Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  She was close indeed, as if she strode a bridge of bones stretching from her to where he now stood. No, not her. Her power, that was so much more than just Tattersail. Making its relentless desire to break through his defences much deadlier of purpose than a lover's simple affection; much more, even, than would be born of strategic necessity. Unless Dujek and Brood and their armies are under assault… and they're not. Gods, I don't know how I know, but I do. With certainty. This—this isn't Tattersail at all. It's Nightchill. Bellurdan. One or both. What do they want?

  He was suddenly rocked by an image, triggering an almost audible snap within his mind. Away. Towards. Dry flagstones within a dark cavern, the deeply carved lines of a card of the Deck, stone-etched, the image seeming to writhe as if alive.

  Obelisk. One of the Unaligned, a leaning monolith… now of green stone. Jade. Towering above wind-whipped waves—no, dunes of sand. Figures, in the monolith's shadow. Three, three in all. Ragged, broken, dying.

  Then, beyond the strange scene, the sky tore.

  And the furred hoof of a god stepped onto mortal ground.

  Terror.

  Savagely pulled into the world—oh, you didn't choose that, did you? Someone pulled you down, and now…

  Fener was as good as dead. A god trapped in the mortal realm was like a babe on an altar. All that was required was a knife and a wilful hand.

  As good as dead.

  Bleak knowledge flowered like deadly nightshade in his mind. But he wanted none of it. Choices were being demanded of him, by forces ancient beyond imagining. The Deck of Dragons… Elder Gods were playing it… and now sought to play him.

  And this is to be the role of the Master of the Deck, if that is what I've become? A possessor of fatal knowledge and, now, a Hood-damned mitigator? I see what you're telling me to do. One god falls, push another into its place? Mortals sworn to one, swear them now to another? Abyss below, are we to be shoved—flicked—around like pebbles on a board?

  Rage and indignation fanned white hot in Paran's mind. Obliterating his pain. He felt himself mentally wheel round, to face that incessant, alien presence that had so hounded him. Felt himself open like an explosion.

  All right, you wanted my attention. You've got it. Listen, and listen well, Nightchill—whoever—whatever you really are. Maybe there have been Masters of the Deck before, long ago, whom you could pluck and pull to do your bidding. Hood knows, maybe you're the one—you and your Elder friends—who selected me this time round. But if so, oh, you've made a mistake. A bad one.

  I've been a god's puppet once before. But I cut those strings, and if you want details, then go ask Oponn. I walked into a cursed sword to do it, and I swear, I'll do it again—with far less mercy in my heart—if I get so much as a whiff of manipulation from you.

  He sensed cold amusement in reply, and the bestial blood within Paran responded. Raised hackles. Teeth bared. A deep, deadly growl.

  Sudden alarm.

  Aye, the truth of it. I won't be collared, Nightchill. And I tell you this, now, and you'd do well to take heed of these words. I'm taking a step forward. Between you and every mortal like me. I don't know what that man Gruntle had to lose, to arrive where you wanted him, but I sense the wounds in him—Abyss take you, is pain your only means of making us achieve what you want? It seems so. Know this, then: until you can find another means, until you can show me another way—something other than pain and grief—I'll fight you.

  We have our lives. All of us, and they're not for you to play with. Not Picker's life, not Gruntle's or Stonny's.

  You've opened this path, Nightchill. Connecting us. Fine. Good. Give me cause, and I'll come down it. Riding the blood of a Hound of Shadow—do you know, I think, if I wanted to, I could call the others with it. All of them.

  Because I understand something, now. Come to a realization, and one I know to be truth. In the sword Dragnipur… two Hounds of Shadow returned to the Warren of Darkness. Returned, Nightchill. Do you grasp my meaning? They were going home.

  And I can call them back, without doubt. Two souls of untamed Dark. Grateful souls, beloved spawn of destruction—

  A reply came, then, a woman's voice unknown to Paran. 'You have no idea what you threaten, mortal. My brother's sword hides far more secrets than you can contemplate.'

  He smiled. Worse than that, Nightchill. The hand now wielding Dragnipur belongs to Darkness. Anomander Rake, the son of the mother. The pathway has never been so straight, so direct or so short, has it? Should I tell him what has happened within his own weapon—

  'Should Rake learn that you found a way into Dragnipur and that you freed the two Hounds he had slain… he would kill you, mortal.'

  He might. He's already had a few chances to do so, and just reasons besides. Yet he stayed his hand. I don't think you understand the Lord of Moon's Spawn as well as you think you do. There is nothing predictable in Anomander Rake—perhaps that is what frightens you so.

  'Pursue not this course.'

  I will do whatever I have to, Nightchill, to cut your strings. In your eyes, we mortals are weak. And you use our weakness to justify manipulating us.

  'The struggle we face is far vaster—far deadlier—than you realize.'

  Explain it. All of it. Show me this vast threat of yours.

  'To save your sanity, we must not, Ganoes Paran.'

  Patronizing bitch.

  He sensed her anger flare at that. 'You say our only means of using you is through the deliverance of pain. To that we have but one answer: appearances deceive.'

  Keeping us ignorant is your notion of mercy?

  'Bluntly worded, but in essence, you are correct, Ganoes Paran.'

  A Master of the Deck cannot be left ignorant, Nightchill. If I am to accept this role and its responsibilities—whatever they might be and Hood knows, I don't yet know them—but if I am, then I need to know. Everything.

  'In time—'

  He sneered.

  'In time, I said. Grant us this small mercy, mortal. The struggle before us is no different from a military campaign—incremental engagements, localized contests. But the field of battle is no less than existence itself. Small victories are each in themselves vital contributions to the pandemic war we have chosen to undertake—'

  Who is 'we'?

  'The surviving Elder Gods… and others somewhat less cognizant of their role.'

  K'rul? The one responsible for Tattersail's rebirth?

  'Yes. My brother.'

  Your brother. But not the brother who forged Dragnipur.

  'Not him. At the moment, Draconus can do naught but act indirectly, for he is chained within the very sword he created. Slain by his own blade, at the hand of Anomander Rake.'

  Paran felt the cold steel of suspicion slide into him. Indirectly, you said.

  'A moment of opportunity, Ganoes Paran. Unexpected. The arrival of a soul within Dragnipur that was not chained. The exchange of a few words that signified far more than you ever realized. As did the breach into the Warren of Darkness, the barrier of souls broken, so very briefly. But enough—'

  Wait. Paran needed silence to think, fast and hard. When he'd been within Dragnipur, walking alongside the chained souls dragging their unimaginable burden, he had indeed spoken with one such prisoner. Abyss below, that had been Draconus. Yet he could recall nothing of the words exchanged between them.

  The chains led into the Warren of Darkness, the knot beneath the groaning wagon. Thus, Darkness held those souls, one and all, held them fast.

  I need to go back. Into the sword. I need to ask—

  'Jen'isand Rul. Aye, Draconus, the one you spoke with within Dragnipur—my other brother—made use of you, Ganoes Paran. Does that truth seem brutal to you? Is it beyond understanding? Like the others within the sword, my brother faces… eternity. He sought to outwit a curse, yet he never imagined that doing so would take so long. He is changed, mortal. His legendary cruelty has been… blunted. Wisdom earned a thousand times over. More, we need him.'


  You want me to free Draconus from Rake's sword.

  'Yes.'

  To then have him go after Rake himself in an effort to reclaim the weapon he forged. Nightchill, I would rather Rake than Draconus—

  'There will be no such battle, Ganoes Paran.'

  Why not?

  'To free Draconus, the sword must be shattered.'

  The cold steel between his ribs now twisted. And that would free… everyone else. Everything else. Sorry, woman, I won't do it—

  'If there is a way to prevent that woeful release of mad, malign spirits—whose numbers are indeed beyond legion and too horrifying to contemplate—then only one man will know it.'

  Draconus himself.

  'Yes. Think on this, Ganoes Paran. Do not rush—there is still time.'

  Glad to hear it.

  'We are not as cruel as you think.'

  Vengeance hasn't blackened your heart, Nightchill? Excuse my scepticism.

  'Oh, I seek vengeance, mortal, but not against the minor players who acted out my betrayal, for that betrayal was foretold. An ancient curse. The one who voiced that curse is the sole focus of my desire for vengeance.'

  I'm surprised he or she's still around.

  There was a cold smile in her words. 'Such was our curse against him.'

  I'm beginning to think you all deserve each other.

  There was a pause, then she said, 'Perhaps we do, Ganoes Paran.'

  What have you done with Tattersail?

  'Nothing. Her attentions are presently elsewhere.'

  So I was flattering myself, thinking otherwise. Dammit, Paran, you're still a fool.

  'We shall not harm her, mortal. Even were we able, which we are not. There is honour within her. And integrity. Rare qualities, for one so powerful. Thus, we have faith—'

  A gloved hand on his shoulder startled Paran awake. He blinked, looked around. The roof. I'm back.

  'Captain?'

  He met Mallet's concerned gaze. 'What?'

  'Sorry, sir, it seemed we'd lost you there… for a moment.'

  He grimaced, wanting to deny it to the man's face, but unable to do so. 'How long?'

  'A dozen heartbeats, sir.'

  'Is that all? Good. We have to get moving. To the Thrall.'

  'Sir?'

  I'm between them and us, now, Mallet. But there's more of 'us' than you realize. Damn, I wish I could explain this. Without sounding like a pompous bastard. Not replying to the healer's question, he swung round and found Trotts. 'Warchief. The Thrall beckons.'

  'Aye, Captain.'

  The Bridgeburners were one and all avoiding his gaze. Paran wondered why. Wondered what he'd missed. Mentally shrugging, he strode over to Gruntle. 'You're coming with us,' he said.

  'I know.'

  Yes, you would at that. Fine, let's get this done.

  The palace tower rose like a spear, wreathed in banners of ghostly smoke. The dark, colourless stone dulled the bright sunlight bathing it. Three hundred and thirty-nine winding steps led up the tower's interior, to emerge onto an open platform with a peaked roof of copper tiles that showed no sign of verdigris. The wind howled between the columns holding the roof and the smooth stone platform, yet the tower did not sway.

  Itkovian stood looking east, the wind whipping against his face. His body felt bloodless, strangely hot beneath the tattered armour. He knew that exhaustion was finally taking its toll. Flesh and bone had its limits. The defence of the dead prince in his Great Hall had been brutal and artless. Hallways and entrances had become abattoirs. The stench of slaughter remained like a new layer beneath his skin—even the wind could not strip it away.

  The battles at the coast and the landings were drawing to a grim close, a lone surviving scout had reported. The Betrullid had been broken, fleeing north along the coast, where the Shield Anvil well knew their horses would become mired in the salt marsh. The pursuing Barghast would make short work of them.

  The besiegers' camps had been shattered, as if a tornado had ripped through them. A few hundred Barghast—old women and men and children—wandered through the carnage, gathering the spoils amidst squalling seagulls.

  The East Watch redoubt, now a pile of rubble, barely rose above the carpet of bodies. Smoke drifted from it as if from a dying pyre.

  Itkovian had watched the Barghast clans push into the city, had seen the Pannion retreat become a rout in the streets below. The fighting had swiftly swept past the palace. A Seerdomin officer had managed to rally a rearguard in Jelarkan's Concourse, and that battle still raged on. But for the Pannions it was a withdrawing engagement. They were buying time for the exodus through what was left of the south and west gates.

  A few White Face scouts had ventured into the palace grounds, close enough to discern that defenders remained, but no official contact had been established.

  The recruit, Velbara, stood at Itkovian's side, a recruit no longer. Her training in weapons had been one of desperation. She'd not missed the foremost lesson—that of staying alive—that was the guiding force behind every skill she thereafter acquired in the heat of battle. As with all the other Capan newcomers to the company—who now made up most of the survivors under the Shield Anvil's command—she had earned her place as a soldier of the Grey Swords.

  Itkovian broke a long silence. 'We yield the Great Hall, now.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'The honour of the prince has been reasserted. We must needs depart—there is unfinished business at the Thrall.'

  'Can we even yet reach it, sir? We shall need to find a Barghast war chief.'

  'We shall not be mistaken for the enemy, sir. Enough of our brothers and sisters lie dead in the city to make our colours well known. Also, given the pursuit has, apart from the concourse, driven the Pannions west onto the plain, we shall likely find our path unopposed.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Itkovian fixed his attention one last time on the destroyed redoubt in the killing field to the east. Two Gidrath soldiers in the Great Hall below were from that foolhardy but noble defence, and one of them bore recent wounds that would most likely prove fatal. The other, a bull of a man who had knelt before Rath'Hood, seemed no longer able to sleep. In the four days and nights since retaking the Great Hall, he had but paced during his rest periods, oblivious of his surroundings. Pacing, muttering under his breath, his eyes darkly feverish in their intensity. He and his dying companion were, Itkovian suspected, the last Gidrath still alive outside the Thrall itself.

  A Gidrath sworn to Hood, yet he follows my command without hesitation. Simple expedience, one might reasonably conclude. Notions of rivalry dispensed with in the face of the present extremity. Yet… I find myself mistrusting my own explanations.

  Despite his exhaustion, the Shield Anvil had sensed a growing perturbation. Something had happened. Somewhere. And as if in response he'd felt his blood seem to drain from him, emptying his veins, hollowing his heart, vanishing through a wound he'd yet to find. Leaving him to feel… incomplete.

  As if I had surrendered my faith. But I have not. 'The void of lost faith is filled with your swollen self.' Words from a long-dead Destriant. One does not yield, one replaces. Faith with doubt, scepticism, denial. 1 have yielded nothing. I have no horde of words crowding my inner defences. Indeed, I am diminished into silence. Emptied… as if awaiting renewal…

  He shook himself. 'This wind screams too loud in my ears,' he said, eyes still on the East Watch redoubt. 'Come, sir, we go below.'

  One hundred and twelve soldiers remained in fighting condition, though not one was free of wounds. Seventeen Grey Swords lay dead or slowly dying along one wall. The air reeked of sweat, urine and rotting meat. The Great Hall's entranceways were framed in blackening blood, scraped clean on the tiles for firm footing. The long-gone architect who had given shape to the chamber would have been appalled at what it had become. Its noble beauty now housed a nightmare scene.

  On the throne, his skin roughly sewn back onto his half-devoured form, sat Prince Jelarkan, eyeless, teeth
exposed in a grin that grew wider as the lips lost their moisture and shrank away on all sides. Death's broadening smile, a precise, poetic horror. Worthy to hold court in what the Great Hall had become. A young prince who had loved his people, now joined to their fate.

  It was time to leave. Itkovian stood near the main entrance, studying what was left of his Grey Swords. They in turn faced him, motionless, stone-eyed. To the left, two Capan recruits held the reins of the two remaining warhorses. The lone Gidrath—his companion had died moments earlier—paced with head sunk low, shoulders hunched, back and forth along the wall behind the ranked mercenaries. A battered longsword was held in each hand, the one on the left bent by a wild swing that had struck a marble column two nights past.

  The Shield Anvil thought to address his soldiers, if only to honour decorum, but now, as he stood scanning their faces, he realized that he had no words left within him: none to dress what mutually bound them together; none capable of matching the strangely cold pride he felt at that moment. Finally, he drew his sword, tested the straps holding his shield-arm in place, then turned to the main entranceway.

  The hallway beyond had been cleared of corpses, creating an avenue between the stacked bodies to the outer doors.

  Itkovian strode down the ghastly aisle, stepped between the leaning, battered doors, and out into sunlight.

  Following their many assaults, the Pannions had pulled their fallen comrades away from the broad, shallow steps of the approach, had used the courtyard to haphazardly pile the bodies—including those still living, who then either expired from wounds or from suffocation.

  Itkovian paused at the top of the steps. The sounds of fighting persisted from the direction of Jelarkan's Concourse, but that was all he heard. Silence shrouded the scene before him, a silence so discordant in what had been a lively palace forecourt, in what had been a thriving city, that Itkovian was deeply shaken for the first time since the siege began.

  Dear Fener, find for me the victory in this.

  He descended the steps, the stone soft and gummy under his boots. His company followed, not a word spoken.