Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  'Logros sent me in search of the remaining T'lan Imass armies, such as we knew from the First Gathering. The Ifayle, the Kerluhm, the Bentract and the Orshan.'

  'And did you find them?' she asked.

  'The four remaining clans of Bentract T'lan Imass are on Jacuruku, I believe, yet trapped within the Warren of Chaos. I searched there, Summoner, without success. Of the Orshan, the Ifayle and Kerluhm, I report my failure in discovering any sign. It follows that we must conclude they no longer exist.'

  Silverfox was clearly shaken by Olar Ethil's words. 'So many…' she whispered, 'lost?' A moment later Kruppe saw her steel herself. 'Olar Ethil, what inspired Logros to despatch you to find the remaining armies?'

  'Summoner, the First Throne found a worthy occupant. Logros was commanded so by the occupant.'

  'An occupant? Who?'

  'A mortal known then as Kellanved, Emperor of Malaz.'

  Silverfox said nothing for a long moment, then, 'Of course. But he no longer occupies it, does he?'

  'He no longer occupies it, Summoner, yet he has not yielded it.'

  'What does that mean? Ah, because the Emperor didn't die, did he?'

  Olar Ethil nodded. 'Kellanved did not die. He ascended, and has taken the Throne of Shadow. Had he died in truth, the First Throne would be unoccupied once more. He has not, so it is not. We are at an impasse.'

  'And when this… event… occurred—the result was your ceasing to serve the Malazan Empire, leaving Laseen to manage on her own for the first, crucial years of her rule.'

  'They were uncertain times, Summoner. Logros T'lan Imass was divided unto itself. The discovery of surviving Jaghut in the Jhag Odhan proved a timely, if short-lived, distraction. Clans among us have since returned to the Malazan Empire's service.'

  'And was the schism responsible for the renegades the rest now pursue?'

  Ah, her mind returns, sharply honed. This is fell information indeed. Renegades among the T'lan Imass…

  'No, Summoner. The renegades have found another path, which as yet remains hidden from us. They have, on occasion, employed the Warren of Chaos in their flight.'

  Chaos? I wonder, to whom do these renegade T'lan Imass now kneel? No, muse on it not. Still a distant threat, Kruppe suspects. All in its own time…

  Silverfox asked, 'What Soletaken shape do you assume, Olar Ethil?'

  'When I veer, I am as an undead twin to Tiam, who spawned all dragons.'

  Nothing more was added. The thousands of T'lan Imass stood motionless, silent. A score heartbeats passed in Kruppe's chest. Finally, he cleared his throat and stepped closer to Silverfox. 'It appears, lass, that they await your command—whatever command that might be. A reasonable resolu—'

  Silverfox swung to face him. 'Please,' she grated. 'No advice. This is my Gathering, Kruppe. Leave me to it.'

  'Of course, my dear. Humblest apologies. Please do resume your hesitation.'

  She made a sour face. 'Impudent bastard.' Kruppe smiled.

  Silverfox turned back to the awaiting T'lan Imass. 'Pran Chole, please forgive my earlier words.'

  He raised his head. 'Summoner, it is I who must ask for forgiveness.'

  'No. Okral Lorn was right in condemning my anger. I feel as if I have awaited this meeting for a thousand lifetimes—the expectation, the pressure…'

  Kruppe cleared his throat. 'A thousand lifetimes, Silverfox? Scry more closely those who stand before you—'

  'Thank you, that's enough, Kruppe. Believe me, I am quite capable of castigating myself without any help from you.'

  'Of course,' the Daru murmured.

  Silverfox settled her gaze on Pran Chole once more. 'I would ask of you and your kin a question.'

  'We await, Summoner.'

  'Are there any Jaghut left?'

  'Of pure blood, we know of but one who remains in this realm. One, who hides not in the service of a god, or in service to the Houses of the Azath.'

  'And he will be found at the heart of the Pannion Domin, won't he?'

  'Yes.'

  'Commanding K'Chain Che'Malle undead. How can that be?'

  Kruppe noted the hesitation in Pran Chole as the Bonecaster replied. 'We do not know, Summoner.'

  'And when he is destroyed, Pran Chole, what then?'

  The Bonecaster seemed taken aback by the question. 'Summoner, this is your Gathering. You are flesh and blood—our flesh and blood, reborn. When the last Jaghut is slain—'

  'A moment, if you please!' Kruppe said, edging another step forward. Silverfox hissed in exasperation but the Daru continued. 'Pran Chole, do you recall worthy Kruppe?' 'I do.'

  'Worthy, clever Kruppe, yes? You said you know of but one Jaghut. No doubt accurate enough. None the less, saying such is not quite the same as saying there is but one left, is it? Thus, you are not certain, are you?'

  Olar Ethil replied. 'Mortal, other Jaghut remain. Isolated. Hidden—they have learned to hide very well indeed. We believe they exist, but we cannot find them.'

  'Yet you seek an official end to the war, do you not?'

  A susurration of motion rippled through the undead ranks.

  Silverfox wheeled on him. 'How did you know, damn you?'

  Kruppe shrugged. 'Sorrow unsurpassed and unsurpassing. They in truth seek to become dust. Had they eyes, Kruppe would see the truth no plainer writ. The T'lan Imass wish oblivion.'

  'Which I would only grant if all the Jaghut on this world had ceased to exist,' Silverfox said. 'For that is the burden laid upon me. My intended purpose. The threat of tyranny removed, finally, once and for all time. Only then could I grant the T'lan Imass the oblivion they seek—so the Ritual demands of me, for that is a linkage that cannot be broken.'

  'You must make the pronouncement, Summoner,' Okral Lorn said.

  'Yes,' she replied, still glaring at Kruppe.

  'Your words,' Pran Chole added, 'can shatter the Ritual's bindings.'

  Her head snapped round. 'So easily? Yet—' She faced the Daru once more, and scowled. 'Kruppe, you force into the open an unpleasant truth—'

  'Aye, Silverfox, but not the same truth as that which you seem to see. No, Kruppe has unveiled a deeper one, far more poignant.'

  She crossed her arms. 'And that is?'

  Kruppe studied the sea of undead figures, narrowed his gaze on the shadowed sockets of countless eyes. After a long moment, he sighed, and it was a sigh ragged with emotion. 'Ah, my dear, look again, please. It was a pathetic deceit, not worth condemnation. Understand, if you will, the very beginning. The First Gathering. There was but one enemy, then. One people, from whom tyrants emerged. But time passes, aye? And now, dominators and tyrants abound on all sides—yet are they Jaghut? They are not. They are human, for the most part, yes?

  'The truth in all its layers? Very well. Silverfox, the T'lan Imass have won their war. Should a new tyrant emerge from among the few hidden Jaghut, he or she will not find the world so simple to conquer as it once was. There are gods to oppose the effort; nay, there are mere ascendants! Men such as Anomander Rake, women such as Korlat—have you forgotten the fate of the last Jaghut Tyrant?

  'The time has passed, Silverfox. For the Jaghut, and thus, for the T'lan Imass.' Kruppe rested a hand on her shoulder and looked up into her eyes. 'Summoner,' he whispered, 'these indomitable warriors are… weary. Weary beyond all comprehension. They have existed for hundreds of thousands of years, for one sole cause. And that cause is now… a farce. Pointless. Irrelevant. They want it to end, Silverfox. They tried to arrange it with Kellanved and the First Throne, but the effort failed. Thus, they gave shape to you, to what you would become. For this one task.

  'Redeem them. Please.'

  Pran Chole spoke, 'Summoner, we shall destroy the Jaghut who hides within this Pannion Domin. And then, we would ask for an end. It is as Kruppe has said. We have no reason to exist, thus we exist without honour, and it is destroying us. The renegades Logros T'lan Imass hunts are but the first. We shall lose more of our kin, or so we fear.'

  Kruppe s
aw that Silverfox was trembling, but her words were tightly controlled as she addressed the antlered shaman. 'You create me as the first flesh and blood Bonecaster in almost three hundred thousand years. The first, and, it seems, the last.'

  'Do as we ask, Summoner, and the remainder of your life is yours.'

  'What life? I am neither Rhivi nor Malazan. I am not even truly human. It is what all of you do not grasp!' She jabbed a finger at Kruppe and the two marines to complete an all-encompassing gesture. 'None of you! Not even Paran, who thinks—no, what he thinks I will deal with in my own time—it is not for any of you. T'lan Imass! I am your kin, damn you! Your first child in three hundred thousand years! Am I to be abandoned again?'

  Kruppe stepped back. Again? Oh, gods below—'Silverfox—'

  'Silence!'

  But there was no silence. Instead, a rustling and creaking whispered through the air, and Silverfox and Kruppe swung to the sound.

  To see tens of thousands of T'lan Imass lowering themselves to their knees, heads bowing.

  Olar Ethil was the last standing. She spoke. 'Summoner, we beg you to release us.' With those words, she too settled onto the ground.

  The scene twisted a knife in Kruppe's very soul. Unable to speak, barely able to breathe, he simply stared out at the broken multitude in growing horror. And when Silverfox gave answer, the Daru's heart threatened to burst.

  'No.'

  In the distance, on all sides, the undead wolves began to howl.

  'Hood's breath!' one of the marines swore.

  Aye, theirs is a voice of such unearthly sorrow, it tears at the mortal mind. Oh, K'rul, what are we to do now?

  'One assumes a lack of complexity in people whose lives are so short.' Whiskeyjack grinned sourly. 'If that's meant to be an apology, you'll have to do better, Korlat.'

  The Tiste Andü sighed, ran a hand through her long black hair in a very human gesture.

  'Then again,' the Malazan continued, 'from you, woman, even a grunt will do.'

  Her eyes flashed. 'Oh? And how am I to take that?'

  'Try the way it was meant, lass. I've not enjoyed the last few days much, and I'd rather we were as before, so I will take what I can get. There, as simple as I can make it.'

  She leaned in her saddle and laid a hand against his chain-clothed arm. 'Thank you. It seems I am the one needing things simple.'

  'To that, my lips are sealed.'

  'You are a wise man, Whiskeyjack.'

  The plain before them, at a distance of two thousand paces and closing, swarmed with Tenescowri. There was no order to their ranks, barring the lone rider who rode before them, a thin, gaunt youth, astride a spine-bowed roan dray. Immediately behind the young man—whom Whiskeyjack assumed to be Anaster—ranged a dozen or so women. Wild-haired, loosing random shrieks, there was an aura of madness and dark horror about them.

  'Women of the Dead Seed, presumably,' Korlat said, noting his gaze. 'There is sorcerous power there. They are the First Child's true bodyguard, I believe.'

  Whiskeyjack twisted in his saddle to examine the Malazan legions formed up behind him fifty paces away. 'Where is Anomander Rake? This mob could charge at any moment.'

  'They will not,' Korlat asserted. 'Those witches sense my Lord's nearness. They are made uneasy, and cry out caution to their chosen child.'

  'But will he listen?'

  'He had bett—'

  A roaring sound shattered her words.

  The Tenescowri were charging, a surging tide of fearless desperation. A wave of power from the Women of the Dead Seed psychically assailed Whiskeyjack, made his heart thunder with a strange panic. Korlat hissed between her teeth. 'Resist the fear, my love!' Snarling, Whiskeyjack drew his sword and wheeled his horse round to face his troops. The sorcerous assault of terror had reached them, battering at the lines. They rippled, but not a single soldier stepped back. A moment later, his Malazans steadied.

  'Ware!' Korlat cried. 'My Lord arrives in his fullest power!' The air seemed to descend on all sides, groaning beneath a vast, invisible weight. The sky darkened with a palpable dread.

  Whiskeyjack's horse stumbled, legs buckling momentarily before the animal regained its balance. The beast screamed.

  A cold, bitter wind whistled fiercely, flattening the grasses before the commander and Korlat, then it struck the charging mass of Tenescowri.

  The Women of the Dead Seed were thrown back, staggering, stumbling, onto the ground where they writhed. Behind them, the front runners in the mob tried to stop and were overrun. Within a single heartbeat, the front ranks collapsed into chaos, figures seething over others, bodies trampled or pushed forward in a flailing of limbs.

  The silver-maned black dragon swept low over Whiskeyjack's head, sailing forward on that gelid gale.

  The lone figure of Anaster, astride his roan horse that had not even flinched, awaited him. The front line of the Tenescowri was a tumbling wall behind the First Child.

  Anomander Rake descended on the youth.

  Anaster straightened in his saddle and spread his arms wide.

  Huge talons snapped down. Closed around the First Child and plucked him from the horse.

  The dragon angled upward with its prize.

  Then seemed to stagger in the air.

  Korlat cried out. 'Gods, he is as poison!'

  The dragon's leg whipped to one side, flinging Anaster away. The young man spun, cartwheeling like a tattered doll through the air. To plunge into the mob of Tenescowri on the far right, where he disappeared from view.

  Righting himself, Anomander Rake lowered his wedge-shaped head as he closed on the peasant army. Fanged mouth opened.

  Raw Kurald Galain issued from that maw. Roiling darkness that Whiskeyjack had seen before, long ago, outside the city of Pale. But then, it had been tightly controlled. And more recently, when led by Korlat through the warren itself; again, calmed. But now, the Elder Warren of Darkness was unleashed, wild.

  So there's another way into the Warren of Kurald Galain—right down that dragon's throat.

  A broad, flattened swathe swept through the Tenescowri. Bodies dissolving to nothing, leaving naught but ragged clothing. The dragon's flight was unswerving, cutting a path of annihilation that divided the army into two seething, recoiling halves.

  The first pass completed, Anomander Rake lifted skyward, banked around for another.

  It was not needed. The Tenescowri forces had broken, figures scattering in all directions. Here and there, Whiskeyjack saw, it turned on itself, like a hound biting its own wounds. Senseless murder, self-destruction, all that came of blind, unreasoning terror.

  The dragon glided back over the writhing mobs, but did not unleash its warren a second time.

  Then Whiskeyjack saw Anomander Rake's head turn.

  The dragon dropped lower, a wide expanse clearing before it as the Tenescowri flung themselves away, leaving only a half-score of figures, lying prone but evincing motion none the less—slowly, agonizingly attempting to regain their feet.

  The Women of the Dead Seed.

  The dragon, flying now at a man's height over the ground, sembled, blurred as it closed on the witches, re-formed into the Lord of Moon's Spawn—who strode towards the old women, hand reaching up to draw his sword.

  'Korlat—'

  'I am sorry, Whiskeyjack.'

  'He's going to—'

  'I know.'

  Whiskeyjack stared in horror as Anomander Rake reached the first of the women, a scrawny, hunchbacked hag half the Tiste Andü's height, and swung Dragnipur.

  Her head dropped to the ground at her feet on a stream of gore. The body managed an eerie side-step, as if dancing, then crumpled.

  Anomander Rake walked to the next woman.

  'No—this is not right—'

  'Please—'

  Ignoring Korlat's plea, Whiskeyjack spurred his horse forward, down the slope at a canter, then a gallop as they reached level ground.

  Another woman was slain, then a third before the Malazan arrived,
sawing his reins to bring his horse to a skidding halt directly in Rake's path.

  The Lord of Moon's Spawn was forced to halt his stride. He looked up in surprise, then frowned.

  'Stop this,' Whiskeyjack grated. He realized he still held his sword unsheathed, saw Rake's unhuman eyes casually note it before the Tiste Andü replied.

  'To one side, my friend. What I do is a mercy—'

  'No, it is a judgement, Anomander Rake. And,' he added, eyes on Dragnipur's black blade, 'a sentence.'

  The Lord's answering smile was oddly wistful. 'If you would have it as you say, Whiskeyjack. None the less, I claim the right to judgement of these creatures.'

  'I will not oppose that, Anomander Rake.'

  'Ah, it is the… sentence, then.'

  'It is.'

  The Lord sheathed his sword. 'Then it must be by your hand, friend. And quickly, for they recover their powers.' He flinched in his saddle. 'I am no executioner.'

  'You'd best become one, or step aside. Now.'

  Whiskeyjack wheeled his horse round. The seven remaining women were indeed regaining their senses, though he saw in the one nearest him a glaze of incomprehension lingering still in her aged, yellowed eyes.

  Hood take me—

  He kicked his mount into motion, readied his blade in time to drive its point into the nearest woman's chest.

  Dry skin parted almost effortlessly. Bones snapped like twigs. The victim reeled back, fell.

  Pushing his horse on, Whiskeyjack shook the blood from his sword, then, reaching the next woman, he swung crossways, opened wide her throat.

  He forced a cold grip onto his thoughts, holding them still, concentrated on the mechanics of his actions. No errors. No pain-stretched flaws for his victims. Precise executions, one after another, instinctively guiding his horse, shifting his weight, readying his blade, thrusting or slashing as was required.

  One, then another, then another.

  Until, swinging his mount around, he saw that he was done. It was over.

  His horse stamping as it continued circling, Whiskeyjack looked up.

  To see Onearm's Host lining the ridge far to his left—the space between them littered with trampled bodies but otherwise open. Unobstructed.