Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  'He's busy, I'm afraid.'

  Anomander Rake, Son of Darkness! The Edur have sworn to destroy Mother Dark. Yow must warn him! Poisoned souls, led by the one who has been slain a hundred times, oh, 'ware this new Emperor of the Edur, this Tyrant of Pain, this Deliverer of Midnight Tides!

  Paran pulled himself back with a mental wrench, staggered a step further away, then another. He was sheathed in sweat, trembling with the aftermath of such visceral terror.

  Barely conscious of his own intent, he whirled—the chamber around him blurring, swallowed by darkness, then, with a grinding shift, something deeper than darkness.

  'Oh, Abyss…'

  A rubble-strewn plain beneath a dead sky. In the distance to his right, the groan of massive, wooden wheels, the slither and snap of chains, countless plodding footfalls. In the air, a pall of suffering that threatened to suffocate Paran where he stood.

  Gritting his teeth, he swung towards the dreadful sounds, pushed himself forward.

  Grainy shapes appeared ahead, coming directly for Paran. Leaning figures, stretched chains. Beyond them, a hundred or more paces distant, loomed the terrible wagon, massed with writhing bodies, clunking and shifting over stones, swallowed in a haze of mist.

  Paran stumbled forward. 'Draconus!' he shouted. 'Where in Hood's name are you? Draconus!'

  Faces lifted, then all but one—hooded and indistinct—lowered once more.

  The captain slipped between victims of Dragnipur, closing on the one shadowed face still regarding him, stepping within reach of the mad, the numbed, the failing—not one of whom sought to impede him, or even acknowledged his presence. He moved as a ghost through the press.

  'Greetings, mortal,' Draconus said. 'Walk with me, then.'

  'I wanted Rake.'

  'You found his sword, instead. For which I am not sorry.'

  'Yes, I've spoken with Nightchill, Draconus—but don't press me on that subject. When I reach a decision, you'll be the first to know. I need to speak with Rake.'

  'Aye,' the ancient warrior rumbled, 'you do. Explain to him this truth, mortal. He is too merciful, too merciful to wield Dragnipur. The situation is growing desperate.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'Dragnipur needs to feed. Look around us, mortal. There are those who, at long last, fail in pulling this burden. They are carried to the wagon, then, and tossed onto it—you think this preferable? Too weak to move, they are soon buried by those like them. Buried, trapped for eternity. And the more the wagon bears, the greater its weight—the more difficult the burden for those of us still able to heave on these chains. Do you understand? Dragnipur needs to feed. We require… fresh legs. Tell Rake—he must draw the sword. He must take souls. Powerful ones, preferably. And he must do so soon—'

  'What will happen if the wagon stops, Draconus?'

  The man who forged his own prison was silent for a long time. 'Project your vision, mortal, onto our trail. See for yourself, what pursues us.'

  Pursues? He closed his eyes, yet the scene did not vanish—the wagon lumbered on, there in his mind, the multitudes passing by him like ghosts. Then the massive contrivance was past, its groans fading behind him. The ruts of its wheels flanked him, each one as wide as an imperial road. The earth was sodden with blood, bile and sweat, a foul mud that drew his boots down, swallowed them up to his ankles.

  His gaze followed those tracks, back, to the horizon.

  Where chaos raged. Filling the sky, a storm such as he had never seen before. Rapacious hunger poured from it. Frenzied anticipation.

  Lost memories.

  Power born from rendered souls.

  Malice and desire, a presence almost self-aware, with hundreds of thousands of eyes all fixed on the wagon behind Paran.

  So… so eager to feed…

  He recoiled.

  With a gasp, Paran found himself stumbling once more alongside Draconus. The residue of what he had witnessed clung to him, making his heart drum savagely in his chest. Another thirty steps passed before he was able to raise his head, to speak. 'Draconus,' he grated, 'you have made a very unpleasant sword.'

  'Darkness has ever warred against Chaos, mortal. Ever retreated. And each time that Mother Dark relented—to the Coming of Light, to the Birth of Shadow—her power has diminished, the imbalance growing more profound. Such was the state of the realms around me in those early times. A growing imbalance. Until Chaos approached the very Gate to Kurald Galain itself. A defence needed to be fashioned. Souls were… required

  'Wait, please. I need to think—'

  'Chaos hungers for the power in those souls—for what Dragnipur has claimed. To feed on such power will make it stronger—tenfold. A hundredfold. Sufficient to breach the Gate. Look to your mortal realm, Ganoes Paran. Devastating, civilization-destroying wars, civil wars, pogroms, wounded and dying gods—you and your kind progress at a perilous pace on the path forged by Chaos. Blinded by rage, lusting for vengeance, those darkest of desires—'

  'Wait—'

  'Where history means nothing. Lessons are forgotten. Memories—of humanity, of all that is humane—are lost. Without balance, Ganoes Paran—'

  'But you want me to shatter Dragnipur!'

  'Ah, now I understand your resistance to all that I say. Mortal, I have had time to think. To recognize the grave error I have made. I had believed, Ganoes Paran, in those early times, that only in Darkness could the power that is order be manifested. I sought to help Mother Dark—for it seemed she was incapable of helping herself. She would not answer, she would not even acknowledge her children. She had withdrawn, deep into her own realm, far from all of us, so far that we could not find her.'

  'Draconus—'

  'Hear me, please. Before the Houses, there were Holds. Before Holds, there was wandering. Your own words, yes? But you were both right and wrong. Not wandering, but migration. A seasonal round—predictable, cyclical. What seemed aimless, random, was in truth fixed, bound to its own laws. A truth—a power—I failed to recognize.'

  'So the shattering of Dragnipur will release the Gate once more—to its migration.'

  'To what gave it its own strength to resist Chaos, yes. Dragnipur has bound the Gate of Darkness to flight, for eternity—but should the souls chained to it diminish—'

  'The flight slows down—'

  'Fatally.'

  'So, either Rake begins killing—taking souls—or Dragnipur must be destroyed.'

  'The former is necessary—to buy us time—until the latter occurs. The sword must be shattered. The purpose of its very existence was misguided. Besides which, there is another truth I have but stumbled on—far too late for it to make any difference. At least to me.'

  'And that is?'

  'Just as Chaos possesses the capacity to act in its own defence, to indeed alter its own nature to its own advantage in its eternal war, so too can Order. It is not solely bound to Darkness. It understands, if you will, the value of balance.'

  Paran felt an intuitive flash. 'The Houses of the Azath. The Deck of Dragons.'

  The hooded head shifted slightly and Paran felt cold, unhuman eyes fixing upon him. 'Aye, Ganoes Paran.'

  'The Houses take souls…'

  'And bind them in place. Beyond the grasp of Chaos.'

  'So it shouldn't matter, then, if Darkness succumbs.'

  'Don't be a fool. Losses and gains accumulate, shift the tide, but not always in ways that redress the balance. We are in an imbalance, Ganoes Paran, that approaches a threshold. This war, which has seemed eternal to us trapped within it, may come to an end. What awaits us all, should that happen… well, mortal, you have felt its breath, there in our wake.'

  'I need to speak with Rake.'

  'Then find him. Assuming, of course, he still carries the sword.'

  Easier said than done, it seems—'Hold on—what do you mean by that? About still carrying the sword?'

  'Just that, Ganoes Paran.'

  But why wouldn't he be? What in Hood's name are you hinting at, Draco
nus? This is Anomander Rake we're talking about, damn it! If we were living in one of those bad fables with some dimwitted farmboy stumbling on a magical sword, well, then losing the weapon might be possible. But… Anomander Rake? Son of Darkness? Lord of Moon's Spawn?

  A grunt from Draconus drew his attention. Directly in their path, tangled in chains gone slack, lay a huge, demonic figure. 'Byrys. I myself killed him, so long ago. I did not think…' He came up to the black-skinned creature, reached down and—to Paran's astonishment—heaved it over a shoulder. 'To the wagon,' Draconus said, 'my old nemesis…'

  'Who summoned me,' the demon rumbled, 'to do battle with you?'

  'Ever the same question, Byrys. I do not know. I have never known.'

  'Who summoned me, Draconus, to die by the sword?'

  'Someone long dead, no doubt.'

  'Who summoned…'

  As Draconus and the demon draped across his shoulders continued their pointless conversation, Paran felt himelf drawing away, the words growing indistinct, the image dimming… until he stood once more on flagstones, far beneath the Finnest House.

  'Anomander Rake. Knight of Dark, High House Dark…' His eyes strained to see the rise of the image he had summoned, out among the endless sprawl of etched flagstones.

  But nothing came.

  Feeling a sudden chill in the pit of his stomach, Paran mentally reached out, questing into High House Dark, seeking the place, the figure with his black sword trailing ethereal chains—

  He had no comprehension of what rushed up to meet him, blinding, hammering into his skull—a flash—

  —then oblivion.

  He opened his eyes to dappled sunlight. Water traced cool rivulets down his temples. A shadow slipped over him, then a familiar, round face with small, sharp eyes.

  'Mallet,' Paran croaked.

  'We were wondering if you'd ever return, Captain.' He held up a dripping cloth. 'You'd run a fever for a while there, sir, but I think it's broke—'

  'Where?'

  'Mouth of River Eryn. Ortnal's Cut. It's midday—Quick Ben had to go find you last night, Captain—the risk of getting caught out in the open before dawn—we just strapped you to your quorl and rode hard those winds.'

  'Quick Ben,' Paran muttered. 'Get him here. Fast.'

  'Easily done, sir.' Mallet leaned back, gestured to one side.

  The wizard appeared. 'Captain. We've had four of those condors pass nearby since sunrise—if they're looking for us—'

  Paran shook his head. 'Not us. Moon's Spawn.'

  'You might be right—but that would mean they haven't sighted it yet, and that seems damned unlikely. How do you hide a floating mountain? More likely—'

  'Anomander Rake.'

  'What?'

  Paran closed his eyes. 'I sought him out—through the Deck, the Knight of Dark. Wizard, I think we've lost him. And Moon's Spawn. We've lost the Tiste Andü, Quick Ben. Anomander Rake is gone.'

  'Gruesome city! Ghastly! Ghoulish! Grimy! Kruppe regrets said witnessing of said settlement—'

  'So you've said, 'Whiskeyjack murmured.

  'It bodes ill, those ill abodes. Cause for dread, such ghostly streets and such enormous vultures roosting and winging about ever so freely in yon sky over Kruppe's noble head. When, oh when will darkness come? When will merciful darkness fall, Kruppe reiterates, so that blessed blindness enwreathes proper selves, thus permitting inspiration to flash and thus reveal the deceit of deceits, the sleightest of sleight of hands, the non-illusion of illusions, the—'

  'Two days,' Hetan growled from Whiskeyjack's other side. 'I stole his voice… for two days—I had been expecting longer, since the man's heart damn near gave out.'

  'Shut him up again,' Cafal said.

  'Tonight, and with luck, he'll be in no shape to say a word until Maurik at the very least.'

  'Dear lass has misunderstood Kruppe's uncharacteristic silence! He swears! Nay, he veritably begs, that you spare him pending thrash and oof, on the night to come, and every night to follow! He is too tender of spirit, too easily bruised, scratched, and bodily thrown about. Kruppe has never known the horror of cartwheels before, nor does he wish to ever experience said discombobulation of sorted self again. Thus, to explain extraordinary terseness, these two days of muted apparel so unstylishly clothing honourable Kruppe, worse indeed than a shroud of despond. To explain! Kruppe has, dear friends, been thinking.

  'Thinking, aye! Such as he never thought to have before! Ever, nor never. Thoughts to shine with glory, so bright as to blind mortal ken, so palling as to pillage appalling fears to leave naught but purest courage, upon which one sails as on a raft into the mouth of paradise!'

  Hetan sniffed. 'Those tumbles weren't cartwheels. They were flops. Very well, I will give you cartwheels in plenty tonight, slippery one!'

  'Kruppe prays, oh how he prays, that darkness never falls! That from the depths the flash is but muted in a world vast with light and wonder! Hold back, merciful darkness! We must march on, brave Whiskeyjack! And on! Without pause, without surcease, without delay! Wear our feet to mere nubs, Kruppe pleads! Night, oh night! Beckoning fatal lures to weak self—the mule was there, after all, and look upon poor beast—exhausted by what its eyes could not help but witness! Exhausted unto near death by simple empathy!

  'Oh, hear naught of Kruppe and his secret desires for self-destruction at hands of delicious woman! Hear naught! Hear naught until meaning itself disperses…'

  Picker stared out on the black waters of Ortnal's Cut. Chunks of ice mted the current, grinding and pushing their way upstream. To the southeast, Coral Bay was white as a winter field under the stars. The journey from Eryn Mouth had taken but half the night. From this point the Bridgeburners would travel on foot, staying under cover as they ged round the dark, forest-clad mountains, skirting the relatively -1 region between the Cut and the range.

  She glanced down the slight slope to where Captain Paran sat with Quick Ben, Spindle, Shank, Toes and Bluepearl. A gathering of mages always made her nervous, especially when Spindle counted among them. Beneath the skin beneath the hairshirt, there scrabbled the soul of a sapper, half mad—as were the souls of all sappers. Spindle's magery was notoriously unpredictable, and more than once she had seen him unveiling his warren with one hand while throwing a Moranth munition with the other.

  The three other Bridgeburner wizards weren't much to crow over. Bluepearl was a pigeon-toed Napan who shaved his head and pretended to airs of vast knowledge concerning the Warren of Ruse.

  Shank had Seti blood, the importance of which he exaggerated by wearing countless charms and trinkets from the north Quon Tali tribe—even though the Seti themselves had long since ceased to exist except in name, so thoroughly had they been assimilated into Quon culture. Shank, however, wore as part of his uniform a strangely romanticized version of Seti plains garb, all of which had been made by a seamstress in the employ of a theatre company in Unta. Picker was unsure which warren Shank specialized in, since his rituals calling upon power usually took longer than the average battle.

  Toes had earned his name by his habit of collecting toes among the enemy's dead—whether he'd been personally responsible for killing them or not. He had concocted some kind of drying powder with which he treated his trophies before sewing them onto his vest—the man smelled like a crypt in dry weather, like a pauper's pit before the lime when it rained. He claimed to be a necromancer, and that some disastrously botched ritual in the past had left him over-sensitive to ghosts—they followed him, he would assert, adding that by cutting off their mortal toes he took from the ghosts all sense of balance so that they fell down so often that he was able to leave them far behind.

  Indeed, he looked a haunted man, but, as Blend had pointed out, who wouldn't be haunted with all those dead toes hanging from him?

  The journey had been an exhausting one. Being strapped to the rear saddle of a quorl and shivering in the fiercely cold winds, as league after league passed beneath, had a way of leaving one enervated, sti
ff-limbed and leaden. The sodden nature of this mountainside forest didn't help. She was frozen down to her bones. There'd be rain and mist all morning—the warmth of the sun would not arrive until the afternoon.

  Mallet moved to her side. 'Lieutenant,' he said.

  She scowled at him. 'Any idea what they're talking about, Healer?'

  Mallet glanced down at the mages. 'They're just worried, sir. About those condors. They've had close enough looks at them of late and there doesn't seem much doubt that those birds are anything but birds.'

  'Well, we'd all guessed that.'

  'Aye.' Mallet shrugged, added, 'And, I expect, Paran's news about Anomander Rake and Moon's Spawn hasn't left their minds at ease. If they've been lost, as the captain believes, taking Coral—and taking down the Pannion Seer—will be a lot uglier.'

  'We might get slaughtered, you mean.'

  'Well…'

  Picker's attention slowly fixed on the healer. 'Out with it,' she growled.

  'Just a hunch, Lieutenant.'

  'Which is?'

  'Quick Ben and the captain, sir. They've got something else planned, stewed up between them, that is. Or so I suspect. I've known Quick a long time, you see, up close. I've picked up a sense of how he works. We're here covertly, right? The lead elements for Dujek. But for those two it's a double-blind—there's another mission hiding under this one, and I don't think Onearm knows anything about it.'

  Picker slowly blinked. 'And Whiskeyjack?'

  Mallet grinned sourly. 'As to that, I can't say, sir.'

  'Is it just you with these suspicions, Healer?'

  'No. Whiskeyjack's squad. Hedge. Trotts—the damned Barghast is showing his sharp teeth a lot and when he does that it usually means he knows something's going on but doesn't know exactly what, only he won't let on with that last bit. If you gather my meaning.'

  Picker nodded. She'd seen Trotts grinning almost every time she'd set eyes on the warrior the past few days. Unnerving, despite Mallet's explanation.

  Blend appeared in front of them.

  Picker's scowl deepened.