Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  'Do you ask something of me, Silverfox?' Korlat enquired.

  She visibly gathered herself. 'Aye, some of your kin, to guard my mother.'

  The Tiste Andü frowned. 'It would seem, with your new guardians in such number, that you have some to spare—'

  'She would not let them approach her, I'm afraid. She has… nightmares. I am sorry, but I must ensure my T'lan Ay are kept out of her sight, and senses. She may look frail and seem powerless, but there is that within her that is capable of driving the T'lan Ay away. Will you do as I ask?'

  'Of course, Silverfox.'

  The woman nodded, attention shifting once more back to Whiskeyjack as Korlat wheeled her mount and rode back up the slope. She studied him in silence for a moment, then looked to Kruppe. 'Well, Daru? Are you satisfied thus far?'

  'I am, dearest one.' Not Kruppe's usual tone, but spoken low, measured.

  Satisfied. With what?

  'Will she hold on, do you think?'

  Kruppe shrugged. 'We shall see, yes? Kruppe has faith.'

  'Enough for both of us?'

  The Daru smiled. 'Naturally.'

  Silverfox sighed. 'Very well. I lean heavily on you in this, you know.'

  'Kruppe's legs are as pillars of stone. Your touch is so light as to pass unnoticed by worthy self. My dear, the sound of additional riders urges upon you a decision—what will you permit to be seen by those who now approach?'

  'Nothing untoward,' the woman replied. She raised her arms again.

  The T'lan Ay returned to the dust from which they had arisen.

  With a soft grunt, Whiskeyjack strode back to his horse. There were too many mysteries roiling through the company of the two armies, secrets that seemed to hold promises of explosive revelation. Probably violent ones at that. He felt uneasy. I wish Quick Ben was here… Hood knows, I wish I knew what was happening with him, and Paran and the Bridgeburners. Did they succeed? Or are they all now dead, their skulls surmounting poles around the Barghast camps?

  A substantial part of the column's vanguard reached the hill's crest, where they halted in a ragged line.

  Whiskeyjack swung himself into the saddle and made his way towards the group.

  Kallor, riding a gaunt, grey horse, had deliberately drawn rein apart from the others. His faded grey cloak was tight about his broad, armoured shoulders. Shadows deepened the lines of his ancient, weathered face. Long strands of his grey hair drifted to one side in the wind.

  Whiskeyjack's gaze held on the man a moment longer, gauging, then shifted to the others lining the ridge. Brood and Dujek were side by side. On the warlord's right was the outrider, Hurlochel; on the Malazan's left, the standard-bearer, Artanthos. The Trygalle Trade Guild's merchant-mage, Haradas, was also present, and, of course, Korlat.

  None were speaking as Whiskeyjack's horse reached the crest. Then Dujek nodded and growled, 'Korlat's described what the scouts found. Anything else to add?'

  Whiskeyjack glanced at the Tiste Andü, but her expression was closed. He shook his head. 'No, High Fist. Korlat and her kin seem to know more about these K'Chain Che'Malle than the rest of us—what lies below are a jumble of shattered bones, some weapons and armour. I could not have identified them myself. The Rhivi scouts believe they were undead—'

  'Fortunate for us all,' muttered Kallor. 'I am not so ignorant of these creatures as the rest of you, barring Korlat. Further, I am feeling unusually… loquacious. Thus. Remnants of the K'Chain Che'Malle civilization can be found on virtually every continent on this world. Indeed, in the place of my old empire, Jacuruku, their strange mechanisms filled pits and holes in the earth—whenever my people had to cut below the surface, they discovered such constructs. More, barrows were found. Scholars conducted careful examination of their contents. Do you wish to hear an account of their conclusions or am I boring you?'

  'Go on,' Caladan drawled.

  'Very well. Perhaps there is more wisdom present here than I had previously credited. The beasts appear to be reptilian, capable of breeding their own kind to specific talents. Those the Tiste Andü called K'ell Hunters, for example, were born as warriors. Undead versions are in the valley below, yes? They had no hands, but swords in their stead, somehow melded to the very bones of their forearms. The K'Chain Che'Malle were matriarchal, matrilineal. As a population of bees have their queen, so too these beasts. She is the breeder, the mother of every child. And within this Matron resided the sorcerous capacity of her entire family. Power to beggar the gods of today. Power to keep the Elder Gods from coming to this world, and were it not for the self-destruction of the K'Chain Che'Malle, they would rule unchallenged to this day.'

  'Self-destruction,' Korlat said, a sharpness in her eyes as she studied Kallor. 'An interesting detail. Can you explain?'

  'Of course. Among the records found, once the language was deciphered—and that effort alone is worthy of lengthy monologue, but seeing how you all shift about in your saddles like impatient children, I'll spare the telling. Among the records found, then, it was learned that the Matrons, each commanding the equivalent of a modern city, had gathered to meld their disparate ambitions. What they sought, beyond the vast power they already possessed, is not entirely clear. Then again, what need there be for reasons when ambition rules? Suffice to say, an ancient breed was… resurrected, returned from extinction by the Matrons; a more primitive version of the K'Chain Che'Malle themselves. For lack of a better name, my scholars at the time called them Short-Tails.'

  Whiskeyjack, his eyes on Korlat, was the only one to see her stiffen at that. Behind him, he could hear Silverfox and Kruppe making their way back up the slope.

  'For the singular reason,' Kallor went on in his dry monotone, 'that they physically deviated from the other K'Chain Che'Malle in having short, stubby tails rather than the normal, long, tapered ones. This made them not as swift—more upright, suited to whatever world and civilization they had originally belonged to. Alas, these new children were not as tractable as the Matrons were conditioned to expect among their brood—more explicitly, the Short-Tails would not surrender or merge their magical talents with their mothers'. The result was a civil war, and the sorceries unleashed were apocalyptic. To gauge something of the desperation among the Matrons, one need only travel south on this continent, to a place called Morn.'

  'The Rent,' Korlat murmured, nodding.

  Kallor's smile was wintry. 'She sought to harness the power of a gate itself, but not simply a common warren's gate. Oh no, she elected to open the portal that led to the Realm of Chaos. Such hubris, to think she could control—could assert order—upon such a thing.' He paused, as if reconsidering his own words, then laughed. 'Oh, a bitter lesson or two in that tale, don't you think?'

  Caladan Brood grunted. 'Let's bring this back to the present, shall we? In the valley below, undead K'ell Hunters. The question to address is: what are they doing here?'

  'They are being used.'

  Everyone's eyes fixed on Silverfox, who stood before her horse, reins in hand.

  'I like not the sound of that,' Dujek growled.

  'Used,' Silverfox repeated, 'by the Pannion Seer.'

  'Impossible,' Kallor snapped. ' Only a K'Chain Che'Malle Matron could command a Ke'll Hunter—even when undead.'

  'Then it would appear,' Korlat said, 'that we have more than one enemy.'

  'The Pannion Seer has an ally?' Dujek leaned on his saddle and spat. 'There's not been even so much as a hint—'

  'None the less,' Silverfox cut in. 'Proof lies before us, in the valley below.'

  'A Matron cannot breed more of her kind without the seed of living males,' Kallor said. 'Therefore, with each K'ell Hunter destroyed, there is one less for us to deal with.'

  Brood turned at that, eyes thinning to slits. 'Easily swallowed, this revelation.'

  Kallor shrugged.

  'There is also before us,' the warlord continued, 'another truth. Regarding the destruction of the K'ell Hunters, someone is doing it for us, it seems.'

  Si
lence; then, slowly, attention focused on Silverfox.

  She smiled. 'I did say, some time ago, that you would all need help.'

  Kallor snarled. 'T'lan Imass! So tell us, bitch, why would they concern themselves with K'Chain Che'Malle? Are not the Jaghut their avowed enemies? Why task your undead followers with a new one? Why have you and the T'lan Imass joined this war, woman?'

  'We have joined nothing,' she replied, her eyes heavy-lidded, standing as Tattersail would stand, hands clasped and resting on the folds of her belly, her body solid yet curvaceous beneath her deerhide tunic.

  Ah, I know that look. Sleight of hand. Careful, now…

  'Do you deny, then,' Brood began slowly, his expression clouded, uncertain, 'that your T'lan Imass were responsible for destroying these K'ell Hunters?'

  'Have none of you ever wondered,' Silverfox said, looking at each of them, 'why the T'lan Imass warred with the Jaghut?'

  'Perhaps an explanation,' Dujek said, 'will assist us in understanding.' Silverfox gave a sharp nod. 'When the first Imass emerged, they were forced to live in the shadow of the Jaghut. Tolerated, ignored, but only in small, manageable numbers. Pushed to the poorest of lands. Then Tyrants arose among the Jaghut, who found pleasure in enslaving them, in forcing upon them a nightmarish existence—that successive generations were born into and so knew of no other life, knew nothing of freedom itself.

  'The lesson was hard, not easily swallowed, for the truth was this: there were intelligent beings in the world who exploited the virtues of others, their compassion, their love, their faith in kin. Exploited, and mocked. How many Imass tribes discovered that their gods were in fact Jaghut Tyrants? Hidden behind friendly masks. Tyrants, who manipulated them with the weapon of faith.

  'The rebellion was inevitable, and it was devastating for the Imass. Weaker, uncertain even of what it was they sought, or what freedom would show them should they find it… But we would not relent. We could not.'

  Kallor sneered. 'There were never more than but a handful of Tyrants among the Jaghut, woman.'

  'A handful was too many, and aye, we found allies among the Jaghut—those for whom the activities of the Tyrants was reprehensible. But we now carried scars. Scars born of mistrust, of betrayal. We could trust only in our own kind. In the name of our generations to come, all Jaghut would have to die. None could be left, to produce more children, to permit among those children the rise of new Tyrants.'

  'And how,' Korlat asked, 'does this relate to the K'Chain Che'Malle?'

  'Before the Jaghut ruled this world, the K'Chain Che'Malle ruled. The first Jaghut were to the K'Chain Che'Malle as the first Imass were to the Jaghut.' She paused, her heavy gaze moving among them all. 'In each species is born the seeds of domination. Our wars with the Jaghut destroyed us, as a living people, as a vibrant, evolving culture. That was the price we paid, to ensure the freedom you now possess. Our eternal sacrifice.' She fell silent once more, then continued in a harder tone, 'So, now, I ask you—all of you, who have taken upon yourselves the task of waging war against a tyrannical, all-devouring empire, of possibly sacrificing your own lives to the benefit of peoples who know nothing of you, of lands you have never and will never set foot upon—I ask you, what is there about us, about the T'lan Imass, that still escapes your understanding? Destroy the Pannion Domin. It must be done. For me, for my T'lan Imass, awaits the task of destroying the threat hiding behind the Pannion Seer, the threat that is the K'Chain Che'Malle.'

  She slowly studied their faces. 'A Matron lives. Flesh and blood. Should she find a male of her kind, a flesh and blood male… the tyranny of the Jaghut will be as nothing to that of the K'Chain Che'Malle. This, then, will be our sacrifice.'

  Only the wind filled the silence following her words. Then Caladan Brood turned to Kallor. 'And you find in this woman an abomination?'

  'She lies,' he rasped in reply. 'This entire war is meaningless. Nothing more than a feint.'

  'A feint?' Dujek repeated in disbelief. 'By whom?' Kallor snapped his mouth shut, made no reply. The Trygalle Trade Guild merchant-mage, Haradas, cleared her throat. 'There may be some truth in that. Not that the woman Silverfox is lying—I believe she speaks true, as far as she is willing to tell us. No, I meant the feint. Consider the infection of the warrens. Granted, its focus seems to emanate from the Pannion Domin, and granted, as well, that the poison's taint is that of the Warren of Chaos. Granted all of that, one must then ask: why would a K'Chain Che'Malle Matron, who is the repository of a vast wellspring of sorcery, seek to destroy the very conduits of her power? If she was present when Morn was destroyed—when the Rent was created—why would she then try to harness chaos again? Ambitious, perhaps, but a fool? That is hard to countenance.'

  Even as the import of her words sank in to Whiskeyjack, there came to him another realization. There is another enemy indeed, and from the looks on most of the faces around me—barring Dujek and, no doubt, my own—the revelation is not as surprising as it should be. True, we'd caught a hint, but we'd failed to make the connection. Brood, Korlat, Kallor—gods, even Kruppe and Artanthos! Remind me to avoid every damn one of them the next time I join a game of bones!

  He jerked his gaze back to Silverfox, was met with that sleepy, knowing regard.

  No, that won't work again. 'Silverfox,' he growled. 'You spin a tale to sting sympathy from our hearts, yet it seems that your effort was misdirected, and so you end up undermining all you sought to achieve. If there is a deeper threat, a third hand, deftly manipulating both us and the Pannion Seer… will you and your T'lan Imass then focus your attention on that hand?'

  'No.'

  'Why?'

  He was surprised as her steady gaze wavered,—then fell away. Her voice came out in a raw whisper. 'Because, Whiskeyjack, you ask too much of us.'

  No-one spoke.

  Dread swept through Whiskeyjack. He swung about, locked gazes with Dujek, saw in the old man's face a mirror to his own growing horror. Gods below, we are heading to our deaths. An unseen enemy—but one we've known about for a long time, one we knew was coming, sooner or later, one that—by the Abyss—makes the T'lan Imass recoil…

  'Such palpable distraughtness!' Kruppe cried. 'Distraughtness? Is there such a word? If not, then among Kruppe's countless talents we must add linguistic invention! My friends! Attend! Hark! Listen! Take heart, one and all, in the knowledge that Kruppe has placed himself, feet square and ample girth firm, in the path of said—yet unmentioned—formidable enemy of all existence! Sleep calm at night in this knowledge. Slumber as babes in your mother's arms, as each of you once did—even Kallor, though the image shocks and dismays—'

  'Dammit!' Caladan Brood roared, 'what in Hood's name are you talking about, little man? You claim to stand in the path of the Crippled God? By the Abyss, you are mad! If you do not,' he continued in a low tone as he swung down from his horse, 'give instant proof of your efficacy'—he strode towards Kruppe, one hand reaching for the wrapped handle of his hammer—'I will not predict the extremity of my temper.'

  'I wouldn't do that, Brood,' Silverfox murmured. The warlord twisted to face her, teeth bared. 'You now extend your protection to this arrogant, fat toad?'

  Her eyes widened and she looked to the Daru. 'Kruppe, do you make such a request?'

  'Absurd! No offence, dear, in that expostulation, Kruppe sweetly assures you!'

  Whiskeyjack stared, disbelieving, as the round little man in his food-and drink-stained clothes drew himself up as straight as he was able and fixed small, glittering eyes on Caladan Brood. 'Threaten Kruppe of Darujhistan, will you? Demand an explanation, do you? Fondling that hammer, are you? Baring those fa—'

  'Silence!' the warlord bellowed, struggling to control his anger.

  Gods below, what is Kruppe up to?

  'Kruppe defies all threats! Kruppe sneers at whatever demonstration bristling warlord would attempt—'

  The hammer was suddenly in Brood's hands, a smudged blur as it swung through the air, a downward arc, to strike the ear
th almost at Kruppe's feet.

  The detonation threw horses down, sent Whiskeyjack and the others flying. A thunderous concussion cracked the air. The ground seemed to leap up to meet the Malazan commander, the impact like a fist when he struck, rolled, then tumbled his way down the boulder-strewn slope.

  Above him, horses were screaming. A wind, hot, shrieking, shot dust and earth skyward.

  The scree of boulders was moving beneath Whiskeyjack, flowing, sliding down into the valley at an ever quickening pace with a rumbling, growing roar. Rocks clanged against his armour, rapped into the helm on his head, leaving him stunned. He caught a flashing glimpse, through a jagged tear in the dustcloud, of the line of hills on the other side the valley. Impossibly, they were rising, fast, the bedrock splitting the grassy hide, loosing gouts of dust, rock-shards and smoke. Then the swarming dust swallowed the world around him. Boulders bounced over him, tumbling. Others struck him solid, painful blows that left him gasping, coughing, choking as he rolled.

  Even now, the ground continued to heave beneath the sliding scree. Distant detonations shook the air, trembled through Whiskeyjack's battered bones.

  He came to a rest, half buried in gravel and rocks. Blinking, eyes burning, he saw before him the Rhivi scouts—dodging, leaping from the path of bounding boulders as if in some bizarre, deadly game. Beyond, black, steaming bedrock towered, the spine of a new mountain range, still growing, still rising, lifting and tilting the floor of the valley where the Malazan now lay. The sky behind it churned iron-grey with steam and smoke.

  Hood take me… poor Kruppe… Groaning, Whiskeyjack twisted round as far as he could. He was covered in scrapes, could feel the tender birth of huge bruises beneath his dented, torn armour, but his bones were, amazingly, intact. He strained his watering eyes to the hilltop behind him.

  The scree was gone, leaving a gaping, raw cliff-face. Most of the mesa's summit was simply no longer there, obliterated, leaving a small, flat-topped island… where Whiskeyjack now saw figures moving, rising. Horses scrambling upright. Faintly, came the brazen complaint of a mule.