Memories of Ice

  'We'll talk later, Gruntle,' Stonny said. 'Won't we?'

  You'll have to find me first. 'Of course, lass.'

  A few moments later he stood outside, feeling strangely weighed down, by nothing less than an old man's kind, forgiving nature. He stood for a while, unmoving, watching the locals hurrying past. Like ants in a kicked nest. And the next kick is going to be a killer…

  Stonny watched Gruntle leave, then turned to Keruli. 'You said you had instructions for me?'

  'Our friend the captain has a difficult path ahead.'

  Stonny scowled. 'Gruntle doesn't walk difficult paths. First sniff of trouble and he's off the opposite way.'

  'Sometimes there is no choice.'

  'And what am I supposed to do about it?'

  'His time is coming. Soon. I ask only that you stay close to him.'

  Her scowl deepened. That depends on him. He has a talent for not being found.'

  Keruli turned back to tend the oven. 'I'd rather think,' he murmured, 'that his talent is about to fail him.'

  Torchlight and diffuse sunlight bathed the array of dugout canoes and their wrapped corpses. The entire pit had been exposed, gutting most of the Thrall's floor—the granite pillar with its millstone cap standing alone in the very centre—to reveal the crafts, crushed and cluttered like the harvest of an ancient hurricane.

  Hetan knelt, head bowed, before the first dugout. She had not moved in some time.

  Itkovian had descended to conduct his own close examination of the remains, and now moved with careful steps among the wreckage, Cafal following in silence. The Shield Anvil's attention was drawn to the carving on the prows; while no two sets were identical, there was a continuity in the themes depicted—scenes of battle at sea, the Barghast clearly recognizable in their long, low dugouts, struggling with a singular enemy, a tall, lithe species with angular faces and large, almond-shaped eyes, in high-walled ships.

  As he crouched to study one such panel, Cafal murmured behind him, 'T'isten'ur.'

  Itkovian glanced back. 'Sir?'

  'The enemies of our Founding Spirits. T'isten'ur, the Grey-Skinned. Demons in the oldest tales who collected heads, yet kept the victims living… heads that remained watchful, bodies that worked ceaselessly. T'isten'ur: demons who dwelt in shadows. The Founding Spirits fought them on the Blue Wastes…' He fell silent, brow knitting, then continued, 'The Blue Wastes. We had no understanding of such a place. The shouldermen believed it was our Birth Realm. But now… it was the sea, the oceans.'

  'The Barghast Birth Realm in truth, then.'

  'Aye. The Founding Spirits drove the T'isten'ur from the Blue Wastes, drove the demons back into their underworld, the Forest of Shadows—a realm said to lie far to the southeast…'

  'Another continent, perhaps.'

  'Perhaps.'

  'You are discovering the truth behind your oldest legends, Cafal. In my home of Elingarth, far to the south of here, there are stories of a distant continent in the direction you have indicated. A land, sir, of giant firs and redwoods and spruce—a forest unbroken, its feet hidden in shadows and peopled with deadly wraiths.

  'As Shield Anvil,' Itkovian resumed after a moment, returning his attention once more to the carvings, 'I am as much a scholar as a warrior. T'isten'ur—a name with curious echoes. Tiste Andü, the Dwellers in Darkness. And, more rarely mentioned, and then in naught but fearful whispers, their shadow-kin, the Tiste Edur. Grey-skinned, believed extinct—and thankfully so, for it is a name sheathed in dread. T'isten'ur, the first glottal stop implies past tense, yes? Tlan, now T'lan—your language is kin to that of the Imass. Close kin. Tell me, do you understand Moranth?'

  Cafal grunted. 'The Moranth speak the language of the Barghast shouldermen—the holy tongue—the language that rose from the pit of darkness from whence all thought and all words first came. The Moranth claim kinship with the Barghast—they call us their Fallen Kin. But it is they who have fallen, not us. They who have found a shadowed forest in which to live. They who have embraced the alchemies of the T'isten'ur. They who made peace with the demons long ago, exchanging secrets, before retreating into their mountain fastnesses and hiding for ever behind their insect masks. Ask no more of the Moranth, wolf. They are fallen and unrepentant. No more.'

  'Very well, Cafal.' Itkovian slowly straightened. 'But the past refuses to remain buried—as you see here. The past hides restless truths, too, unpleasant truths as well as joyous ones. Once the effort of unveiling has begun… Sir, there is no going back.'

  'I have reached that understanding,' the Barghast warrior growled. 'As my father warned us—in success, we shall find seeds of despair.'

  'I should like to meet Humbrall Taur someday,' Itkovian murmured.

  'My father can crush a man's chest in his embrace. He can wield hook-swords in both hands and slay ten warriors in a span of heartbeats. Yet what the clans fear most in their warleader is his intelligence. Of his ten children, Hetan is most like him in that wit.'

  'She affects a blunt forthrightness.'

  Cafal grunted. 'As does our father. I warn you now, Shield Anvil, she has lowered her lance in your direction and sighted along its length. You shall not escape. She will bed you despite all your vows, and then you shall belong to her.'

  'You are mistaken, Cafal.'

  The Barghast bared his filed teeth, said nothing.

  You too have your father's wit, Cafal, as you deftly turn me away from the ancient secrets of the Barghast with yet another bold assault on my honour.

  A dozen paces behind them, Hetan rose and faced the ring of priests and priestesses lining the edge of the floor. 'You may return the slabs of stone. The removal of the Founding Spirits' remains must wait—'

  Rath'Shadowthrone snorted. 'Until when? Until the Pannions have completed razing the city? Why not call upon your father and have him bring down the clans of the Barghast? Have him break the siege, and then you and your kin can cart away these bones in peace and with our blessing!'

  'No. Fight your own war.'

  'The Pannions shall devour you once we're gone!' Rath' Shadowthrone shrieked. 'You are fools! You, your father! Your clans! All fools!'

  Hetan grinned. 'Is it panic I see on your god's face?'

  The priest hunched suddenly, rasped, 'Shadowthrone never panics.'

  'Then it must be the mortal man behind the facade,' Hetan concluded with a triumphant sneer.

  Hissing, Rath'Shadowthrone wheeled and pushed through his comrades, his sandals flapping as he hurried from the chamber.

  Hetan clambered up from the pit. 'I am done here. Cafal! We return to the barracks!'

  Brukhalian reached down to help Itkovian climb from the pit, and as the Shield Anvil straightened the Mortal Sword pulled him close. 'Escort these two,' he murmured. 'They've something planned for the removal of—'

  'Perhaps,' Itkovian interjected, 'but frankly, sir, I don't see how.'

  'Think on it, then, sir,' Brukhalian commanded.

  'I shall.'

  'Through any means, Shield Anvil.'

  Still standing close, Itkovian met the man's dark eyes. 'Sir, my vows—'

  'I am Fener's Mortal Sword, sir. This demand for knowledge comes not from me, but from the Tusked One himself. Shield Anvil, it is a demand born of fear. Our god, sir, is filled with fear. Do you understand?'

  'No,' Itkovian snapped. 'I do not. But I have heard your command, sir. So be it.'

  Brukhalian released the Shield Anvil's arm, turned slightly to face Karnadas, who stood, pale and still, beside them. 'Contact Quick Ben, sir, by whatever means—'

  'I am not sure I can,' the Destriant replied, 'but I shall try, sir.'

  'This siege,' Brukhalian growled, eyes clouding with some inner vision, 'is a bloodied flower, and before this day is done it shall unfold before us. And in grasping the stalk, we shall discover its thorns—'

  The three men turned at the approach of a Rath' priest. Calm, sleepy eyes were visible behind the striped, feline mask. 'Gentlemen,' the man sa
id, 'a battle awaits us.'

  'Indeed,' Brukhalian said drily. 'We were unaware of that.'

  'Our lords of war will find themselves in its fierce midst. The Boar. The Tiger. An ascendant in peril, and a spirit about to awaken to true godhood. Do you not wonder, gentlemen, whose war this truly is? Who is it who would dare cross blades with our Lords? But there is something that is even more curious in all this—whose hidden face lies behind this fated ascension of Trake? What, indeed, would be the value of two gods of war? Two Lords of Summer?'

  'That,' the Destriant drawled, 'is not a singular title, sir. We have never contested Trake's sharing it.'

  'You have not succeeded in hiding your alarm at my words, Karnadas, but I shall let it pass. One final question, however. When, I wonder, will you depose Rath'Fener, as is your right as Fener's Destriant—a title no-one has rightfully held for a thousand years… except for you, of course and, in aside, why has Fener seen the need to revive that loftiest of positions now?' After a moment, he shrugged. 'Ah, well, never mind that. Rath'Fener is no ally of yours, nor your god's—you must know that. He senses the threat you present to him, and will do all he can to break you and your company. Should you ever require assistance, seek me out.'

  'Yet you claim you and your Lord as our rivals, Rath'Trake,' Brukhalian growled.

  The mask hinged into a fierce smile. 'It only seems that way, right now, Mortal Sword. I shall take my leave of you, for the moment. Farewell, friends.'

  A long moment of silence passed whilst the three Grey Swords watched the Rath' priest stride away, then Brukhalian shook himself. 'Be on your way, Shield Anvil. Destriant, I would have a few more words with you…'

  Shaken, Itkovian swung about and set off after the two Barghast warriors. The earth has shifted beneath our feet. Unbalanced, moments from drawing blood, and peril now besets us from all sides. Tusked One, deliver us from uncertainty. I beg you. Now is not the time…

  Chapter Eleven

  The Malazan military's vaunted ability to adapt to whatever style of warfare the opposition offered was in fact superficial. Behind the illusion of malleability there remained a hard certainty in the supremacy of the Imperial way. Contributing to that illusion of flexibility was the sheer resiliency of the Malazan military structure, and a foundation bolstered by profound knowledge, and insightful analysis, of disparate and numerous styles of warfare.

  Abstract (Part XXVII, Book VII, Vol. IX) on Temul's thirteen-page treatise, 'Malazan Warfare' Enet Obar (the Lifeless)

  SPINDLE'S HAIRSHIRT HAD CAUGHT FIRE. EYES WATERING AND coughing at the foul stench, Picker watched the scrawny mage rolling back and forth on the dusty ground beside the firepit. Smoke snaked from smouldering hair, curses rode sparks up into the night air. Since everyone else was too busy laughing, the corporal reached over to collect a water skin, which she wedged between her knees. Unstoppering the spout and pressing her thighs together, she tracked Spindle with the lone stream of water until she heard hissing sounds.

  'All right all right!' the mage shrieked, smudged hands waving about. 'Stop! I'm drowning!'

  Convulsed in his own fits, Hedge had rolled perilously close to the flames. Picker stretched out one booted foot and kicked the sapper. 'Everyone calm down,' she snapped. 'Before the whole squad gets burnt crispy. Hood's breath!'

  In the gloom at her side, Blend spoke. 'We're dying of boredom, Corporal, that's the problem.'

  'If boredom was fatal there wouldn't be a soldier alive on this whole world, Blend. Feeble excuse. The problem's simple: starting with the sergeant writhing around over there, the whole Oponn-cursed squad is insane.'

  'Except for you, of course—'

  'You kissing my dung-stained boots, lass? Wrong move. I'm crazier than the rest of you. If I wasn't, I'd have run off long ago. Gods, look at these idiots. Got a mage wearing his dead mother's hair and every time he opens his warren we get attacked by snarling ground squirrels. Got a sapper with permanent flashburns whose bladder must be a warren unto itself since I ain't seen him wander off once and it's three days running now at this camp. Got a Napan woman being stalked by a rogue bhederin bull that's either blind or sees more than we do when he looks at her. And then there's a healer who went and got himself so badly sunburned he's running a fever.'

  'Don't bother mentioning Antsy,' Blend murmured. 'The sergeant would top anyone's list as a wall-eyed lunatic—'

  'I wasn't done. Got a woman who likes sneaking up on her friends. And finally,' she added in a low growl, 'dear old Antsy. Nerves of cold iron, that one. Convinced the gods themselves have snatched Quick Ben and it's all Antsy's own fault. Somehow.' Picker reached up and slipped a finger under the tores on her arm, her scowl deepening. 'As if the gods care a whit about Quick Ben, never mind the sergeant himself. As if they take note of any of us no matter what we do.'

  'Treach's tores bothering you, Corporal?'

  'Careful, Blend,' Picker murmured. 'I ain't in the mood.' Sodden and miserable, Spindle was climbing to his feet. 'Evil spark!' he hissed. 'Finger-flicked like a burning booger—there's malevolent spirits lurkin' about, mark my words.'

  'Mark 'em!' Picker snorted. 'I'll carve 'em in your gravestone, Spindle, and that's a Hood-blown promise!'

  'Gods, what a stink!' Hedge swore. 'I doubt even a grease-smeared Barghast will come near you! I say we should vote—the whole squad, I mean. Vote to tear that disgusting shirt off of Spindle's pimply back and bury it somewhere—ideally under a few tons of rubble. What say you, Sergeant? Hey, Antsy?'

  'Shhh!' the sergeant hissed from where he sat at the very edge of the firelight, staring out into the darkness. 'Something's out there!'

  'If it's another angry squirrel—' Picker began.

  'I ain't done nothing!' Spindle growled. 'And nobody's gonna bury, my shirt, not while I'm still breathing, anyway. So forget it, sapper. Besides, we don't vote on nothing in this squad. Hood knows what Whiskeyjack let you idiots do back in the Ninth, but you ain't in the Ninth any more, are ya?'

  'Be quiet!' Antsy snarled. 'Someone's out there! Snuffling around!'

  A huge shape loomed into view directly in front of the sergeant, who let out a yelp and leapt back, almost stumbling into the fire in his gibbering retreat.

  'It's that bhederin bull!' Hedge shouted. 'Hey, Detoran! Your date's arrived—ow! Gods, what did you just hit me with, woman? A mace? A Hood-cursed—your fist? Liar! Antsy, this soldier almost broke my head! Can't take a joke—ow! Ow!'

  'Leave off him,' Picker ordered. 'Someone shoo that beast away—'

  'This I gotta see,' Blend chortled. 'Two thousand pounds of horns, hooves and cock—'

  'Enough of that,' Picker said. 'There's delicate ears present, lass. Look, you got Detoran all blushing in between punching Hedge senseless.'

  'I'd say the high colour was exertion, Corporal. The sapper's got some good dodging tactics—oh, well, all right, so he missed slipping that one. Ouch.'

  'Ease up, Detoran!' Picker bellowed. 'He ain't seeing straight any more as it is and you'd better start hoping it ain't permanent damage you done there!'

  'Aye,' Spindle added. 'The lad's got cussers in that bag of his and if he can't throw straight…'

  That was enough to make Detoran drop her fists and step back. Hedge reeled about drunkenly then sat with a heavy thump, blood streaming from his broken nose. 'Can't take a joke,' he mumbled through puffed lips. A moment later he keeled over.

  'Terrific,' Picker muttered. 'If he ain't come to in the morning and we gotta march, guess who's pulling the travois, Detoran?'

  The large woman scowled and turned away to find her bedroll.

  'Who's injured?' a high voice piped up.

  The soldiers looked up to see Mallet, wrapped in a blanket, totter into the firelight. 'I heard punching.'

  'The boiled crayfish is awake,' Spindle observed. 'Guess you won't nap on any more sunward hillsides, eh, Healer?'

  'It's Hedge,' Picker said. 'Rubbed Detoran's fur the wrong way. Slumped by the fire—see him?'


  Nodding, Mallet hobbled to the sapper's side. 'Alarming image you conjured there, Corporal.' He crouched, began examining Hedge. 'Hood's breath! Busted nose, fractured jaw… and concussed, too—the man's done a quiet puke.' He glared over at Picker. 'Didn't anybody think to stop this little argument?'

  With a soft grunt, the bhederin bull wheeled away and thumped off into the darkness.

  Mallet's head snapped around. 'What by Fener's hoof was that'?' 'Hedge's rival,' Blend murmured. 'Probably saw enough to take his chances elsewhere.'

  Sighing, Picker leaned back, watching Mallet tend to the unconscious sapper. Squad's not gelling too good. Antsy ain't no Whiskeyjack, Spindle ain't Quick Ben, and I ain't no Corporal Kalam neither. If there was a best of the best among the Bridgeburners, it was the Ninth. Mind you, Detoran could stand toe to toe with Trotts…

  'That wizard had better show up soon,' Blend murmured after a time.

  Picker nodded in the darkness, then said, 'Might be the captain and the rest are with the White Faces already. Might be Quick Ben and us'll come too late to make any difference in the outcome—'

  'We won't make any difference anyway,' Blend said. 'What you mean is we'll be too late to see the spectacle.'

  'Could be a good thing, that.'

  'You're starting to sound like Antsy.'

  'Yeah, well, things ain't looking too good,' Picker said under her breath. 'The company's best mage has disappeared. Add that to a green nobleborn captain and Whiskeyjack gone and what do you know—we ain't the company we once was.'

  'Not since Pale, that's for sure.'

  Visions of the chaos and horror in the tunnels the day of the Enfilade returned to the corporal and she grimaced. 'Betrayed by our own. That's the worst thing there is, Blend. I can take falling to enemy swords, or magefire, or even demons tearing me limb from limb. But to have one of your own flash the knife when your back's turned…' She spat into the fire.

  'It broke us,' Blend said. Picker nodded again.

  'Maybe,' the woman at her side continued, 'Trotts losing his contest with the White Faces and us getting executed one and all might be a good thing. Barghast allies or not, I ain't looking forward to this war.'