Memories of Ice

  'And still close,' Hetan nodded. 'Flank your brother.' He padded off.

  Gruntle strode up to her. 'That barrow… you're saying a spirit or ghost's broken free.'

  'Aye.'

  Drawing a hook-bladed sword, the Barghast woman walked slowly towards the carriage. The captain followed.

  Stonny trotted her horse back to take a defensive position beside Keruli's contrivance.

  A savage hole had been torn into the carriage's side, revealing on its jagged edges what looked to be sword-cuts, though larger than any blade Gruntle had ever seen. He clambered up to peer inside the compartment, half dreading what he might discover.

  It was empty—no bodies. The leather-padded walls had been shredded, the ornate furnishings scattered. Two huge trunks, once bolted to the floorboards, had been ripped loose. Their lids were open, contents spilled out. 'Hood take us,' the captain whispered, his mouth suddenly dry. One of the trunks contained flat slabs of slate—now shattered—on which arcane symbols had been meticulously etched, but it was the other trunk whose contents had Gruntle close to gagging. A mass of blood-slick… organs. Livers, lungs, hearts, all joined together to form a shape all the more horrifying for its familiarity. When alive—as he sensed it must have been until recently—it had been human-shaped, though no more than knee-high when perched on its boneless, pod-like appendages. Eyeless and, as far as Gruntle could see in the compartment's gloom, devoid of anything resembling a brain, the now-dead creature still leaked thin, watery blood.

  Necromancy, but not the demonic kind. These are the arts of those who delve into mortality, into resurrection and undeath. Those organs… they came from living people. People murdered by a madman. Damn you, Buke, why did you have to get involved with those bastards?

  'Are they within?' Hetan asked from below.

  He leaned back, shook his head. 'Just wreckage.'

  Harllo called out from the driver's bench. 'Look uptrail, Gruntle! Party coming.'

  Four figures, two leather-cloaked and in black, one short and bandylegged, the last one tall, thin. No losses, then. Still, something nasty hit them. Hard. 'That's them,' he muttered.

  Hetan squinted up at him. 'You know these men?'

  'Aye, only one well, though. The guard—that grey-haired, tall one.'

  'I don't like them,' the woman growled, her sword twitching as she adjusted her grip.

  'Keep your distance,' Gruntle advised. 'Tell your brothers. You don't want to back-brush their hides—those cloaked two. Bauchelain—with the pointed beard—and Korbal Broach—the… the other one.'

  Cafal and Netok rejoined their sister. The older brother was scowling. 'It was taken yesterday,' he said. 'The wards were unravelled. Slow. Before the hill was broken open.'

  Gruntle, still perched on top of the carriage, narrowed his gaze on the approaching men. Buke and the servant, Emancipor Reese, both looked exhausted, deeply shaken, whilst the sorcerers might well have simply been out on a stroll for all the discomfort in their composure. Yet they were armed. All-metal crossbows, stained black, were cradled on their vambraced forearms, quarrels set and locked. Squat black quivers at their hips showed but a few quarrels remaining in each.

  Climbing down from the carriage, Gruntle strode to meet them.

  'Well met, Captain,' Bauchelain said with a faint smile. 'Fortunate for you that we made better time since the river. Since Saltoan our peregrination has been anything but peaceful.'

  'So I've gathered, sir.' Gruntle's eyes strayed to Buke. His friend looked ten years older than when he'd last seen him. He would not meet the captain's eyes.

  'I see your entourage has grown since we last met,' Bauchelain observed. 'Barghast, yes? Extraordinary, isn't it, that such people can be found on other continents as well, calling themselves by the same name and practising, it seems, virtually identical customs. What vast history lies buried and now lost in their ignorance, I wonder?'

  'Generally,' Gruntle said quietly, 'that particular usage of the word "buried" is figurative. Yet you have taken it literally.'

  The black-clad man shrugged. 'Plagued by curiosity, alas. We could not pass by the opportunity. We never can, in fact. As it turned out, the spirit we gathered into our embrace—though once a shaman of some power—could tell us nothing other than what we had already surmised. The Barghast are an ancient people indeed, and were once far more numerous. Accomplished seafarers as well.' His flat, grey eyes fixed on Hetan. A thin brow slowly lifted. 'Not a question of a fall from some civilized height into savagery, however. Simply an eternal… stagnation. The belief system, with all its ancestor worship, is anathema to progress, or so I have concluded given the evidence.' Hetan offered the sorceror a silent snarl.

  Cafal spoke, his voice ragged with fury. 'What have you done with our soul-kin?'

  'Very little, warrior. He had already eluded the inner bindings, yet had fallen prey to one of your shamanistic traps—a tied bundle of sticks, twine and cloth. Was it compassion that offered them the semblance of bodies with those traps? Misguided, if so—'

  'Flesh,' Korbal Broach said in a reedy, thin voice, 'would far better suit them.'

  Bauchelain smiled. 'My companion is skilled in such… assemblages, a discipline of lesser interest to me.'

  'What happened here?' Gruntle asked.

  'That is plain,' Hetan snapped. They broke into a dark circle. Then a demon attacked them—a demon such as the one my brothers and I hunt. And these… men… fled and somehow eluded it.'

  'Not quite, my dear,' Bauchelain said. 'Firstly, the creature that attacked us was not a demon—you can take my word on such matters for demons are entities I happen to know very well indeed. We were most viciously set upon, however, as you surmise. Whilst we were preoccupied with this barrow. Had not Buke alerted us, we might well have sustained even further damage to our accoutrements, not to mention our less capable companions.'

  'So,' Gruntle cut in, 'if not a demon, then what was it?'

  'Ah, a question not easily answered, Captain. Undead, most certainly. Commanded by a distant master, and formidable in the extreme. Korbal and I were perforce required to unleash the full host of our servants to fend the apparition off, nor did the subsequent pursuit yield us any profit. Indeed, the loss of a good many of those servants was incurred, upon the appearance of two more of the undead hunters. And while the trio have been driven off, the relief is but temporary. They will attack again, and if they have gathered in greater numbers, we might well—all of us—be sorely tested.'

  'If I may,' Gruntle said, 'I would like to speak in private with my master, and with Hetan, here.'

  Bauchelain tilted his head. 'By all means. Come, Korbal and companions, let us survey the full damage to our hapless carriage.'

  Taking Hetan's arm, Gruntle led her to where Harllo and Stonny waited beside Keruli's carriage. Cafal and Netok followed.

  'They have enslaved our soul-kin,' Hetan hissed, her eyes like fanned coals. 'I will kill them—kill them all!'

  'And die before you close a single step,' Gruntle snapped. 'These are sorcerers, Hetan. Worse, they're necromancers. Korbal practises the art of the undead. Bauchelain's is demonic summoning. The two sides of the skull-faced coin. Hood-cursed and foul… and deadly. Do you understand me? Don't even think of trying them.'

  Keruli's voice emerged from the carriage,' Even more poignantly, my friends, very soon, I fear, we will have need of those terrible men and their formidable powers.'

  Gruntle turned with a scowl. The door's window shutter had been opened to a thin slit. 'What are these undead hunters, master? Do you know?'

  There was a long pause before Keruli responded. 'I have… suspicions. In any case, they are spinning threads of power across this land, like a web, from which they can sense any tremor. We cannot pass undetected—'

  'Then let us turn round,' Stonny snapped. 'Now, before it's too late.'

  'But it already is,' Keruli replied. 'These undead servants continue to cross the river from the southlands, all in servi
ce to the Pannion Seer. They range ever closer to Saltoan. Indeed, I believe there are now more of them behind us than between here and Capustan.'

  Hood-damned convenient, Master Keruli.

  'We must,' the man within the carriage continued, 'fashion a temporary alliance with these necromancers—until we reach Capustan.'

  'Well,' Gruntle said, 'they certainly view it as an obvious course to take.'

  'They are practical men, for all their other… faults.'

  'The Barghast will not travel with them,' Hetan snarled. 'I don't think we have any choice,' Gruntle sighed. 'And that includes you and your brothers, Hetan. What's the point of finding these undead hunters only to have them tear you to pieces?'

  'You think we come unprepared for such battle? We stood long in the bone circle, Captain, whilst every shaman of the gathered clans danced the weft of power. Long in the bone circle.'

  'Three days and three nights,' Cafal growled. No wonder she damn near ripped my chest open last night. Keruli spoke. 'It may prove insufficient, should your efforts draw the full attention of the Pannion Seer. Captain, how many days of travel before we reach Capustan?'

  You know as well as I. 'Four, master.'

  'Surely, Hetan, you and your brothers can achieve a certain stoicism for such a brief length of time? We well understand your outrage. The desecration of your sacred ancestors is an insult not easily accommodated. But, do not your own kind bow to a certain pragmatism in this regard as well? The inscribed wards, the sticksnares? Consider this an extension of such necessity…'

  Hetan spat, turned away. 'It is as you say,' she conceded after a moment. 'Necessary. Very well.'

  Gruntle returned to Bauchelain and the others. The two sorcerers were crouched down with the shattered axle between them. The stench of melted iron wafted up.

  'Our repairs, Captain,' Bauchelain murmured, 'will not take long.'

  'Good. You said there's three of these creatures out there—how far away?'

  'Our small shaman friend keeps pace with the hunters. Less than a league, and I assure you, they can—if they so will it—cover that distance in a matter of a few hundred heartbeats. We will have little warning, but enough to muster a defence, I believe.'

  'Why are you travelling to Capustan?'

  The sorcerer glanced up, an eyebrow lifting. 'No particular reason. By nature, we wander. Upon arriving on the west coast of this continent, we set our sights eastward. Capustan is as far as we can travel east, yes?'

  'Close enough, I suppose. The land juts further east to the south, beyond Elingarth, but the kingdoms and city states down there are little more than pirate and bandit holdings. Besides, you'd have to pass through the Pannion Domin to get there.'

  'And I gather that would be trying.'

  'You'd never make it.'

  Bauchelain smiled, bent once more to concentrate on the axle.

  Looking up, Gruntle finally caught Buke's eye. A slight head movement drew the man—reluctantly—off to one side.

  'You're in trouble, friend,' the captain said in a low voice.

  Buke scowled, said nothing—but the truth was evident in his eyes.

  'When we reach Capustan, take the closing coin and don't look back. I know, Buke, you were right in your suspicions—I saw what was within the carriage. I saw. They'll do worse than kill you if you try anything. Do you understand? Worse.'

  The man grinned wryly, squinted out to the east. 'You think we'll make it that far, do you, Gruntle? Well, surprise—we won't live to see the next dawn.' He fixed wild eyes on the captain. 'You wouldn't believe what my masters unleashed—such a nightmare menagerie of servants, guardians, spirit-slayers—and their own powers! Hood take us! Yet all of it barely managed to drive one of those beasts off, and when the other two arrived, we were the ones retreating. That menagerie is nothing but smouldering pieces scattered for leagues across the plain. Gruntle, I saw demons cut to shreds. Aye, these two look unshaken, but believe me, that's of no account. None at all.' He lowered his voice still further. 'They are insane, friend. Thoroughly, ice-blooded, lizard-eyed insane. And poor Mancy's been with them for three years now and counting—the stories he's told me…' The man shuddered.

  'Mancy? Oh, Emancipor Reese. Where's the cat, by the way?'

  Buke barked a laugh. 'Ran off—just like all our horses and we had an even dozen of them after those stupid bandits attacked us. Ran off, once I'd done prying its claws from Mancy's back, which was where it jumped when all the warrens broke loose.'

  Repairs completed and carriage righted, the journey resumed. A league or two of daylight remained. Stonny once again rode to point, Cafal and Netok taking their places ranging on the flanks. Emancipor guided the carriage, the two sorcerers having retired within.

  Buke and Gruntle walked a few paces ahead of Keruli's carriage, saying little for a long while, until the captain sighed heavily and glanced at his friend. 'For what it's worth, there's people who don't want to see you dead, Buke. They see you wasting away inside, and they care enough so that it pains them—'

  'Guilt's a good weapon, Gruntle, or at least it has been for a long time. Doesn't cut any more, though. If you choose to care, then you better swallow the pain. I don't give a damn, myself.'

  'Stonny—'

  'Is worth more than messing herself up with me. I'm not interested in being saved, anyway. Tell her that.'

  'You tell her, Buke, and when she puts her fist in your face just remember that I warned you here and now. You tell her—I won't deliver your messages of self-pity.'

  'Back off, Gruntle. I'd hurt you bad before you finished using those cutlasses on me.'

  'Oh, that's sweet—get one of your few remaining friends to kill you. Seems I was wrong, it's not just self-pity, is it? You're not obsessed with the tragic deaths of your family, you're obsessed with yourself, Buke. Your guilt's an endlessly rising tide, and that ego of yours is a levee and all you do is keep slapping fresh bricks on it. The wall gets higher and higher, and you're looking down on the world from a lofty height—with a Hood-damned sneer.'

  Buke was pale and trembling. 'If that's the way you see it,' he rasped, 'then why call me friend at all?'

  Bern knows, I'm beginning to wonder. He drew a deep breath, managed to calm himself down. 'We've known each other a long time. We've never crossed blades.' And you were in the habit of getting drunk for days on end, a habit you broke… but one I haven't. Took the deaths of everyone you loved to do that, and I'm terrified it might take the same for me.

  Thank Hood the lass married that fat merchant.

  'Doesn't sound like much, Gruntle.'

  We're two of a kind, you bastard—cut past your own ego and you'd see that fast enough. But he said nothing.

  'Sun's almost down,' Buke observed after a time. 'They'll attack when it's dark.'

  'How do you defend against them?'

  'You don't. Can't. Like chopping into wood, from what I've seen, and they're fast. Gods, they're fast! We're all dead, Gruntle. Bauchelain and Korbal Broach ain't got much left—did you see them sweat mending the carriage? They're wrung dry, those two.'

  'Keruli is a mage as well,' Gruntle said. 'Well, more likely a priest.'

  'Let's hope his god's cocked an eye on us, then.'

  And what are the chances of that?

  With the sun's light pooling crimson on the horizon behind them, they made camp. Stonny guided the horses and oxen into a makeshift, rope-lined kraal to one side of the carriages—a position that would give them a chance to flee inland if it came to that.

  A kind of resignation descended within the growing gloom as a meal was prepared over a small fire, Harllo electing himself cook. Neither Keruli nor the two sorcerers emerged from their respective carriages to join the small group.

  Moths gathered around the smokeless flames. Sipping mulled wine, Gruntle watched their fluttering, mindless plunges into oblivion with a faintly bitter amusement.

  Darkness closed in, the scatter of stars overhead sharpening. With the su
pper done, Hetan rose. 'Harllo, come with me now. Quickly.'

  'My lady?' the man enquired.

  Gruntle sprayed a mouthful of wine. Choking, coughing, with Stonny pounding on his back, it was a while before he managed to recover. Through watering eyes, he grinned at Harllo. 'You heard the lady.'

  He watched his friend's eyes slowly grow wide.

  Impatient, Hetan stepped forward and gripped Harllo by one arm. She pulled him to his feet, then dragged him out into the darkness.

  Staring after them, Stonny frowned. 'What's all that about?'

  Not a single man spoke up.

  She swung a glare on Gruntle. After a moment, she hissed with understanding. 'What an outrage!'

  'My dear,' the captain laughed, 'after Saltoan, that's a little rich coming from you.'

  'Don't you "dear" me, Gruntle! What are the rest of us supposed to do—sit here and listen to gross grunting and groaning from that hump of grasses over there? Disgusting!'

  'Really, Stonny. In the circumstances, it makes perfect sense—'

  'It's not that, you idiot! That woman chose Harllo?? Gods, I'm going to be sick! Harllo! Look around this fire—there's you, and let's face it, a certain type of uncultured, trashy woman couldn't resist you. And Buke, tall and weathered with a tortured soul—surely worth a snake-fight or three. But Harllo? That tangled-haired ape?'

  'He's got big hands,' Gruntle murmured. 'So Hetan observed last… uh, last night.'

  Stonny stared, then leaned forward. 'She had you last night! Didn't she? That loose, grease-smeared savage had you! I can see the truth in your smug face, Gruntle, so don't deny it!'

  'Well, you just heard her—how could any warm-blooded man resist?'

  'Fine, then!' she snapped, rising. 'Buke, on your feet, damn you.'

  He flinched back. 'No—I couldn't—I, uh, no, I'm sorry, Stonny—'

  Snarling, she whirled on the two silent Barghast.

  Cafal smiled. 'Choose Netok. He's yet—'

  'Fine!' She gestured.

  The youth rose unsteadily.

  'Big hands,' Gruntle observed.