There were but twenty survivors among the Capanthall defending it. They are now with the foreigner. I, uh, I returned to my responsibilities then, sir, and was given leave to report to you—'

  'Generous of this stranger. What was the disposition of this militia at that time?'

  'They were about to sortie through the rubble of West Gate, sir—'

  'What?'

  'A Beklite company was coming up to reinforce the attackers inside the city. But those attackers were all dead. The foreigner planned on surprising them with that fact.'

  'Twin Tusks, who is this man?'

  'I know not his name, sir. He wields two cutlasses. Fights like a… like a boar, sir, with those two cutlasses…'

  Itkovian stared at the young man for a long moment, seeing the pain diminishing as the Destriant continued gripping his shoulders, seeing the blisters shrink, the welt fading, new skin closing around the ruined eye. The Shield Anvil swung about in a clank of armour, faced west.

  The fire of the West Barracks reached its crimson light only so far. Beyond, darkness ruled. He shifted his attention to the Jelarkan Concourse. No further breaches were evident, as far as he could determine. The Mortal Sword had matters well in hand, as Itkovian knew would be the case.

  'Less than a bell,' Karnadas murmured, 'before dawn. Shield Anvil, the city holds.'

  Itkovian nodded.

  More boots on the ladder. They all turned as another messenger arrived.

  'Shield Anvil, from the third sortie to East Watch redoubt. The surviving Gidrath have been recovered, sir. Movement to the southeast was discerned. The Trimaster sent a scout. Shield Anvil, the Tenescowri are on the move.'

  Itkovian nodded. They will arrive with the dawn. Three hundred thousand, maybe more. 'Destriant, open the tunnels. Begin with the inner Camps, sir. Every citizen below. Take charge of the barracks Manes and Wings and whoever else you come across to effect swift directions and control of the entranceways.'

  Karnadas's lined face twisted into a wry smile. 'Shield Anvil, it is my duty to remind you that the Mask Council has yet to approve the construction of said tunnels.'

  Itkovian nodded again, 'Fortunately for the people of Capustan we proceeded without awaiting that approval.' Then he frowned. 'It seems the Mask Council has found its own means of self-defence.'

  'Not them, sir. Hetan and Cafal. And a new priest, indeed, the very "merchant" whom you rescued out on the plain.'

  The Shield Anvil slowly blinked. 'Did he not have a caravan guard—a large man with a pair of cutlasses belted to his hips?' Cutlasses? More like Fener's own tusks.

  The Destriant hissed. 'I believe you are right, sir. In fact, only yesterday I spared a moment to heal him.'

  'He was wounded?'

  'Hungover, Shield Anvil. Very.'

  'I see. Carry on, sir.' Itkovian looked to his two messengers. 'Word must be sent to the Mortal Sword… and to this foreigner…'

  The Beklite's wicker shield exploded from the man's arm to Gruntle's backhand swing. The notched, gore-smeared cutlass in the caravan guard's other hand chopped straight down, through helm, then skull. Brain and blood sprayed down over his gauntlet. The Beklite fell to one side, limbs jerking.

  Gruntle spun, whipping the ragged mess from his blade. A dozen paces behind him, looming above the feral ranks of his followers, was the Child's Standard, a torn, brightly dyed yellow tunic now splashed with a red that was drying to deep magenta.

  The Beklite company had been crushed. Gruntle's victim had been the last. The caravan captain and his militia were forty paces outside what was left of the West Gate, on the wide main avenue of what had been a shanty town. The structures were gone, their wooden walls and slate roofs dismantled and taken away. Patches of stained earthen floors and the scatter of broken pottery were all that remained. Two hundred paces further west ran the pickets of the besiegers, swarming in the dawn's growing light.

  Gruntle could see half a thousand Betaklites marshalling along its edge, flanked by companies of Urdomen and Betrullid light cavalry. Beyond them, a vast veil of dust was rising, lit gold by the slanting sun.

  The lieutenant had dropped to one knee beside Gruntle, struggling to regain control of his breathing. 'Time's—time's come—to—withdraw, sir.'

  Scowling, the caravan captain swung to survey his militia. Fifty, sixty still standing. What did I start with last night? About the same. Is that right? Gods, can that be right? 'Where are our sergeants?'

  'They're there, most of them, anyway. You want me to call them forward, sir?'

  No, yes, I want to see their faces. I can't remember their faces. 'Have them assemble the squads.'

  'Sir, if that cavalry rushes us—'

  'They won't. They're masking.'

  'Masking what?'

  'Tenescowri. Why throw more veteran soldiers at us only to see them killed? Those bastards need a rest in any case. No, it's time for the starving horde.'

  'Beru fend,' the lieutenant whispered.

  'Don't worry,' Gruntle replied, 'they die easy.'

  'We need to rest—we're sliced to pieces, sir. I'm too old for a suicide stand.'

  'Then what in Hood's name are you doing in Capustan? Never mind. Let's see the squads. I want armour stripped from these bodies. Leathers only, and helms and gauntlets. I want my sixty to look like soldiers.'

  'Sir—'

  'Then we withdraw. Understood? Best be quick about it, too.'

  Gruntle led his battered company back towards Capustan. There was activity amidst the ruin of West Gate. The plain grey cloaks of the Grey Swords dominated the crowd, though others—masons and ragtag crews of labourers—were present as well. The frenzied activity slowed as heads turned. Conversations fell away.

  Gruntle's scowl deepened. He hated undue attention. What are we, ghosts?

  Eyes were pulled to the Child's Standard.

  A figure strode forward to meet them, an officer of the mercenaries. 'Welcome back,' the woman said with a grave nod. Her face was caked with dust, runnels of sweat tracking down from under her helm. 'We've got some weaponsmiths set up outside Tular Camp. I imagine your Tusks need sharpening—'

  'Cutlasses.'

  'As you say, sir. The Shield Anvil—no, we all would know your name—'

  But Gruntle had already stepped past her. 'Sharpeners. Good idea. Lieutenant, you think we all need to get our tusks sharpened?'

  The Grey Swords officer spun round. 'Sir, the reference is not to be taken lightly.'

  He continued on. Over his shoulder, he said, 'Fine, let's call them tiger-claws, why don't we? Looks to me you've got a gate to rebuild. Best get to it, lass. Them Tenescowri want breakfast, and we're it.'

  He heard her hiss in what might have been angry frustration.

  Moments later, the workers resumed their efforts.

  The weaponsmiths had set up their grindstone wheels in the street. Beyond them, in the direction of the Jelarkan Concourse, the sounds of battle continued. Gruntle waved his soldiers forward. 'Line up all of you. I want those blades so sharp you can shave with them.'

&n
bsp; The lieutenant snorted. 'Most of your troop's women, sir.'

  'Whatever.'

  A rider was driving his horse hard down the street. He reined in with a clatter of hooves, dismounted and paused to adjust his armoured gauntlets before striding to Gruntle.

  'Are you Keruli's caravan captain?' he asked, face hidden behind a full-visored helm.

  'Was. What do you want, mercenary?'

  'Compliments from the Shield Anvil, sir.' The voice was hard, deep. 'The Tenescowri are massing—'

  'I know.'

  'It is the Shield Anvil's belief that their main assault will be from the east, for it is there that the First Child of the Dead Seed has assembled his vanguard.'

  'Fine, what of it?'

  The messenger was silent for a moment, then he continued. 'Sir, Capustan's citizens are being removed—'

  'Removed where?'

  'The Grey Swords have constructed tunnels beneath the city, sir. Below are amassed sufficient supplies to support twenty thousand citizens—'

  'For how long?'

  'Two weeks, perhaps three. The tunnels are extensive. In many cases, old empty barrows were opened as well, as storage repositories—there were more of those than anyone had anticipated. The entranceways are well hidden, and defensible.'

  Two weeks. Pointless. 'Well, that takes care of the non-combatants. What about us fighters?'

  The messenger's eyes grew veiled between the black-iron bars of the visor. 'We fight. Street by street, building by building. Room by room, sir. The Shield Anvil enquires of you, which section of the city do you wish to assume? And is there anything you require? Arrows, food…'

  'We've no archers, but food and watered wine, aye. Which section?' Gruntle surveyed his troop. 'More like which building. There's a tenement just off Old Daru Street, the one with the black-stone foundations. We'll start at North Gate, then fall back to there.'

  'Very good. Supplies will be delivered to that tenement house, sir.'

  'Oh, there's a woman in one of the rooms on the upper floor—if your evacuation of citizens involved a house-by-house search—'

  'The evacuation was voluntary, sir.'

  'She wouldn't have agreed to it.'

  'Then she remains where she is.'

  Gruntle nodded.

  The lieutenant came to the captain's side. 'Your cutlasses—time to hone your tiger-claws, sir.'

  'Aye.' Turning away, Gruntle did not notice the messenger's head jerk back at the Lestari lieutenant's words.

  Through the dark cage of his visor, Shield Anvil Itkovian studied the hulking caravan captain who now strode towards a swordsmith, the short-legged Lestari trailing a step behind. The blood-stained cutlasses were out, the wide, notched, tip-heavy blades the colour of smoky flames.

  He had come to meet this man for himself, to take his fullest measure and fashion a face to accompany the man's extraordinary talents. Itkovian already regretted the decision. He muttered a soft, lengthy curse at his own impetuosity. Fights like a boar? Gods, no, this man is a big, plains-hunting cat. He has bulk, aye, but it passes unnoticed behind a deadly grace. Fener save us all, the Tiger of Summer's ghost walks in this man's shadow.

  Returning to his horse, Itkovian drew himself up into the saddle. He gathered the reins. Swinging his mount round, he tilted his head back and stared at the morning sun. The truth of this has burst like fire in my heart. On this, our last day, I have met this unnamed man, this servant of Treach, the Tiger of Summer… Treach ascending.

  And Fener? The brutal boar whose savage cunning rides my soul—what of my lord?

  Fener… descending. On this, our last day.

  A susurrating roar rose in the distance, from all sides. The Tenescowri were on the move.

  'Twin Tusks guard us,' Itkovian rasped, driving his heels into the horse's flanks. The animal surged forward, sparks raining as its hooves struck the cobbles.

  Grey-faced with exhaustion, Buke made his way towards the necromancers' estate. It was a large edifice, commanding a long, low hill that looked too regular to be natural, surrounded by a high wall with mock guard towers at the corners. A grand entrance faced onto Kilsban Way, set back from the street itself with a ramped approach. The gate was a miniature version of the Thrall's, vertically raised and lowered by countersunk centre-holed millstones.

  A fireball had struck the gate, blasting it into ruin. The flames had raged for a time, blackening the stone frame and cracking it, but somehow the structure remained upright.

  As the old caravan guard limped his way up the ramp towards it, he was startled by the sudden exit of a tall, gaunt, black-robed man. Stumbling, half hopping like a huge ebon-winged vulture, the man spun round to glare at Buke. His face twisted. 'I am second only to Rath'Shadowthrone himself! Do you not know me? Do they not know me? I am Marble! Also known as the Malefic! Feared among all the cowering citizens of Capustan! A sorceror of powers unimagined! Yet they…' He sputtered with fury. 'A boot to the backside, no less! I will have my revenge, this I swear!'

  'Ill-advised, priest,' Buke said, not unkindly. 'My employers—'

  'Are arrogant scum!'

  'That may be, but they're not ones to irritate, sir.'

  'Irritate? When my master hears of this—this—insult delivered to his most valued servant, then, oh then shall the shadows flow!' With a final snarl, the priest stamped down the walkway, black robe skirling dramatically in his wake.

  Buke paused for a long moment, watching until the man named Marble disappeared around a corner.

  The sound of fighting was on all sides, but getting no closer. Hours earlier, in the deep of the night when Buke had been helping people from the Camps and from Daru District's tenements make their way to the Grey Swords' places of mustering—from which they would be led to the hidden tunnel entrances—the Pannions had reached all the way to the street Buke had just walked. Somehow, Capustan's motley collection of defenders had managed to drive them back. Bodies from both sides littered Kilsban Way.

  Buke pushed himself into motion once more, passing beneath the scorched lintel of the entrance with a firm conviction that he would never again leave Bauchelain and Korbal Broach's estate. Even as his steps slowed to a sudden surge of self-preservation, he saw it was too late.

  Bauchelain stood in the courtyard. 'Ah, my erstwhile employee. We'd wondered where you'd gone.'

  Buke ducked his head. 'My apologies, sir. I'd delivered the tax exemption writ to the Daru civic authorities as requested—'

  'Excellent, and was our argument well received?'

  The old guard winced. 'The event of siege, alas, offers no relief from property taxes, master. The monies are due. Fortunately, with the evacuation, there is no-one at Daru House to await their arrival.'

  'Yes, the evacuation. Tunnels. Very clever. We declined the offer, of course.'

  'Of course.' Buke could no longer hold his gaze on the cobbles before him, and found his head turning, lifting slightly to take in the half-score Urdomen bodies lying bloodless, faces mottled black beneath their visors, on all sides.

  'A precipitous rush of these misguided soldiers,' Bauchelain murmured. 'Korbal was delighted, and makes preparations to recruit them.'

  'Recruit them, master? Oh, yes sir. Recruit them.'

  The necromancer cocked his head. 'Odd, dear Emancipor Reese uttered those very words, in an identical tone, not half a bell ago.'

  'Indeed, master.'

  The two regarded each other for a brief span, then Bauchelain stroked his beard and turned away. 'The Tenescowri are coming, did you know? Among them, Children of the Dead Seed. Extraordinary, these children. A dying man's seed… Hmm. It's said that the eldest among them now commands the entire peasant horde. I look forward to meeting him.'

  'Master? Uh, how, I mean—'

  Bauchelain smiled. 'Korbal is most eager to conduct a thorough examination of this child named Anaster. What flavour is his biology? Even I wonder at this.'

  The fallen Urdomen lurched, twitched as one, hands clawing to
wards dropped weapons, helmed heads lifting.

  Buke stared in horror.

  'Ah, you now have guards to command, Buke. I suggest you have them position themselves at the entrance. And perhaps one to each of the four corner towers. Tireless defenders, the best kind, yes?'

  Emancipor Reese, clutching his mangy cat tight against his chest, stumbled out from the main house.

  Bauchelain and Buke watched as the old man rushed towards one of the now standing Urdomen. Reese came up to the hulking warrior, reached out and tugged frantically at the undead's chain collar and the jerkin beneath it. The old man's hand reached down beneath both layers, down, down.

  Emancipor started gibbering. He pulled his hand clear, staggered back. 'But—but—' His lined, pebbled face swung to Bauchelain. 'That… that man, Korbal—he has—he said—I saw! He has their hearts! He's sewn them together, a bloody, throbbing mass on the kitchen table! But—' He spun and thumped the Urdomen on the chest. 'No wound!'

  Bauchelain raised one thin eyebrow. 'Ah, well, with you and friend Buke here interfering with Korbal Broach's normal nightly activities, my colleague was forced to modify his habits, his modus operandi, if you will. Now, you see, my friends, he has no need to leave his room in order to satisfy his needs of acquisition. None the less, it should be said, please desist in your misguided efforts.' The necromancer's flat grey eyes fixed on Buke. 'And as for the priest Keruli's peculiar sorcery now residing within you, unveil it not, dear servant. We dislike company when in our Soletaken forms.'

  Buke's legs came close to giving out beneath him.

  'Emancipor,' Bauchelain murmured, 'do lend your shoulder to our guard.'

  The old man stepped close. His eyes were so wide that Buke could see white all around them. Sweat beaded his wrinkled face. 'I told you it was madness!' he hissed. 'What did Keruli do to you? Damn you, Buke—'

  'Shut up, Mancy,' Buke growled. 'You knew they were Soletaken. Yet you said nothing—but Keruli knew as well.'

  Bauchelain strode towards the main house, humming under his breath.

  Buke twisted and gripped Emancipor's tunic. 'I can follow them now! Keruli's gift. I can follow those two anywhere!'