Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  He and the wizard, silent, stared at Moon's Spawn as it drifted ever farther eastward, out over the sea, now a third of a league distant. It rode low in the air, and some time soon—perhaps a month from now—it would touch the waves, somewhere in the ocean, and then, as water rushed once more into the fissures, filling the chambers within, Moon's Spawn would sink. Down, beneath the insensate seas…

  No-one approached them.

  Finally, the wizard turned. 'Captain.'

  'What is it, Quick Ben?'

  'Moon's Spawn. Draw it.'

  Paran frowned, then his breath caught. He hesitated, then crouched down, hand reaching to wipe smooth a small span of earth. With his index finger he etched a round-cornered rectangle, then, within it, a rough but recognizable outline. He studied his work for a moment, then looked up at Quick Ben and nodded.

  The wizard took a handful of Paran's cloak in one hand, said, 'Lead us through.'

  Right. Now how do I do that? Study the card, Paran—no, that alone will land us on its damned surface, a short but no doubt thoroughly fatal fall to the waves below. A chamber, Picker said. Rake's throne room. Think darkness. Kurald Galain, a place unlit, silent, a place with cloth-wrapped corpses…

  Eyes closed, Paran stepped forward, dragging Quick Ben with him. His boot landed on stone.

  He opened his eyes, saw nothing but inky blackness, but the air smelled… different. He moved forward another step, heard Quick Ben's sigh behind him. The wizard muttered something and a fitful globe of light appeared above them.

  A high-ceilinged chamber, perhaps twenty paces wide and more than forty paces long. They had arrived at what seemed the formal entrance—behind them, beyond an arched threshold, was a hallway. Ahead, at the far end of the chamber, a raised dais.

  The huge, high-backed chair that had once commanded that dais had been pushed to one side, two of its legs on a lower step, the throne leaning. On the centre of the dais three black-wood sarcophagi now resided. Along the length of the approach, to either side, were additional sarcophagi, upright, on which black-webbed sorcery played.

  Quick Ben hissed softly through his teeth. ''Ware the looter who penetrates this place.'

  Paran studied the sorcery's soft dance over the unadorned sarcophagi. 'Wards?' he asked.

  'That, and a lot more, Captain. But we need not be worried. The Bridgeburners are within these ones flanking the approach. Oh, and one Black Moranth.' He pointed to a sarcophagus that, to Paran's eyes, looked no different from all the others. 'Twist. The poison in his arm took him a bell before the first wave of Dujek's companies.' Quick Ben slowly walked towards another sarcophagus. 'In here… what was left of Hedge. Not much. The bastard blew himself up with a cusser.' The wizard stopped to stand before the coffin. 'Picker described it well, Hedge. And I will tell Fiddler. Next time I see him.' He was silent a moment longer, then he turned to Paran with a grin. 'I can picture him, his soul, crouching at the base of Hood's Gate, driving a cracker between the stones…'

  Paran smiled, but it was a struggle. He set off towards the dais. The wizard followed.

  Quick Ben spoke names in a soft voice as they proceeded. 'Shank Toes… Detoran… Aimless… Runter… Mulch… Bucklund Story… Liss… Dasalle… Trotts—uh, I would've thought the Barghast… no, I suppose not. He was as much a Bridgeburner as the rest of us. Behind that lid, Paran, he's still grinning…'

  As they walked, Quick Ben spoke aloud every name of those they passed. Thirty-odd Bridgeburners, Paran's fallen command.

  They reached the dais.

  And could go no further. Sorcery commanded the entire platform, a softly coruscating web of Kurald Galain.

  'Rake's own hand,' the wizard murmured. 'These… spells. He worked alone.'

  Paran nodded. He had heard the same from Picker, but he understood Quick Ben's need to talk, to fill the chamber with his echoing voice.

  'It was his leg, you know. Gave out at the wrong moment. Probably a lunge… meaning he had Kallor. Had him dead. He would never have extended himself so fully otherwise. That damned leg. Shattered in that garden in Darujhistan. A marble pillar, toppling… and Whiskeyjack was just standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  'From then… to this.'

  And now, Picker and the others are watching Mallet. Every moment, someone's hovering close. The healer might try to fall on his knife at any time… given the chance. Ah, Mallet, he kept pushing you away. 'Another time, I've too much on my mind right now. Nothing more than a dull ache. When this is done, we'll get to it, then.' It wasn't your fault, Mallet. Soldiers die.

  He watched Quick Ben remove a small pebble from his pouch and lay it on the floor in front of the dais. 'I may want to visit later,' he said, offering Paran a faint, sad smile. 'Me and Kalam…'

  Oh, Wizard…

  Paran lifted his gaze to the three sarcophagi. He did not know which one held whom. For some reason, that didn't matter much. Whiskeyjack and two marines—they were there for Tattersail, at the last.

  Always an even exchange, sorceress.

  'I am ready to leave them, now, Captain.'

  Paran nodded.

  They turned and slowly retraced their steps.

  Reaching the arched entrance, they stopped.

  Quick Ben glanced into the hallway. 'They left everything, you know.'

  'What? Who?'

  'Rake. The Tiste Andü. Left their possessions. Everything.'

  'Why would they do that? They are to settle in Black Coral, aren't they? The city's been stripped clean…'

  Quick Ben shrugged. 'Tiste Andü,' he said, in a tone that silently added: we'll never know.

  A vague portal took shape before them.

  The wizard grunted. 'You've certainly a particular style with these things, Captain.'

  Yes, the style of awkward ignorance. 'Step through, Wizard.'

  He watched Quick Ben vanish within the portal. Then Paran turned, one last time, to look upon the chamber. The globe of light was fast dimming.

  Whiskeyjack, for all that you have taught me, I thank you. Bridgeburners, I wish I could have done better by you. Especially at the end. At the very least, I could have died with you.

  All right, it's probably far too late. But I bless you, one and all.

  With that, he turned back, stepped through the portal.

  In the silent chamber, the light faded, the globe flickering, then finally vanishing.

  But a new glow had come to the chamber. Faint, seeming to dance with the black web on the sarcophagi.

  A dance of mystery.

  The carriage of bone clattered its way down the trader road, Emancipor flicking the traces across the broad, midnight backs of the oxen.

  Gruntle, halfway across the road, stopped, waited.

  The manservant scowled, reluctantly halted the carriage. He thumped one fist on the wall behind him, the reptilian skin reverberating like a war drum.

  A door opened and Bauchelain climbed out, followed by Korbal Broach.

  Bauchelain strode to stand opposite Gruntle, but his flat grey eyes were focused on the dark city beyond. 'Extraordinary,' he breathed. 'This—this is a place I could call home.'

  Gruntle's laugh was harsh. 'You think so? There are Tiste Andü there, now. More, it is now a part of the Malazan Empire. Do you believe that either will tolerate your friend's hobbies?'

  'He's right,' Korbal Broach whined from beside the carriage. 'I won't have any fun there.'

  Bauchelain smiled. 'Ah, but Korbal, think of all the fresh corpses. And look to this field below. K'Chain Che'Malle, already conveniently dismembered—manageable portions, if you will. Enough material, dear colleague, to build an entire estate.'

  Gruntle watched Korbal Broach suddenly smile.

  Gods, spare me the sight of that—never again, please.

  'Now, barbed Captain,' Bauchelain said, 'kindly remove yourself from our path. But first, if you would be so kind, a question for you.'

  'What?'

  'I have but recently received
a note. Terrible penmanship, and worse, written on bark. It would seem that a certain Jib Bole and his brothers wish to pay me a visit. Are you, by any chance, knowledgeable of these good sirs? If so, perhaps some advice on the proper etiquette of hosting them…'

  Gruntle smiled. 'Wear your best, Bauchelain.'

  'Ah. Thank you, Captain. And now, if you would…'

  With a wave, Gruntle resumed crossing the road.

  The Grey Swords had established a temporary encampment fifty paces east of the massive, glittering barrow that had already acquired the name of Itkovian's Gift. Ragged bands of Tenescowri, emaciated and sickly, had emerged from Black Coral, and from the woodlands, and were all congregating around the camp. Word of Anaster's… rebirth had spread, and with it the promise of salvation.

  Recruitment. Those Tenescowri could never go back to what they had once been. They, too, need to be reborn. The stranger within Anaster—this new Mortal Sword of Togg and Fanderay—has much to do…

  Time had come for Gruntle to take the man's measure. He'll likely prove a better Mortal Sword than I am. Likely smug, sanctimonious up there on that damned ugly horse. Aye, I'm ready to hate the bastard, I admit it.

  Gruntle approached Anaster, who was guiding his horse through the decrepit camp of Tenescowri. Stick-limbed figures were reaching up on all sides, touching him, his horse. Trailing a half-dozen paces behind walked the Destriant, and Gruntle could feel healing sorcery swirling out from her—the embrace of the Wolf's Reve had begun.

  Anaster finally rode clear of the camp. His lone eye noted Gruntle and the man reined in, waited for the Daru.

  He spoke before Gruntle had a chance to do the same, 'You're Gruntle, Trake's Mortal Sword. The Destriant has told me about you. I'm glad you've come.' Anaster glanced back at the Tenescowri, who hung back, within their encampment, as if its edge was some kind of invisible, impassable barrier, then the young man dismounted. 'The Shield Anvil insisted I remain visible,' he grunted, wincing as he stretched his legs. 'Much more of this and I'll start walking like a Wickan.'

  'You said you are glad that I've come,' Gruntle rumbled. 'Why?'

  'Well, you're a Mortal Sword, right? They're calling me one, too. I guess, uh, well. What does that mean, anyway?'

  'You don't know?'

  'No. Do you?'

  Gruntle said nothing for a long moment, then he grinned. 'Not really.'

  The tension left Anaster in a heartfelt sigh. He stepped close. 'Listen. Before this—uh, before I arrived in this body, I was a scout in the Malazan army. And as far as I was concerned, temples were where poor people paid to keep the priests' wine cellars well stocked. I don't want followers. That Destriant back there, the Shield Anvil—gods, what a hard woman! They're piling expectations on me—I'm feeling like that man Itkovian is feeling right now, not that he's feeling anything, I suppose. Hood, just mentioning his name breaks my heart and I never even knew him.'

  'I did, Anaster. Relax, lad—about everything. Did you think I asked to be Trake's Mortal Sword? I was a caravan guard, and a miserable one and I was happy with it—'

  'You were happy being miserable?'

  'Damned right I was.'

  Anaster suddenly smiled. 'I stumbled on a small cask of ale—it's back in the camp of the Grey Swords. We should go for a walk, Gruntle.'

  'Under the trees, aye. I'll find Stonny—a friend. You'll like her, I think.'

  'A woman? I like her already. I'll get the ale, meet you back here.'

  'A sound plan, Anaster. Oh, and don't tell the Destriant or the Shield Anvil—'

  'I won't, even if they torture me…' His voice fell away, and Gruntle saw the young man grow paler than usual. Then he shook his head. 'See you soon, friend.'

  'Aye.' Friend… Yes, I think so.

  He watched Anaster swing back onto the horse—the man he had been knew how to ride.

  No, not the man he had been. The man be is.Gruntle watched him riding away for a moment longer, then turned back to find Stonny.

  Steam or smoke still drifted from the four Trygalle Trade Guild carriages waiting at the base of the hill. Quick Ben had gone ahead to speak with the train's master—an opulently dressed, overweight man whose bone-deep exhaustion was discernible from fifty paces away.

  Paran, waiting with the Bridgeburners for Dujek on the crest of the hill, watched the wizard and the Trygalle mage engaging in a lengthy conversation the result of which seemed to leave Quick Ben bemused. The Daru, Kruppe, then joined them, and the discussion resumed once more. Heatedly.

  'What's all that about?' Picker wondered beside the captain.

  Paran shook his head. 'I have no idea, Lieutenant.'

  'Sir.'

  Something in her tone brought him round. 'Yes?'

  'You shouldn't have left me in command—I messed it up, bad, sir.'

  He saw the raw pain in her eyes, continued to meet them despite a sudden desire to look away. 'Not you, Lieutenant. The command was mine, after all. I abandoned all of you.'

  She shook her head. 'Quick's told us what you two did, Captain. You went where you had to, sir. It was well played. It'd seemed to us that there was no victory to be found, in any of this, but now we know that's not true—and that means more than you might realize.'

  'Lieutenant, you walked out of that keep with survivors. No-one could have done better.'

  'I agree,' a new voice growled.

  Dujek's appearance shocked both soldiers to silence. The man seemed to have aged ten years in the span of a single day and night. He was bent, the hand of his lone arm trembling. 'Lieutenant, call the Bridgeburners over. I would speak to you all.'

  Picker turned and gestured the five soldiers closer.

  'Good,' the High Fist grunted. 'Now, hear me. There's half a wagon of back pay being loaded onto one of those Trygalle carriages below. Back pay for the company known as the Bridgeburners. Full complement. Enough to buy each of you an estate and a life of well-earned idyll. The Trygalle will take you to Darujhistan—I don't recommend you head back to the Empire. As far as Tayschrenn and Fist Aragan and I are concerned, not one Bridgeburner walked out of that keep. No, say not a single word, soldiers—Whiskeyjack wanted this for you. Hood, he wanted it for himself, too. Respect that.

  'Besides, you've one more mission, and it takes you to Darujhistan. The Trygalle has delivered someone. He's presently in the care of the High Alchemist, Baruk. The man's not well—he needs you, I think. Malazans. Soldiers. Do what you can for him when you're there, and when you decide that you can't do anything more, then walk away.'

  Dujek paused, eyed them, then nodded and said, 'That's all, Bridgeburners. The Trygalle are waiting for you. Captain, remain a moment—I would a private word with you. Oh, Picker, send High Mage Quick Ben up here, will you?'

  Picker blinked. 'High Mage?'

  Dujek grimaced. 'That bastard can't hide any longer. Tayschrenn's insisted.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Paran watched the small troop head down the hill.

  Dujek drew a palsied hand across his face, turned away. 'Walk with me, Paran.'

  Paran did. 'That was well done, sir.'

  'No, it wasn't, Ganoes, but it was all I could do. I don't want the last of the Bridgeburners to die on some field of battle, or in some nameless city that's fighting hard to stay free. I'm taking what's left of my Host to Seven Cities, to reinforce Adjunct Tavore's retributive army. You are welcome—'

  'No, sir. I'd rather not.'

  Dujek nodded, as if he had expected that. 'There's a dozen or so columns for you, near the carriages below. Go with your company, then, with my blessing. I'll have you counted among the casualties.'

  'Thank you, High Fist. I don't think I was ever cut out to be a soldier.'

  'Not another word of that, Captain. Think what you like about yourself, but we will continue seeing you as you are—a noble man.'

  'Noble—'

  'Not that kind of noble, Ganoes. This is the kind that's earned, the only kind that means anything. Because, in
this day and age, it's damned rare.'

  'Well, sir, there I'll respectfully disagree with you. If there's but one experience I will carry with me of my time in this campaign, High Fist, it is that of being humbled, again and again, by those around me.'

  'Go join your fellow Bridgeburners, Ganoes Paran.'

  'Yes, sir. Goodbye, High Fist.'

  'Goodbye.'

  As Paran made his way down the slope, he stumbled momentarily, then righted himself. My fellow Bridgeburners, he said… well, the achievement is shortlived, but even so.

  I made it.

  Ignoring the grim-faced soldiers on all sides, Toc—Anaster—reined in beside the small tent the Grey Swords had given him. Aye, I remember Anaster, and this may be his body, but that's all. He slipped from the saddle and entered it.

  He hunted until he found the cask, hid it within a leather sack and slung that over a shoulder, then hurried back outside.

  As he drew himself into the saddle once more, a man stepped up to him.

  Toc frowned down at him. This was no Tenescowri, nor a Grey Sword. If anything, he looked, from his faded, tattered leathers and furs, to be Barghast.

  Covered in scars—more scars of battle than Toc had ever seen on a single person before. Despite this, there was a comfort, there in his face—a gentleman's face, no more than twenty years of age, the features pronounced, heavy-boned, framed in long black hair devoid of any fetishes or braids. His eyes were a soft brown as he looked up at Toc.

  Toc had never met this man before. 'Hello. Is there something you wish?' he asked, impatient to be away.

  The man shook his head. 'I only sought to look upon you, to see that you were well.'

  He believes me to be Anaster. A friend of old, perhaps—not one of his lieutenants, though—I would have remembered this one. Well, I'll not disappoint him. 'Thank you. I am.'

  'This pleases me.' The man smiled, reached up and laid a hand on Toc's leg. 'I will go, now, brother. Know that I hold you in my memory.' Still smiling, he turned and strode away, passing through the midst of curious Grey Swords, heading north towards the forest.

  Toc stared after him. Something… something about that walk…

  'Mortal Sword—'

  The Shield Anvil was approaching.