Memories of Ice

  'Inform the High Mage,' the Shield Anvil said, 'that Trake's Legion will initiate the charge, supported by my company.'

  The soldier saluted and rode back towards the Malazan line. Gruntle turned to study his followers. He wondered again at the effect that the Lord of Summer's gift had had upon these grim-faced Capans. Like D'ivers… only in reverse. From many, to one—and such power! They had crossed the land swift as a flowing shadow. Gruntle had found himself looking out upon the world with a tiger's eyes—no, not simply a tiger, a creature immortal, boundless in strength, a mass of muscle and bone within which was the Legion. His Legion. A will, fused, terrifyingly focused.

  And now they would become that beast once again. This time, to enter battle.

  His god seemed to possess a particular hatred for these K'Chain Che'Malle, as if Treach had a score to settle. The cold killer was giving way to bloodlust—a realization that left Gruntle vaguely troubled.

  His gaze flicked to the hilltop—to see Caladan Brood, Korlat slowly straightening beside him. Distance was irrelevant—she was covered in blood, and he could feel the sickly pain that flowed and ebbed, then flowed again within her.

  Brood's warren suffers, and if that's the case, then so too must… He swung round, back to where Artanthos—High Mage Tayschrenn—stood before the Malazan companies. Ah, I see the price he pays… 'Shield Anvil.'

  'Sir?'

  'Ware the mages on the city wall.'

  'We await you, sir.'

  Gruntle nodded.

  A moment later, the Mortal Sword and his Legion were one, bones and muscle merging, identities—entire lives—swept under a deluge of cold, animal rage.

  A tawny swirl, surging, flowing forward.

  Ahead, K'Chain Che'Malle raised weapons. And stood their ground.

  Again. We have done this before—no, not us. Our Lord. Tearing dead flesh… the spray of blood… blood… oh, Hood—

  Kurald Galain, the darkness within the soul, flowing outward, filling her limbs, sweeping round to swallow her feelings—the comfort of oblivion. Korlat stood, her back to the three lifeless figures on the hilltop that still lay where they fell. Stood, silent, the power of her warren—flickering, dimming to surges of pain—reaching out, seeking her kin.

  Caladan Brood, hammer unlimbered in his hands, was beside her. He was speaking, his rumbling voice as distant as thunder on the sea's horizon. 'Late afternoon. No earlier. It will be over long before then… one way or another. Korlat, please listen to me. You must seek your Lord—that storm-cloud, does Moon's Spawn hide within it? He said he would come. At the precise moment. He said he would strike…'

  Korlat no longer heard him.

  Orfantal was veering, there before the now marching Malazan forces, black, blossoming outward, wings spreading, sinuous neck lifting—a thudding pulsation of sorcery and the dragon was in the air, climbing—

  Condors winged out from the keep, a dozen of the demonic creatures, each linked by a writhing chain of chaotic magic.

  On the plain below, the beast that was the Mortal Sword and Trake's Legion seemed to flow in and out of her vision, blurred, deadly motion—and struck the line of K'Chain Che'Malle.

  Sorcery stained the air around the impact in blood-spattered sheets as within the savage maelstrom blades flashed. A K'ell Hunter reeled away and toppled, its bones shattered. The huge tiger twisted from side to side as swords descended, tore into its flanks. Where each blade struck, human figures fell away from the beast, limbs severed, torsos cut through, heads crushed.

  Sorcery was building along the top of the city wall.

  Korlat saw Artanthos—Tayschrenn—step forward then, to answer it.

  A golden wave appeared suddenly behind the K'Chain Che'Malle, rose for a moment, building, then tumbled forward. The ground it rolled over on its way to the wall burned with fierce zeal, then the wave lifted, climbed towards the Pannion mages.

  This—this is what was launched against Moon's Spawn. This is what my Lord struggled against. Alone, in the face of such power—

  The ground trembled beneath her boots as the wave crashed into the top of the wall to the west of the gate. Blinding—this is High Telas, the Warren of Fire—child of Tellann—

  Chaotic magic exploded from the conflagration like shrapnel. The raging fire then dispersed.

  The top third of the city wall, from near the gate and westward for at least forty paces, was simply gone. And with it, at least a dozen Pannion mages.

  On the killing field, Trake's Legion was now surrounded by K'Chain Che'Malle, who were a match for the enormous beast's lightning speed. K'ell Hunters were falling, but the tiger was being, literally, cut to pieces.

  The Grey Swords, all mounted, were attempting to open an avenue for it on the other side. Long, strangely barbed lances were being driven into Hunters from behind, fouling their steps as they wheeled to lash out at the enemy harrying them. Lassos spun in the air, snapped tight around necks, limbs—

  A grey wave of sorcery raced out from the mages on the wall east of the gate, swept over the heads of those battling on the killing field, clambered through the air like some multilimbed beast—to strike Artanthos.

  Coruscating fire met the assault, and both sorceries seemed to devour each other. When they vanished, Artanthos was on his knees. Soldiers ran towards him from the Malazan lines.

  He is done. Too soon—

  'Korlat!'

  The bellow shook her. Blinking, she turned to Brood. 'What?'

  'Call your Lord, Korlat! Call him!'

  Call? I cannot. Could not—dare not.

  'Korlat! Look to that damned storm-cloud!'

  She twisted her head. Beyond the city, rising skyward in a churning, towering column, the storm-cloud was tearing itself apart even as it rose—rose, shreds spinning away, sunlight shafting through—

  Moon's Spawn… not within—the cloud hid nothing. Nothing but senseless, empty violence. Dissipating.

  Call him? Despair ripped through her. She heard her own dull reply, 'Anomander Rake is no more, Warlord.' He is dead. He must be—

  'Then help your damned brother, woman! He is assailed—'

  She looked up, saw Orfantal high above, harried by specks. Sorcery lanced at the black dragon like darts.

  Brother… Korlat looked back down, at the Malazan ranks that had now closed with the K'Chain Che'Malle. Darkness shrouded them—Kurald Galain's whisper. A whisper… and no more than a whisper—

  'Korlat!'

  'Move away from me, Warlord. I shall now veer… and join my brother.'

  'When you two are done with those condors, will you—'

  She turned away from the killing field. 'This battle is lost, Caladan Brood. I fly to save Orfantal.' Without awaiting a reply, she strode down the slope, unfolding the power within her as she did so. Draconian blood, cold as ice in her veins, a promise of murder. Brutal, unwavering hunger.

  Wings, into the sky.

  Wedge-shaped head tilted, fixed on the condors circling her brother. Her talons twitched, then stretched in anticipation.

  Caladan Brood stood on the very edge of the slope, the hammer in his hands. K'Chain Che'Malle had pulled away from the assault upon Trake's Legion—the giant tiger was dying, surrounded on all sides by flashing blades—and were now wading through the Malazan press, slaying soldiers by the score. Others pursued the Grey Swords, whose ranks had been scattered by the far too quick Hunters.

  Barghast had closed from both flanks, to add their spilled blood to the slaughter.

  Slowly, the warlord swung about and surveyed the hilltop behind him. Three bodies. Four Malazan soldiers who had carried an unconscious Kruppe to the summit and were now laying the Daru down.

  Brood's eyes held on Kruppe, wondering at the man's sudden, inexplicable collapse, then he turned.

  The T'lan Imass, in their tens of thousands, still kneeled, motionless, before Itkovian, who had himself sunk down, a mortal reflection of them. Whatever was happening there had taken them all far away,
to a place from which it seemed there would be no return—not, in any case, until it was far too late.

  No choice.

  Burn… forgive me…

  Caladan Brood faced the city once more. Eyes on the masses warring on the killing field below, the warlord slowly raised his hammer—then froze.

  They came to yet another hallway filled with the dead and dying. Picker scowled. 'Mistress, how many in this Seguleh army you told us about?'

  'Three, my dear. Clearly, we are on the right path—'

  'The right path for what, Lady Envy?'

  The woman turned. 'Hmm, an interesting point. The Seguleh are no doubt eagerly lobbying for an audience with the Seer, but who's to say the Seer has Toc the Younger with him? Indeed, is it not more likely that our friend lies in chains somewhere far below?'

  Blend spoke from beside Picker. 'There looks to be a landing of some sort at the far end. Could be stairs…'

  'Sharp-eyed,' Lady Envy murmured in appreciation. 'Baaljagg, dear pup, will you lead the way?'

  The huge wolf slipped past noiselessly, somehow managing to stay silent even as it clambered over the bodies down the length of the corridor. At the far end, it halted, swung its long-snouted head back, eyes like smouldering coals.

  'Ah, the all-clear,' Lady Envy sighed, softly clapping her hands. 'Come along, then, you grim-faced Malazans.'

  As they approached, Blend plucked at Picker's sleeve. 'Lieutenant,' she whispered, 'there's fighting up ahead…'

  They reached the landing. Dead Urdomen lay heaped, their bodies sprawled on steps that led upward. A second flight of stone stairs, leading down, showed only the flow of thickening blood from the landing.

  Blend edged forward to crouch before the descending steps. 'There's tracks here in the blood,' she said, 'three sets… the first one, uh, bony, followed by someone in moccasins—a woman, I'd say—'

  'In moccasins?' Lady Envy wondered, brows lifting. 'How peculiar. The bony ones are likely to be either Tool or Lanas Tog. Now who might be following either of them? Such mystery! And the last set?'

  Blend shrugged. 'Worn boots. A man's.'

  The sound of fighting that Blend had detected earlier was audible to everyone now—from somewhere up the flight of stairs, distant, possibly at the uppermost floor, which was at least a half-dozen levels above them.

  Baaljagg had limped to stand beside Blend. The wolf lowered its head, nose testing the footprints leading down.

  A moment later the animal was a grey flash, racing downward and out of sight.

  'Well!' Lady Envy said. 'The issue seems decided, wouldn't you say? The ailing pup has a certain… feeling for Toc the Younger. An affinity, to be more precise.'

  'Your pardon,' Picker snapped, 'but what in Hood's name are you going on about?' One more cryptic statement from this lady and I'll brain her.

  'That was rude. None the less, I will acknowledge that the matter is a secret but not one of my own, so I shall freely speak of it.'

  'Oh good,' one of the soldiers behind Picker muttered, 'gossip.'

  Lady Envy wheeled. 'Who said that?'

  No-one spoke.

  'I abhor gossip, I will have you all know. Now, shall I tell you the tale of two ancient gods, who each in turn found mortal flesh—or, rather, somewhat mortal flesh in the case of Baaljagg, but all too mortal flesh in the case of dear Toc the Younger?'

  Picker stared at the woman, and was about to speak when one of her soldiers cursed loud and with feeling—and blades clashed—

  —shouts—

  A score Urdomen had just arrived from behind the squads, and the hallway was suddenly filled with vicious, close-in fighting.

  Picker snapped out a hand and caught Blend's blood-stiffened cloak, pulled. As the lieutenant dragged free her sword, she hissed: 'Head down the stairs, lass! We'll follow once we clear this up.' She shoved Blend towards the stairs, then spun.

  'Will this take long?' Lady Envy asked, her voice somehow cutting through the tumult to echo in Picker's ears as she pushed into the press. The Urdomen were better armoured, fresher, and had had surprise on their side. Picker saw Bucklund reel, half his head cut away. 'No,' she grated, as two more Bridgeburners crumpled, 'it won't…'

  Detoran had moved to point as the four Bridgeburners headed down the corridor. Mallet strode five paces behind the big Napan woman, Spindle trotting at his heels, followed by Antsy, with Trotts a dozen paces back as rearguard. Thus far, they'd found naught but bodies—Pannion bodies—cut down one and all by blades.

  'Someone's a holy terror,' Spindle muttered behind the healer.

  They could hear fighting, but the echoes were bouncing, making it difficult to determine the direction.

  Detoran drew up and raised a hand, then waved Mallet forward.

  'Stairs ahead,' she grunted. 'Going down.'

  'Clear,' the healer observed.

  'For now.'

  Antsy joined them. 'What's the hold-up? We gotta keep moving.'

  'We know, Sergeant,' Mallet said, then he swung back to the Napan. 'It'll have to do. Lead us down, Detoran.'

  More corpses littered the stone steps, the blood making purchase uncertain.

  They descended past two landings unchallenged. Halfway down the next flight, at a switchback in the stairs, Mallet heard the Napan grunt, and weapons suddenly rang.

  A wordless shout from behind twisted into a Barghast warcry.

  'Dammit!' Mallet snapped. Fighting above and below—they were in trouble. 'Spin, back up Antsy and Trotts! I'll lend Det a hand!'

  'Aye, sir!'

  The healer plunged down a half-dozen steps to the bend. Detoran had already pushed her attackers back to a landing. The healer saw, beyond the Napan, at least six Seerdomin, heavy, short-handled double-bladed axes in their gauntleted hands. Detoran, a shortsword in her left hand, broadsword in her right, had just cut down the warrior in front of her. Without hesitating, she stepped over the dying Seerdomin, reaching the landing.

  The Seerdomin rushed her.

  There was no way to get past the Napan. Swearing, Mallet sheathed his shortsword and unlimbered his crossbow. A quarrel already rested in the slot, held in place by a loop of leather that the healer now pulled clear. Ignoring the bellows and singing iron, he hooked the clawfoot over the braided string and cinched it back.

  Up beyond the bend in the staircase, Trotts had begun chanting, broken only by an ominous shriek from Antsy. Fresh blood thinned with bile was streaming down the steps.

  Mallet moved back to find a clear shot over Detoran.

  The Napan had thrust her shortsword up into a Seerdomin's head from below. The blade jammed between the mandibles. Instead of pulling, Detoran pushed, sending the victim and weapon flying back to foul the two warriors beyond. With the broadsword in her right hand extended, she was keeping another Seerdomin at bay. He was swinging his shorter weapons at the blade in an effort to bat it aside so he could close, but Detoran made her heavy blade dance and weave as if it was a duellist's rapier.

  Mallet's attention fixed on the two recovering Seerdomin. A third warrior was pulling the fallen Seerdomin away. The healer snapped the crossbow up and depressed the trigger. The weapon bucked in his hands.

  One of the recovering Seerdomin shrieked, a quarrel buried to its leather fins in his chest. He sagged back.

  A tumbling body knocked Mallet from his feet as he was about to reload. Cursing, the healer fell back against a side wall and made to kick the corpse away with his boots as he fumbled for a quarrel, then he saw that it was Antsy. Not yet dead, though his chest was sheathed in blood. From the sounds above, Trotts was pushing his way back up the stairs.

  He twisted round at a shout from Detoran. She had lunged with her broadsword, breaking her timing to dip her blade round a desperate parry, then sliding the edge up and under the Seerdomin's helm, ripping open the side of the man's neck—even as his other axe slashed a wild arc, straight for Detoran's head.

  The Napan threw her left shoulder into its path.

/>   Chain snapped, blood sprayed. The axe-blade cut clear, carrying with it most of the muscle of Detoran's shoulder.

  She reeled. Then, blood spurting, righted herself and rushed the remaining two Seerdomin.

  The nearest one threw one of his axes.

  The Napan chopped it aside then swung a backhand slash that the man barely managed to block. Detoran closed, dropping her sword and jamming her fingers into the helm's eye-slit. The momentum of her rush carried her round the man, twisting his head to follow.

  Mallet heard an audible pop of vertebrae, even as he finished loading his crossbow. He raised it—

  The last Seerdomin's axes flashed.

  Detoran's right arm, stretched out with the fingers still snagged in the visor, was severed halfway between shoulder and elbow.

  The second axe drove deep between her shoulder-blades, throwing her forward to slap face first against the landing's wall.

  The Seerdomin moved forward to tug the second axe free.

  Mallet's quarrel vanished into the man's right arm-pit. He buckled, then collapsed in a clatter of armour.

  The healer, setting another quarrel into the slot, clambered to where Detoran still leaned, upright, face first against the wall. The rush of blood from her wounds had slowed to turgid streams.

  He did not need to reach out to touch the Napan to know that she was dead.

  Boots thumped on the stairs and the healer swung round to see Spindle stumbling onto the landing. He'd taken a blow against his pot-helm, snapping the brow-band and its rivets on one side. Blood painted that side of his face. His eyes were wild.

  'A score of 'em up there, Mallet! Trotts is holding them off—'

  'The damned idiot!' The healer finished loading his crossbow and scrambled to the stairs, pausing briefly to examine Antsy. 'Find yourself a new helm, Spin, then follow!'

  'What about Antsy?'

  'He'll live a while longer. Hurry, damn you!'

  The staircase was crowded with fresh bodies, all the way up to the next landing.

  Mallet arrived in time to find himself caught in a descending rush—Seerdomin and, in their midst, a snarling Trotts, tumbling in a thrashing wall of flesh straight down onto the healer. A blade—the Barghast's—plunged through Mallet's shoulder, then whipped back out as they one and all fell onto the hard stone steps. Axe-blades, daggers, gauntlets, helms and greaves made the human avalanche a vicious shock of pain that did not end even when they were brought to a flailing halt at the bend in the stairwell.