Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  Weapons were readied among the Malazans. When Whiskeyjack gave the order, they would march down to meet that undead line of slayers.

  And die. Eight hundred less K'Chain Che'Malle in Coral. Eight hundred K'Chain Che'Malle… occupied for a time. Does Dujek even know? Brood is still half a day behind us. The Grey Swords two bells, perhaps more—I'd not expected that news from Kallor—but they will have ridden too hard, too long.

  And Gruntle and his legion—they seem to have vanished entirely. Have we lost our shock-troops? Abyss knows, that Daru had no love of battle…

  Does Dujek comprehend what we do to purchase for him this day?

  Eight hundred K'Chain Che'Malle on the plain. How many remain in the city? How many now carve deadly paths through the High Fist's companies?

  The twenty or so condors left over the city were one and all circling the keep itself, a measure, perhaps, of the Seer's confidence, that he would see no need for their participation in what was to come.

  The thought brought a bitter taste to her mouth.

  Whiskeyjack turned as she arrived, nodded in greeting. 'Did you find Kruppe? I trust he has chosen a safe place.'

  'With Hetan,' Korlat replied. 'Demanding white paint for his face.'

  Whiskeyjack could not quite manage a smile.

  'My Tiste Andü will precede your soldiers when they advance,' Korlat said after a moment. 'We will see how these undead fare against Kurald Galain.'

  Kallor's expression hinted at a smirk, 'Your warren is still beset, Korlat. You would require a full unveiling—by all your kin, not just the Jes here—to achieve a cleansing. Your brothers and sisters are about to be slaughtered.'

  Her eyes narrowed. A full unveiling. Kallor, you know far too much of us. 'I appreciate your tactical acumen,' she replied drily.

  She saw Whiskeyjack glance back at Artanthos, who stood fifteen paces from the others, wrapped against the morning chill in a fur-lined cloak. The man was paying no attention to the others, his gaze fixed on the plain below, a slight frown slowly marring his unlined brow.

  Two marines approached on horseback from the east, riding hard in front of the Malazan line.

  Whiskeyjack's two marines…

  Labouring, coughing froth, the horses galloped up the slope. The two women reined in. 'Commander!' one shouted.

  The other added, 'We found her!' Then she pointed. Emerging from the ranks to the east… Silverfox. The sound of thousands of voices crying out in surprise alerted Korlat—she turned to see the killing field before the K'Chain Che'Malle vanish in a sudden haze of dust, thinning quickly to reveal rank upon rank of T'lan Imass.

  Silverfox approached. She seemed to have chosen Artanthos as her destination, her eyes half lidded, her round, heavy face expressionless. A roar from Whiskeyjack's army rose into the morning air. 'Yes…' rasped Kallor beside her.

  Korlat pulled her gaze from Silverfox, curious enough at Kallor's tone to draw her attention.

  In time to see the rough-edged blade flashing at her head. Pain exploded. A moment of confusion, when all was strangely still, then the ground hammered her side. Heat flared down her face, lancing down from her forehead. She blinked, wondered at her own body, which had begun thrashing. Warren——chaotic—Kallor— A blurred scene before her eyes, her point of view from the ground.

  Skull—broken—dying—

  Her vision cleared, every line and edge of what she saw too sharp, sharp like knife-blades, slicing her soul to ribbons. Kallor, with a delighted roar, charged towards Silverfox, chain armour flowing like a cloak. Grey-veined magic danced on the ground around the warrior.

  The Rhivi woman stopped, mouth opening, terror filling her eyes. She screamed something—

  —something—

  'T'lan Ay. Defend me!'

  Yet she remained alone—

  Kallor closed, sword gripped in both gauntleted hands, closed, raising the weapon high.

  Then Whiskeyjack stood in his path, longsword lashing up to clang against Kallor's weapon. A sudden, fierce exchange, sparks flashing. Kallor leapt back, bellowing his frustration, and his heel caught—

  Whiskeyjack saw his moment. Sword thrusting out, a duellist's lunge, fully extending, weight pounding down on the lead leg—

  Which buckled.

  She saw the sliver of bone rip up through the man's leather-clad thigh.

  Saw the pain on her lover's face, the sudden recognition—

  As Kallor's huge sword punched into his chest. Slid between ribs. Ripped through heart and lungs in a diagonal, inward-slicing thrust.

  Whiskeyjack died on that blade—life dropping back from the eyes that met Korlat's, back, away, then gone.

  Kallor dragged his weapon free.

  He reeled suddenly, impaled by two crossbow quarrels. Chaotic magic snaked up around the offending missiles, disintegrating them. Blood spurted. Unmindful, Kallor readied his sword once more, as the two marines closed in tandem.

  The women were superb, fighting as one.

  But the man they fought—

  A mortal scream—the marine on the right stumbled in a welter of blood, reaching down to gather uncoiling, tumbling intestines, then sinking earthward. Her helmed head left her shoulders before her knees touched ground.

  The other woman rushed Kallor, sword thrusting high for the warrior's face.

  A side-step, a downward chop, severing the arm—

  But the marine had already surrendered it, and her left hand, gripping a pig-sticker, was unimpeded as it punched through the chain-links covering Kallor's stomach.

  The edge of Kallor's sword carved up through the marine's throat. She spun in a red spray, toppled.

  Gasping, the ancient warrior reeled back, yellow-streaked blood spurting from the hole in his stomach. 'Chained One!' he screamed. 'Heal me!'

  Not—a warren—

  —not chaotic—where?

  A wave of knotted gold hammered into Kallor, swallowed him in frenzied fire. He shrieked, thrown off his feet, battered as the magic pursued, ripping into him, blood threading the air as he sprawled to the ground.

  A second wave rolled towards the man, coruscating with sunfire—The warren that opened around Kallor was a miasmic stain, a sickly tear—that swept around him—to vanish, taking Kallor with it. The golden sorcery flickered, dissipated. No—such control. Who?

  Korlat's body no longer spasmed. It was now numb and cool, strangely remote. Blood was filling one eye. She had to keep blinking to clear it. She was lying on the ground, she finally realized. Kallor had struck her—

  Someone knelt by her side, a soft, warm hand settling on her cheek. Korlat struggled to focus. 'It's me, Silverfox. Help is coming—'

  The Tiste Andü tried to lift a hand, to manage some kind of gesture towards Whiskeyjack, but the desire remained within her mind, racing in circles, and she knew by the faint feel of damp grasses under her palm that her hand did not heed her call.

  'Korlat! Look at me. Please. Brood is coming—and I see a black dragon approaching from the west—Orfantal? The warlord possesses High Denul, Korlat. You must hold on—'

  A shadow over her face. Silverfox glancing up, features twisting into something bitter. 'Tell me,' she said to the newcomer, 'the sorcery that accompanied Kallor's betrayal: was it truly so efficacious as to leave you stunned for so long? Or did you hold back? Calculating your moment, observing the consequences of your inaction—after all, you've done it before, Tayschrenn, haven't you?' Tayschrenn?

  But the ragged, pain-racked voice that replied was that of Artanthos, the standard-bearer. 'Silverfox. Please. I would not—'

  'Wouldn't you?'

  'No. Whiskeyjack—he's—'

  'I know,' Silverfox snapped.

  A poorly mended leg… never the right time—Brood could have—He's dead. Oh, my love, no…

  Blurred figures were on all sides now. Malazan soldiers. Barghast. Someone began keening with grief.

  The man she had known as Artanthos leaned over her. Sorcery had split the fl
esh of his face—the touch of chaos, she recognized. A fiercer touch than what she could have survived. She knew, then, in her soul, that the High Mage had willed no delay to his response. That he'd managed anything at all was… extraordinary. She met his eyes, saw the layers of pain that still racked through the man.

  'Sil…'

  'Korlat?'

  'Woman,' the Tiste Andü said, the word slurred but audible, 'this man…'

  'Yes? He is Tayschrenn, Korlat. The part of me that is Nightchill has known for a long time. I was coming to conf—'

  '… thank him.'

  'What?'

  'For… your… life. Thank him, woman…' She held still to Tayschrenn's eyes. Dark grey, like Whiskeyjack's. 'Kallor—he surprised us all…'

  The man winced, then slowly nodded. 'I am sorry, Korlat. I should have seen—'

  'Yes. Me, too. And Brood.'

  She could feel horse hooves drumming the earth beneath her, the vibration rising up to settle into her bones.

  A dirge. Drums, a lost sound. Horses, driven hard… knowing nothing of the reason, yet on they come. Closer. Mindless, yet filled with the urgency of incomprehensible masters.

  But death has already ridden across this hilltop.

  Knowing nothing of reason.

  My love.

  He is yours, now, Hood… do you smile?

  My love is… yours…

  Brave and magnificent as it was, Itkovian's mount was faltering. With dawn still two bells away, Gruntle had roused him with uncharacteristic curtness. 'Something's gone wrong,' he'd growled. 'We must ride for Coral, friend.'

  The Grey Swords had not stopped for the night—Itkovian had watched them for as long as he could, until the night's gloom took them from his vision. The Shield Anvil had elected to ride to Whiskeyjack's support. He had thought himself indifferent to the decision, and to what their departure signified, yet bleakness filled his heart, and the sleep that eventually came to him was troubled. After Gruntle's rough awakening, he sought to reflect upon the source of his restlessness, but it eluded him.

  Saddling his horse, Itkovian had paid little attention to Gruntle and his legion, and only when he swung himself up onto his mount and gathered the reins did he note that the Daru and his followers waited—on foot.

  Itkovian had frowned at Gruntle. 'Mortal Sword, what do you intend?'

  The large man grimaced, then said, 'For this journey, swiftness is required. For this journey,' he repeated, glancing at a fiercely scowling Stonny Menackis, 'Trake risks the heart of his power.'

  'Not my god!' Stonny snapped.

  Gruntle offered her a sad smile, 'No, alas. You will have to join Itkovian, and simply ride. We'll not wait for you, but perhaps you will keep up with us… for a while.'

  Itkovian had not understood any of this. 'Sir,' he said to Gruntle, 'will you travel by warren?'

  'No. Well, not quite. Maybe, how do I know? I just know—somehow—that my legion is capable of… well, of something different. Something… fast.'

  Itkovian had glanced at Stonny, then shrugged. 'Both Stonny Menackis and I are blessed with exceptional horses. We shall endeavour to keep pace.'

  'Good.'

  'Mortal Sword.'

  'What is it, Itkovian?'

  'What lies ahead, sir, that troubles you so?'

  'I'm not sure, friend, but I'm feeling sick to my stomach. I believe we are about to be betrayed.'

  Itkovian had said nothing to that for a long moment, then, 'Sir, if one regards recent events with an unclouded eye, then one might observe that the betrayal has already occurred.'

  Gruntle had simply shrugged, turning to his followers. 'Stay tight, you damned misfits. Anyone straggles at the start and you'll be left behind.'

  Stonny moved over to Itkovian's side, leading her horse.

  'Do you know,' Itkovian asked her, 'what is about to occur?'

  'Probably nothing,' she snapped, swinging up into her saddle. 'Gruntle must've bumped his head—'

  She got no further, as before them Gruntle and his legion seemed to blur, to meld together in an indistinct flicker of barbed stripes, a single form, massive, low to the ground—that suddenly flowed forward, catlike, and was gone in the night.

  'Beru fend!' Stonny hissed. 'After it!' she cried, driving heels to her horse's flanks.

  And so they had ridden, hard.

  They passed by Brood's encampment, had noted that it was rousing, even though dawn was still a bell away, with considerable haste.

  They witnessed, without a word exchanged between them, the flash and flare of sorcery in the sky to the southwest.

  Occasionally, through the darkness, they caught a glimpse of the huge creature they pursued, the dull flicker of yellow, black-slashed, moving as if through impossibly high grasses, as if beneath jungle fronds, webbed in shadows, a fluid hint of motion, deadly in its speed and in its silence.

  Then the sky began to lighten, and the horizon to the south was revealed, stands of trees, the trader road wending between them.

  Still the striped beast defied the eye, evaded sharp detection as it reached the parkland's hills.

  Lathered, mouths coughing foam, the horses thundered on, hooves pounding heavy and ragged. Neither animal would ever recover from this ordeal, Itkovian knew. Indeed, their deaths waited only for the journey's end.

  Brave and magnificent, and he wondered if the sacrifice was worth it.

  They rode the track between coppiced stands, the path gently rising towards what Itkovian judged to be an escarpment of some kind.

  Then, directly ahead, wagons. A few figures, turning to watch them approach.

  If they had seen the creature, they showed no sign—no alarms had been raised, all seemed calm.

  Itkovian and Stonny rode past the Malazan rearguard.

  The crackle of sorcery—close.

  Soldiers lined the ridge before them, an army assembled, facing south—now breaking into disorganized motion. Dismay struck Itkovian with palpable force, a flood of raw pain, of immeasurable loss.

  He reeled in his saddle, forced himself upright once more. Urgency thundered through him, now, sudden, overwhelming.

  Stonny was shouting, angling her stumbling horse to the right, leaving the road, approaching a hilltop where stood the Malazan standard, drooped in the windless air. Itkovian followed, but slower, drawing back. His soul was drowning in cold horror.

  His horse surrendered its gallop, staggered, head thrusting out. Canter to a weaving, loose walk, then halting, slowly drawing square-footed twenty paces from the hill's base.

  Then dying.

  Numbed, Itkovian slipped his boots from the stirrups, drew an aching leg over the beast's rump, then dropped down to the ground.

  On the hill to his right, he saw Stonny, stumbling free from her horse—the slope had defeated it—and clambering upward. Gruntle and his troop had arrived, human once again, crowding the hill, yet seemingly doing nothing.

  Itkovian turned his gaze away, began walking along one side of the road, which had straightened for the final, downhill approach to the killing field, and the city beyond.

  Cold horror.

  His god was gone. His god could not deflect it as it had once done, months ago, on a plain west of Capustan.

  Loss and sorrow, such as he had never felt before.

  The truth. Which I have known. Within me. Hidden, now revealed. I am not yet done.

  Not yet done.

  He walked, seeing nothing of the soldiers to his left and right, stepping clear of the uneven line, leaving behind the army that now stood, weapons lowered, broken before the battle had even begun—broken by a man's death.

  Itkovian was oblivious. He reached the slope, continued on.

  Down.

  Down to where the T'lan Imass waited in ranks before eight hundred K'Chain Che'Malle.

  The T'lan Imass, who, as one, slowly turned round.

  Warrens flared on the hilltop.

  Bellowing, Gruntle ordered his followers to take posi
tion on the south slope. He stood, motionless after so long, still trembling from the god's power. The promise of murder filled him, impassive yet certain, a predator's intent that he had felt once before, in a city far to the north.

  His vision was too sharp, every motion tugging at his attention. He realized he had his cutlasses in his hands.

  He watched Orfantal stride from a warren, Brood appearing behind him. He saw Stonny Menackis, looking down on three corpses. Then the warlord was pushing past her, sparing but a single glance at the bodies on his way to where a fourth body lay—closer to where Gruntle stood. A Tiste Andü woman. Two figures crouched beside her, flesh rent, one whose soul still writhed in the grip of savage, chaotic sorcery. The other… Silverfox, round face streaked with tears.

  He saw Kruppe, flanked by Hetan and Cafal. The Daru was pale, glassy-eyed, and seemed moments from unconsciousness. Strange, that, for it was not grief that so assailed the Daru. He saw Hetan suddenly reach for him even as he collapsed.

  But the man Gruntle was looking for was nowhere to be seen.

  He strode to the south crest to observe the positioning of his legion. They were readying weapons. Assembling below them were the Grey Swords, clearly preparing to advance on the city—

  —a city shrouded in smoke, lit with the flash of sorcery, of munitions, a city ripping itself apart—

  Gruntle's hunting gaze found the man.

  Itkovian.

  Walking towards the T'lan Imass.

  A sharp cry sounded from the hilltop behind Gruntle, and he turned to see Silverfox straightening from Korlat's side, wheeling round—But the tens of thousands of T'lan Imass faced Itkovian now.

  Gruntle watched his friend's steps slow, then stop when he was twenty paces from the undead warriors.

  Silverfox screamed in comprehension, began running—

  Aye, Summoner. You were about to send them against the K'Chain Che'Malle. Gruntle did not need to stand within hearing range to know what Itkovian said, then, to the silent T'lan Imass.

  You are in pain. I would embrace you now…

  He felt his god's horror, burgeoning to overwhelm his own—

  As the T'lan Imass made reply.