Memories of Ice

  A standard had been raised near the roof's trapdoor, the yellow flag nothing more than a dark-streaked child's tunic.

  The warriors stood silent, watchful as Trotts sent squads out to each corner of the roof, where they checked on whatever lay both below and opposite the building.

  Their spokesman turned suddenly, a fluid, frighteningly graceful motion, and faced Corporal Picker. 'You have something for me,' he rumbled.

  Her eyes widened. 'What?'

  He sheathed one of his cutlasses and stepped up to her. Paran and the others nearby watched as the man reached out to Picker's right arm. He gripped her chain-sleeved bicep. A muted clatter sounded.

  Picker gasped.

  After a moment she dropped her sword to clunk on the tarred rooftop, and began stripping off her chain surcoat with quick, jerky motions. In a flood of relief, she spoke. 'Beru's blessing! I don't know who in Hood's name you are, sir, but they've been killing me. Getting tighter and tighter. Gods, the pain! He said they'd never come off. He said they'd be on me for good. Even Quick Ben said that—can't make a deal with Treach. The Tiger of Summer's mad, insane—'

  'Dead,' the Daru cut in.

  Half out of her surcoat, Picker froze. 'What?' she whispered. 'Dead? Treach is dead?'

  'The Tiger of Summer has ascended, woman. Treach—Trake—now strides with the gods. I will have them now, and I thank you for delivering them to my hand.'

  She pulled her right arm clear of the chain sleeve. Three ivory arm-tores clattered down to her hand. 'Here! Yes, please! Glad to oblige—'

  'Hood take your tongue, Picker,' Antsy snapped. 'You're embarrassing us! Just give him the damned things!'

  The corporal stared about. 'Blend! Where in the Abyss you hiding, woman?'

  'Here,' a voice murmured beside Paran.

  Startled, he stepped back. Damn her!

  'Hah!' Picker crowed. 'You hear me, Blend? Hah!'

  The squads were converging once more.

  The Daru rolled up a tattered sleeve. The striped pattern covered the large, well-defined muscles of his arm. He slid the three tores up past the elbow. The ivory clicked. Something flashed amber in the darkness beneath the rim of his helmet.

  Paran studied the man. A beast resides within him, an ancient spirit, reawakened. Power swirled around the Daru, but the captain sensed that it was born as much from a natural air of command as from the beast hiding within him—for that beast preferred solitude. Its massive strength had, somehow, been almost subsumed by that quality of leadership. Together, a formidable union. There's no mistaking, this one's important. Something's about to happen here, and my presence is no accident. 'I am Captain Paran, of Onearm's Host.'

  'Took your time, didn't you, Malazan?'

  Paran blinked. 'We did the best we could, sir. In any case, your relief this night and tomorrow will come from the White Face clans.'

  'Hetan and Cafal's father, Humbrall Taur. Good. Time's come to turn the tide.'

  'Turn the tide?' Antsy sputtered. 'Looks like you didn't need no help to turn the tide, man!'

  'Trotts,' Hedge called out. 'I ain't happy about what's underfoot. There's cracks. This whole roof is nothing but cracks.'

  'Same for the walls,' another sapper noted. 'All sides.'

  'This building is filled with bodies,' said a small warrior in Lestari armour beside the Daru. They're swelling, I guess.'

  His eyes still on the big Daru, Paran asked, 'Do you have a name?'

  'Gruntle.'

  'Are you some kind of sect, or something? Temple warriors?'

  Gruntle slowly faced him, his expression mostly hidden beneath the helm's visor. 'No. We are nothing. No-one. This is for a woman. And now she's dying—'

  'Which tent?' Mallet interrupted in his high, thin voice.

  'The Warren of Denul is poisoned—'

  'You feel that, do you, Gruntle? Curious.' The healer waited, then asked again, 'Which tent?'

  Gruntle's Lestari companion pointed. 'There. She was stuck through bad. Blood in the lungs. She might already be…' He fell silent.

  Paran followed Mallet to the tattered shelter.

  The woman lying within was pale, her young face drawn and taut. Frothy blood painted her lips.

  And here, there's more.

  The captain watched the healer settle to his knees beside her, reach out his hands.

  'Hold it,' Paran growled. 'The last time damn near killed you—'

  'Not my gift, Captain. Got Barghast spirits crowding me with this one, sir. Again. Don't know why. Someone's taken a personal interest, maybe. It may be too late anyway. We'll see… all right?'

  After a moment, Paran nodded.

  Mallet laid his hands on the unconscious woman, closed his eyes. A dozen heartbeats passed. 'Aai,' he finally whispered. 'Layers here. Wounded flesh… wounded spirit. I shall need to mend both. So… will you help me?'

  The captain realized the question was not being asked of him, and so made no reply.

  Mallet, eyes still closed, sighed. 'You will sacrifice so many for this woman?' He paused, eyes still closed, then frowned. 'I can't see these threads you speak of. Not her, nor Gruntle, nor the man at my side—'

  At your side? Me? Threads? Gods, why don't you just leave me alone?

  '—but I'll take your word for it. Shall we begin?'

  Moments passed, the healer motionless above the woman. Then she stirred on her pallet, softly moaned.

  The tent was torn from around them, guidewires snapping. Paran's head jerked up in surprise. To see Gruntle, chest heaving, standing above them.

  'What?' the Daru gasped. 'What—' He staggered back a step, was brought up by Trotts's firm hands on his shoulders. 'No such thing,' the Barghast growled, 'as too late.' Approaching, Antsy grinned. 'Hello, Capustan. The Bridgeburners have arrived.'

  The sounds of fighting from the north and the east accompanied the dawn. The White Face clans had finally engaged the enemy. Picker and the others would later learn of the sudden and bloody pitched battle that occurred at the landings on the coast and on the shore of Catlin River. The Barahn and Ahkrata clans had collided with newly arrived regiments of Betaklites and Betrullid cavalry. The commander there had elected to counterattack rather than hold poorly prepared defensive positions, and before long the Barghast were the ones digging in, harried on all sides.

  The Barahn were the first to break. Witnessing the ensuing slaughter of their kin had solidified the resolve of the Ahkrata, and they held until midday, when Taur detached the Gilk from the drive into the city and sent the turtle-shell-armoured warriors to their aid. A plains clan whetted on interminable wars against mounted enemies, the Gilk locked horns with the Betrullid and became the fulcrum for a renewed offensive by the Ahkrata, shattering the Betaklites and seizing the pontoon bridges and barges. The last of the Pannion medium infantry were driven into the river's shallows, where the water turned red. Surviving elements of the Betrullid disengaged from the Gilk and retreated north along the coast to the marshlands—a fatal error, as their horses foundered in the salty mud. The Gilk pursued to resume a mauling that would not end until nightfall. Septarch Kulpath's reinforcements had been annihilated.

  Humbrall Taur's push into the city triggered a panicked rout. Units of Seerdomin, Urdomen, Beklite, Scalandi and Betaklite were caught up and driven apart by the tens of thousands of Tenescowri fleeing before the Barghast hook-swords and lances. The main avenues became heaving masses of humanity, a swirling flood pushing westward, pouring through the breaches on that side, out onto the plain.

  Taur did not relent in his clans' vigorous pursuit, driving the Pannions ever westward.

  Crouched on the rooftop, Picker looked down on the screaming, panic-stricken mob below. The tide had torn into the ramp, cutting swathes through it, each one a narrow gully winding between walls of cold flesh. Every path was choked with figures, whilst others scrambled overtop, at times less than a long pike's reach from the Malazan's position.

  Despite the horror she was witn
essing below, she felt as if a vast burden had been lifted from her. The damned tores no longer gripped her arm. The closer they had come to the city, the tighter and hotter they had grown—burns still ringed her upper arm and a deep ache still lingered in the bones. There were questions surrounding all that, but she was not yet prepared to mull on them.

  From a few streets to the east came the now familiar sound of slaughter, the discordant battle-chants of the Barghast a rumbling undercurrent. A Pannion rearguard of sorts had formed, ragged elements of Beklite, Urdomen and Seerdomin joining ranks in an effort to blunt the White Face advance. The rearguard was fast disintegrating, overwhelmed by numbers.

  There would be no leaving the rooftop until the routed enemy had passed, despite Hedge's moans about foundation cracks and the like.

  Picker was well pleased with that. The Bridgeburners were in the city; it'd been hairy outside the wall and north gate, but apart from that things had gone easy—easier than she'd expected. Moranth munitions had a way of evening out the odds, if not swinging them all the way round.

  Not a single clash of blades yet. Good. We ain't as tough as we used to be, never mind Antsy's bravado.

  She wondered how far away Dujek and Brood were. Captain Paran had sent Twist to make contact with them as soon as it was clear that Humbrall Taur had unified his tribes and was ready to announce the command to march south to Capustan. With Quick Ben out of the action, and Spindle too scared to test his warrens, there was no way of knowing whether the Black Moranth had made it.

  Who knows what's happened to them. Tales among the Barghast of undead demonic reptiles on the plains… and those fouled warrens—who's to say that poison isn't some nasty's road? Spindle says the warrens are sick. What if they've just been taken over? Could be they're being used right now. Someone could have come through and hit them hard. There might be thirty thousand corpses rotting on the plain right now. We might be all that's left of Onearm's Host.

  The Barghast did not seem interested in committing to the war beyond the liberation of Capustan. They wanted the bones of their gods. They were about to get them, and once that happened they'd probably head back home.

  And if we're then on our own… what will Paran decide? That damned noble looks deathly. The man's sick. His thoughts ride nails of pain, and that ain't good. Ain't good at all.

  Boots crunched beside her as someone stepped to the roof's edge. She looked up, to see the red-haired woman Mallet had brought back from almost-dead. A rapier snapped a third of the way down the blade was in her right hand. Her leather armour was in tatters, old blood staining countless rents. There was a brittleness to her expression, as well as something of… wonder.

  Picker straightened. The screams from below were deafening. She moved closer and said, 'Won't be much longer, now. You can see the front ranks of the Barghast from here.' She pointed.

  The woman nodded, then said, 'My name is Stonny Menackis.'

  'Corporal Picker.'

  'I've been talking with Blend.'

  'That's a surprise. She ain't the talkative type.'

  'She was telling me about the tores.'

  'Was she now? Huh.'

  Stonny shrugged, hesitated, then asked, 'Are you… are you sworn to Trake or something? Lots of soldiers are, I gather. The Tiger of Summer, Lord of Battle—'

  'No,' Picker growled. 'I'm not. I just figured they were charms—those tores.'

  'So you didn't know that you had been chosen to deliver them. To… to Gruntle…'

  The corporal glanced over at the woman. 'That's what's got you kind of confused, is it? Your friend Gruntle. You never would've figured him for what… for whatever he's now become.'

  Stonny grimaced. 'Anyone but him, to be honest. The man's a cynical bastard, prone to drunkenness. Oh, he's smart, as far as men go. But now, when I look at him…'

  'You ain't recognizing what you see.'

  'It's not just those strange markings. It's his eyes. They're a cat's eyes, now, a damned tiger's. Just as cold, just as inhuman.'

  'He says he fought for you, lass.'

  'I was his excuse, you mean.'

  'Can't say as I'd argue there was a difference.'

  'But there is, Corporal.'

  'If you say so. Anyway, the truth's right there in front of you. In this damned cryptorium of a building. Hood take us, it's there in Gruntle's followers—he ain't the only one all dappled, is he? The man stood between the Pannions and you, and that was a solid enough thing to pull in all the others. Did Treach shape all this? I guess maybe he did, and I guess I played a part in that, too, with me showing up with those tores on my arm. But now I'm quit of the whole thing and that suits me fine.' And I ain't going to think on it no more.

  Stonny was shaking her head. 'I won't kneel to Trake. By the Abyss, I've gone and found myself before the altar of another god—I've already made my choice, and Trake isn't it.'

  'Huh. Maybe, then, your god found the whole thing with Gruntle and all that somehow useful. Humans ain't the only ones who spin and play with webs, right? We ain't the only ones who sometimes walk in step, or even work together to achieve something of mutual benefit—without explaining a damned thing to the rest of us. I ain't envying you, Stonny Menackis. It's deadly attention, when it's a god's. But it happens…' Picker fell silent.

  Walk in step. Her eyes narrowed. And keeping the rest of us in the dark.

  She swung about, searched the group around the tents until she spied Paran. The corporal raised her voice, 'Hey, Captain!'

  He looked up.

  And how about you, Captain? Keeping secrets, maybe? Here's a hunch for you. 'Any word from Silverfox?' she asked.

  The Bridgeburners nearby all fixed their attention on the nobleborn officer.

  Paran recoiled as if he had been struck. One hand went to his stomach as a spasm of pain took him. Jaws bunching, he managed to lift his head and meet Picker's eyes. 'She's alive,' he grated.

  Thought so. You'd been too easy with this by far, Captain. Meaning, you have been keeping things from us. A bad decision. The last time us Bridgeburners was kept in the dark, that dark swallowed damn near every one of us. 'How close? How far away, Captain?'

  She could see the effect of her words, yet a part of her was angry, enough to harden herself. Officers always held out. It was the one thing the Bridgeburners had learned to despise the most when it came to their commanders. Ignorance was fatal.

  Paran slowly forced himself straight. He drew a deep breath, then another as he visibly clamped down on the pain. 'Humbrall Taur is driving the Pannions into their laps, Corporal. Dujek and Brood are maybe three leagues away—'

  Sputtering, Antsy asked, 'And do they know what's coming down on them?'

  'Aye, Sergeant.'

  'How?'

  Good question. Just how tight is this contact between you and Tattersail-reborn? And why ain't you told us? We're your soldiers. Expected to fight for you. So it's a damned good question.

  Paran scowled at Antsy, but made no reply.

  The sergeant wasn't about to let go, now that he'd taken the matter from Picker's hands and was speaking for all the Bridgeburners. 'So here we damn near got our heads lopped off by the White Faces, damn near got roasted by Tenescowri, and all the while thinking we might be alone. Completely alone. Not knowing if the alliance has held or if Dujek and Brood have ripped each other apart and there's nothing but rotting bones to the west. And yet, you knew. So, if you was dead… right now, sir…'

  We'd know nothing, not a damned thing.

  'If I was dead, we wouldn't be having this conversation,' Paran replied. 'So why don't we just pretend, Sergeant?'

  'Maybe we don't pretend at all,' Antsy growled, one hand reaching for his sword.

  From nearby, where he had been crouching near the roof's edge, Gruntle slowly turned, then straightened.

  Now wait a minute. 'Sergeant!' Picker snapped. 'You think Tattersail will turn a smile on you the next time she sees you? If you go ahead and do what you're thinki
ng of doing?'

  'Quiet, Corporal,' Paran ordered, eyes on Antsy. 'Let's get it over with. Here, I'll make it even easier.' The captain turned his back to the sergeant, waited.

  So sick he wants it ended. Shit. And worse… all this, in front of an audience.

  'Don't even think it, Antsy,' Mallet warned. 'None of this is as it seems—'

  Picker turned on the healer. 'Well, now we're getting somewhere! You was jawing enough with Whiskeyjack before we left, Mallet. You and Quick Ben. Out with it! We got a captain hurting so bad he wants us to kill him and ain't nobody's telling us a damned thing—what in Hood's name is going on?'

  The healer grimaced. 'Aye, Silverfox is reaching out to the captain—but he's been pushing her away—so there hasn't been some kind of endless exchange of information going on. He knows she's alive, as he says, and I guess he can make out something of just how far away she is, but it goes no further than that. Damn you, Picker. You think you and the rest of us Bridgeburners have been singled out for yet another betrayal, just because Paran's not talking to you? He's not talking to anyone! And if you had as many holes burned through your guts as he does, you'd be pretty damned tight-lipped yourself! Now, all of you, just cut it! Look to yourselves and if that's shame you see it's damned well been earned!'

  Picker fixed her gaze on the captain's back. The man had not moved. Would not face his company. Could not—not now. Mallet had a way of turning things right over. Paran was a sick man, and sick people don't think right. Gods, I had tores biting my arm and I was losing it fast. Oh, ain't I just stepped in a pile of dung. Swearing someone else's to blame all the while, too. I guess Pale's burns are a far way from healing. Damn. Hood's heel on my rotted soul, please. Down and twist hard.

  Paran barely heard the shouted exchanges behind him. He felt assailed by the pressure of Silverfox's presence, leading to a dark desire to be crushed lifeless beneath it—if such a thing was possible—rather than yield.

  A sword between his shoulder-blades—no god to intervene this time. Or a final, torrential gush of blood into his stomach as its walls finally gave way—a painful option, but none the less as final as any other. Or a leap down into the mob below, to get torn apart, trampled underfoot. Futility whispering of freedom.