Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  His soldiers.

  Lining the ridge. Silent.

  To have witnessed this… Now, I am indeed damned. From this, no return. No matter what the words of explanation, of justification. No matter the crimes committed by my victims. I have slain. Not soldiers, not armed opponents, but creatures assailed by madness, stunned senseless, uncomprehending.

  He turned, stared at Anomander Rake.

  The Lord of Moon's Spawn returned the regard without expression.

  This burden—you have taken it before, assumed it long ago, haven't you? This burden, that now assails my soul, it is what you live with—have lived with for centuries. The price for the sword on your back—

  'You should have left it with me, friend,' the Tiste Andü said quietly. 'I might have insisted, but I would not cross blades with you. Thus,' he added with a sorrowful smile, 'the opening of my heart proves, once more, a curse. Claiming those I care for, by virtue of that very emotion. Would that I had learned my lesson long ago, do you not agree?'

  'It seems,' Whiskeyjack managed, 'we have found something new to share.'

  Anomander Rake's eyes narrowed. 'I would not have wished it.'

  'I know.' He held hard on his control. 'I'm sorry I gave you no choice.'

  They regarded each other.

  'I believe Korlat's kin have captured this Anaster,' Rake said after a moment. 'Will you join me in attending to him?' Whiskeyjack flinched.

  'No, my friend,' Rake said. 'I yield judgement of him. Let us leave that to others, shall we?'

  In proper military fashion, you mean. That rigid structure that so easily absolves personal responsibility. Of course. We've time for that, now, haven't we? 'Agreed, Lord. Lead on, if you please.'

  With another faint, wistful smile, Anomander Rake strode past him.

  Whiskeyjack sheathed his bloodied sword, and followed.

  He stared at the Tiste Andü's broad back, at the weapon that hung from it. Anomander Rake, how can you bear this burden? This burden that has so thoroughly broken my heart?

  But no, that is not what so tears at me.

  Lord of Moon's Spawn, you asked me to step aside, and you called it a mercy. I misunderstood you. A mercy, not to the Women of the Dead Seed. But to me. Thus your sorrowed smile when I denied you.

  Ah, my friend, I saw only your brutality—and that hurt you. Better, for us both, had you crossed blades with me. For us both.

  And I—I am not worth such friends. Old man, foolish gestures plague you. Be done with it. Make this your last war. Make it your last.

  Korlat waited with her Tiste Andü kin, surrounding the gaunt figure that was Anaster, First Child of the Dead Seed, at a place near where the youth had landed when thrown by Anomander Rake.

  Whiskeyjack saw tears in his lover's eyes, and the sight of them triggered a painful wrench in his gut. He forced himself to look away. Although he needed her now, and perhaps she in turn needed him to share all that she clearly comprehended, it would have to wait. He resolved to take his lead from Anomander Rake, for whom control was both armour and, if demanded by circumstance, a weapon.

  Riders were approaching from the Malazan position, as well as from Brood's. There would be witnesses to what followed—and that I now curse such truths is true revelation of how far I have fallen. When, before, did I ever fear witnesses to what I did or said? Queen of Dreams, forgive me. I have found myself in a living nightmare, and the monster that stalks me is none other than myself.

  Reining his horse to a halt before the gathered Tiste Andü, Whiskeyjack was able to examine Anaster closely for the first time.

  Disarmed, bruised and blood-smeared, his face turned away, he looked pitiful, weak and small.

  But that is always the way with leaders who have been broken. Whether kings or commanders, defeat withers them—

  And then he saw the youth's face. Something had gouged out one of his eyes, leaving a welter of deep red blood. The remaining eye lifted, fixed on Whiskeyjack. Intent, yet horrifyingly lifeless, a stare both cold and casual, curious yet vastly—fundamentally—indifferent. 'The slayer of my mother,' Anaster said in a lilting voice, cocking his head as he continued to study the Malazan.

  Whiskeyjack's voice was hoarse. 'I am sorry for that, First Child.'

  'I am not. She was insane. A prisoner of herself, possessed by her own demons. Not alone in that curse, we must presume.'

  'Not any more,' Whiskeyjack answered.

  'It is as a plague, is it not? Ever spreading. Devouring lives. That is why you will, ultimately, fail. All of you. You become what you destroy.'

  The tone of Anomander Rake's response was shockingly vulgar. 'No more appropriate words could come from a cannibal. What, Anaster, do you think we should do with you? Be honest, now.'

  The young man swung his singular gaze to the Lord of Moon's Spawn. Whatever self-possession he contained seemed to falter suddenly with that contact, for he reached up a tentative hand to hover before the bloodied eye-socket, and his pale face grew paler. 'Kill me,' he whispered.

  Rake frowned. 'Korlat?'

  'Aye, he lost control, then. His fear has a face. One that I have not seen before—'

  Anaster turned on her. 'Shut up! You saw nothing!'

  'There is darkness within you,' she replied in calm tones. 'Virulent cousin to Kurald Galain. A darkness of the soul. When you falter, child, we see what hides within it.'

  'Liar!' he hissed.

  'A soldier's face,' Anomander Rake said. He slowly faced westward. 'From the city. From Capustan.' He turned back to Anaster. 'He is still there, isn't he? It seems, mortal, that you have acquired a nemesis—one who promises something other than death, something far more terrible. Interesting.'

  'You do not understand! He is Itkovian! Shield Anvil! He wishes my soul! Please, kill me!'

  Dujek and Caladan Brood had arrived from the allied lines, as well as Kallor and Artanthos. They sat on their horses, watchful, silent.

  'Perhaps we will,' the Lord of Moon's Spawn replied after a moment. 'In time. For now, we will take you with us to Capustan—'

  'No! Please! Kill me now!'

  'I see no absolution in your particular madness, child,' Anomander Rake said. 'No cause for mercy. Not yet. Perhaps, upon meeting the one—Itkovian?—who so terrifies you, we will judge otherwise, and so grant you a swift end. As you are our prisoner, that is our right. You might be spared your nemesis after all.' He faced Brood and the others. 'Acceptable?'

  'Aye,' Dujek growled, eyes on Whiskeyjack.

  'Agreed,' Brood said.

  Anaster made a desperate attempt to snatch a dagger from a Tiste Andü warrior beside him, which was effortlessly denied. The youth collapsed, then, weeping, down onto his knees, his thin frame racked by heaves.

  'Best take him away,' Anomander Rake said, studying the broken figure. 'This is no act.'

  That much was plain to everyone present.

  Whiskeyjack nudged his horse to come alongside Dujek.

  The old man nodded in greeting, then muttered, 'That was damned unfortunate.'

  'It was.'

  'From the distance, it looked—'

  'It looked bad, High Fist, because it was.'

  'Understand, Whiskeyjack, I comprehend your… your mercy. Rake's sword—but, dammit, could you not have waited?'

  Explanations, sound justifications crowded Whiskeyjack's mind, but all he said was, 'No.'

  'Executions demand procedures—'

  'Then strip me of my rank, sir.'

  Dujek winced, looked away. He sighed roughly. 'That's not what I meant, Whiskeyjack. I know well enough the significance of such procedures—the real reason for their existing in the first place. A sharing of necessary but brutal acts—'

  , 'diminishes the personal cost, aye,' Whiskeyjack answered in low tones. 'No doubt Anomander Rake could have easily managed those few souls added to his legendary list. But I took them instead. I diminished his personal cost. A paltry effort, granted, and one he asked me not to do. But it is done
now. The issue is ended.'

  'The issue is anything but,' Dujek grated. 'I am your friend—'

  'No.' We're not at risk of crossing blades, so there won't be any sharing of this one. 'No,' he repeated. Not this time. He could almost hear Dujek's teeth grinding.

  Korlat joined them. 'A strange young man, the one known as Anaster.'

  The two Malazans turned at her words. 'Does that surprise you?' Dujek asked.

  She shrugged. 'There was much hidden within the darkness of his soul, High Fist. More than just a soldier's face. He could not bear leading his army. Could not bear to see the starvation, the loss and desperation. And so was resolved to send it to its death, to absolute annihilation. As an act of mercy, no less. To relieve the suffering.

  'For himself, he committed crimes that could only be answered with death. Execution at the hands of those survivors among his victims. But not a simple death—he seeks something more. He seeks damnation as his sentence. An eternity of damnation. I cannot fathom such self-loathing.'

  I can, for I feel as if I am tottering on the very edge of that steep slope myself. One more misstep… Whiskeyjack looked away, towards the Malazan legions massed on the distant ridge. The sun flashing from armour and weapons was blinding, making his eyes water.

  Dujek moved his horse away, rejoining Artanthos, Brood and Kallor. Leaving Whiskeyjack alone with Korlat. She reached up, touched his gauntleted hand.

  He could not meet her gaze, continued studying the motionless lines of his soldiers.

  'My love,' she murmured. 'Those women—they were not defenceless. The power they drew on came from the Warren of Chaos itself. My Lord's initial attack was intended to destroy them; instead, it but left them momentarily stunned. They were recovering. And, in their awakened power, they would have unleashed devastation. Madness and death, for your army. This entire day could have been lost.' He grimaced. 'I do not rail at necessity,' he said. 'It seems… you do.'

  'War has its necessities, Korlat, and I have always understood that. Always known the cost. But, this day, by my own hand, I have realized something else. War is not a natural state. It is an imposition, and a damned unhealthy one. With its rules, we willingly yield our humanity. Speak not of just causes, worthy goals. We are takers of life. Servants of Hood, one and all.'

  'The Women of the Dead Seed would have killed hundreds, perhaps thousands, Whiskeyjack—'

  'And I have commanded the same, in my time, Korlat. What difference is there between us?'

  'You are not afraid of the questions that follow such acts,' she said. 'Those that you willingly ask of yourself. Perhaps you see that as self-destructive ruthlessness, but I see it as courage—a courage that is extraordinary. A man less brave would have left my Lord to his unseemly task.'

  'These are pointless words, Korlat. The army standing over there has witnessed its commander committing murder—'

  Korlat's hissing retort shocked him. 'Do not dare underestimate them!'

  'Underest—'

  'I have come to know many of your soldiers, Whiskeyjack. They are not fools. Perhaps many of them—if not most—are unable to articulate their fullest understanding, but they understand none the less. Do you not think that they—each in his or her own way—have faced the choice you faced this morning? The knife-point turn of their lives? And every one of them still feels the scar within them.'

  'I see little—'

  'Whiskeyjack, listen to me. They witnessed. They saw, in fullest knowing. Damn you, I know this for I felt the same. They hurt for you. With every brutal blow, they felt the old wounds within them resonate in sympathy. Commander, your shame is an insult. Discard it, or you will deliver unto your soldiers the deepest wound of all.'

  He stared down at her. 'We're a short-lived people,' he said after a long moment. 'We lack such complexity in our lives.'

  'Bastard. Remind me to never again apologize to you.'

  He looked back once more at the Malazan legions. 'I still fear to face them at close range,' he muttered.

  'The distance between you and them has already closed, Whiskeyjack. Your army will follow you into the Abyss, should you so command.'

  'The most frightening thought uttered thus far today.'

  She made no reply to that.

  Aye, war's imposition—of extremities. Harsh, yet simple. It is no place for humanity, no place at all. 'Dujek was displeased,' he said.

  'Dujek wants to keep his army alive.'

  His head snapped round.

  Her eyes regarded him, cool and gauging.

  'I have no interest in usurping his authority—'

  'You just did, Whiskeyjack. Laseen's fear of you be damned, the natural order has reasserted itself. She could handle Dujek. That's why she demoted you and put him in charge. Gods, you can be dense at times!'

  He scowled. 'If I am such a threat to her, why didn't she—' He stopped, closed his mouth. Oh, Hood. Pale. Darujhistan. It wasn't the Bridgeburners she wanted destroyed. It was me.

  'Guard your trust, my love,' Korlat said. 'It may be that your belief in honour is being used against you.'

  He felt himself go cold inside.

  Oh, Hood.

  Hood's marble balls on an anvil…

  Coll made his way down the gentle slope towards the Mhybe's wagon. Thirty paces to the right were the last of the Trygalle Trade Guild's carriages, a group of shareholders throwing bones on a tarp nearby. Messengers rode in the distance, coming from or returning to the main army's position a league to the southwest.

  Murillio sat with his back to one of the Rhivi wagon's solid wood wheels, eyes closed.

  They opened upon the councillor's arrival.

  'How does she fare?' Coll asked, crouching down beside him.

  'It is exhausting,' Murillio replied. 'To see her suffer those nightmares—they are endless. Tell me the news.'

  'Well, Kruppe and Silverfox haven't been seen since yesterday; nor have those two marines Whiskeyjack had guarding the Mhybe's daughter. As for the battle…' Coll looked away, squinting south-westward. 'It was short-lived. Anomander Rake assumed his Soletaken form. A single pass dispersed the Tenescowri. Anaster was captured, and, uh, the mages in his service were… executed.'

  'Sounds unpleasant,' Murillio commented.

  'By all reports it was. In any case, the peasants are fleeing back to Capustan, where I doubt they will be much welcome. It's a sad fate indeed for those poor bastards.'

  'She's been forgotten, hasn't she?'

  Coll did not need to ask for elaboration. 'A hard thing to swallow, but aye, it does seem that way.'

  'Outlived her usefulness, and so discarded.'

  'I cling to a faith that this is a tale not yet done, Murillio.'

  'We are the witnesses. Here to oversee the descent. Naught else, Coll. Kruppe's assurances are nothing but wind. And you and I, we are prisoners of this unwelcome circumstance—as much as she is, as much as that addled Rhivi woman who comes by to comb her hair.'

  Coll slowly swung to study his old friend. 'What do you suggest we do?' he asked.

  Shrugging, Murillio growled, 'What do most prisoners do sooner or later?'

  'They try to escape.'

  'Aye.'

  Coll said nothing for a long moment, then he sighed. 'And how do you propose we do that? Would you just leave her? Alone, untended—'

  'Of course not. No, we take her with us.'

  'Where?'

  'I don't know! Anywhere! So long as it's away.'

  'And how far will she need to go to escape those nightmares?'

  'We need only find someone willing to help her, Coll. Someone who does not judge a life by expedience and potential usefulness.'

  'This is an empty plain, Murillio.'

  'I know.'

  'Whereas, in Capustan…'

  The younger man's eyes narrowed. 'By all accounts, it's little more than rubble.'

  'There are survivors. Including priests.'

  'Priests!' he snorted. 'Self-serving confidence artis
ts, swindlers of the gullible, deceivers of—'

  'Murillio, there are exceptions to that—'

  'I've yet to see one.'

  'Perhaps this time. My point is, if we're to escape this—with her—we've a better chance of finding help in Capustan than out here in this wasteland.'

  'Saltoan—'

  'Is a week or more away, longer with this wagon. Besides, the city is Hood's crusted navel incarnate. I wouldn't take Rallick Norn's axe-wielding mother to Saltoan.'

  Murillio sighed. 'Rallick Nom.'

  'What of him?'

  'I wish he were here.'

  'Why?'

  'So he could kill someone. Anyone. The man's a wonder at simplifying matters.'

  Coll grunted a laugh. '"Simplifying matters." Wait until I tell him that one. Hey, Rallick, you're not an assassin, you know, you're just a man who simplifies.'

  'Well, it's a moot point in any case, since he disappeared.'

  'He's not dead.'

  'How do you know?'

  'I just know. So, Murillio, do we wait until Capustan?'

  'Agreed. And once there, we follow the example of Kruppe and Silverfox. We slip away. Vanish. Hood knows, I doubt anyone will notice, much less care.'

  Coll hesitated, then said, 'Murillio, if we find someone—someone who can do something for the Mhybe—well, it's likely to be expensive.'

  The man shrugged. 'I've been in debt before.'

  'As have I. So long as it's understood that this will likely mean our financial ruin, and all that might be achieved is a kinder end to her life.'

  'A worthwhile exchange, then.'

  Coll did not ask for another affirmation of his friend's resolve. He knew Murillio too well for that. Aye, it's naught but coin, isn't it? No matter the amount, a fair exchange to ease an old woman's suffering. One way or the other. For at least we will have cared—even if she never again awakens and thus knows nothing of what we do. Indeed, it is perhaps better that way. Cleaner. Simpler…

  The howl echoed as if from a vast cavern. Echoed, folded in on itself until the mourning call became a chorus. Bestial voices in countless numbers, voices that stripped away the sense of time itself, that made eternity into a single now.

  The voices of winter.

  Yet they came from the south, from the place where the tundra could go no further; where the trees were no longer ankle-high, but rose, still ragged, wind-torn and spindly, over her head, so that she could pass unseen—no longer towering above the landscape.