Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  'You do that, Corporal.'

  Returning his attention to the Circle, Paran saw that Humbrall Taur had moved to stand directly between the two contestants. If he addressed them it was brief and under his breath, for he then stepped back, once more raising the mace overhead. The thumping dance of the massed warriors ceased. Trotts swung his shield to the ready, dropping his left leg back and positioning his sword in a tight guard position. The youth's sloppy stance did not change, the knife held loosely at his side.

  Humbrall Taur reached one edge of the ring. He waved the mace one final time over his head, then lowered it.

  The duel had begun.

  Trotts stepped back, crouching low with the shield rim just under his eyes. The blunt tip of his broadsword edged outward as he half extended his arm.

  The youth pivoted to face him, the knife in his hand making slight bobbing, snake-head motions. At some unseen shift in weight from Trotts he danced lithely to the left, blade wavering in a haphazard, desultory defence, but the big Bridgeburner did not come forward. Ten paces still remained between them.

  Every move the lad makes tells Trotts more, fills out the tactical map, What the boy reacts to, what makes him hesitate, tauten, withdraw. Every shift in weight, the play over the ground and the balls of his feet… and Trotts has yet to move.

  The youth edged closer, approaching at an angle that Trotts matched only with his shield. Another step. The Bridgeburner's sword slid out to the side. The lad skittered back, then he neared again, sharpening the angle.

  Like a stolid infantryman, Trotts swung round to replant his feet—and the Barghast attacked.

  A snort gusted from Paran as the Bridgeburner's heavy-footedness vanished. Negating his own advantage in height, Trotts met the lashing assault from low behind his shield, surging forward unexpectedly into the lad's high-bladed attack. Hook-knife glanced without strength off Trotts's helm, then the heavy round shield hammered into the boy's chest, throwing him back.

  The youth struck the ground, skidding, raising a cloud of dust as he tumbled and rolled.

  A fool would have pursued, only to find the lad's knife slashing through the sunlit cloud—but Trotts simply settled back behind his shield. The youth emerged from the swirling dust, face powdered, knife wavering. His smile remained.

  Not a style the lad's used to. Trotts could well be standing front-line in a phalanx, shoulder to shield with hard-eyed Malazan infantry. More than one barbaric horde has been deflowered and cut to pieces against that deadly human wall. These White Faces have never experienced an Imperial engagement.

  The lithe Barghast began a swift, darting dance, circling Trotts, edging in then back out, playing with the bright sunlight and flashes on weapon and armour, kicking up clouds of dust. In answer, the Bridgeburner simply pivoted into one of four facings—he had become his own square—and waited, again and again seeming to hold a position too long before shifting, each time stamping the methodical steps of the Malazan infantry drill like a thick-skulled recruit. He ignored every feint, would not be pulled forward by the lad's moments of imbalance and awkwardness—which were themselves illusory.

  The ring of warriors had begun shouting their frustration. This was not a duel as they knew duels. Trotts would not play the lad's game. He is now a soldier of the Empire, and that is the addendum to his tale.

  The youth launched another attack, his blade blurring in a wild skein of feints, then slashing low, seeking the Bridgeburner's right knee—the hinge in the armour's joint. Shield came down, driving the knife away. Broadsword slashed horizontally for the boy's head. He ducked lower, hook-blade dropping down to slash ineffectually across the toe-cap of Trotts's boot. The Bridgeburner snapped his shield into the boy's face.

  The youth reeled, blood spraying from his nose. Yet his knife rose unerringly, skirting the rim of the shield as if following a hissing guide to dig deep into the armour's joint hinge of Trotts's left arm, the hook biting, then tearing through ligaments and veins.

  The Malazan chopped down with his broadsword, severing the lad's knife-hand at the wrist.

  Blood poured from the two warriors, yet the close-in engagement was not yet complete. Paran watched in amazement as the youth's left hand shot up, stiff-fingered, beneath the chin-guard of Trotts's helmet. A strange popping sound came from Trotts's throat. Shield-arm falling senseless in a welter of blood, knees buckling, the Bridgeburner sank to the ground.

  Trotts's final gesture was a lightning-quick sweep of his broadsword across the lad's stomach. Sleek flesh parted and the youth looked down in time to see his intestines tumble into view in a gush of fluids. He convulsed around them, pitched to the ground.

  Trotts lay before the dying boy, clawing frantically at his throat, legs kicking.

  The captain lurched forward, but one of his Bridgeburners was quicker—Mulch, a minor healer from the Eleventh Squad, raced into the Circle to Trotts's side. A small flickblade flashed in the soldier's hand as he straddled the writhing warrior and pushed his head back to expose the throat.

  What in Hood's name—

  There was pandemonium on all sides. The Circle was dissolving as Barghast warriors surged forward, weapons out yet clearly confused as to what they should do with them. Paran's head snapped round, to see his Bridgeburners contracting within a ring of shrieking, belligerent savages.

  Gods, it's all coming down.

  A horn cut through the cacophony. Faces turned. Senan warriors were reasserting the sanctity of the Circle, bellowing as they pushed the other tribesmen and women back. Humbrall Taur had once more raised high his mace, a silent yet inescapable demand for order.

  Voices rose from the Barghast surrounding the company of Bridgeburners, and the captain saw Moranth munitions held high in the hands of his soldiers. The Barghast were recoiling, drawing lances back to throw.

  'Bridgeburners!' Paran shouted, striding towards them. 'Put those damned things away! Now!'

  The horn sounded a second time.

  Faces turned. The deadly grenados disappeared once more beneath rain-capes and cloaks.

  'Stand at ease!' Paran growled as he reached them. In a lower voice, he snapped, 'Hold fast, you damned fools! Nobody counted on a Hood-damned draw! Keep your wits. Corporal Aimless, go to Mulch and find out what in Fener's name he did with that flickblade—and get the bad news on Trotts—I know, I know, he looked done for. But so's the lad. Who knows, maybe it's a question of who dies first—'

  'Captain,' one of the sergeants cut in. 'They were gonna have at us, sir, that's all. We wasn't planning on nothing—we was waitin' for your signal, sir.'

  'Glad to hear it. Now keep your eyes open, but stay calm, while I go confer with Humbrall Taur.' Paran swung round and headed towards the Circle.

  The Barghast warchief's face was grey, his gaze returning again and again to the small figure now ominously motionless on the stained ground a dozen paces away. A half-dozen minor chiefs clustered around Humbrall, each shouting to make himself heard above his rival. Taur was ignoring them one and all.

  Paran pushed through the crowd. A glance to his right showed Aimless crouched down beside Mulch. The healer had a hand pressed tight against the wound in Trotts's left arm and seemed to be whispering under his breath, his eyes closed. Slight movement from Trotts revealed that the Bridgeburner still lived. And, the captain realized, he had ceased his thrashing around. Somehow, Mulch had given him a means of drawing breath. Paran shook his head in disbelief. Crush a man's throat and he dies. Unless there's a High Denul healer nearby… and Mulch isn't, he's a cutter with a handful of cantrips at his disposal—the man's pulled off a miracle…

  'Malazan!' Humbrall Taur's small, flat eyes were fixed on Paran. He gestured. 'We must speak, you and I.' He switched from Daru to bellow at the warriors crowding him. They withdrew, scowling, casting venomous glares towards the captain.

  A moment later Paran and the Barghast warchief stood face to face. Humbrall Taur studied him for a moment, then said, 'Your warriors think little
of you. Soft blood, they say.'

  Paran shrugged. 'They're soldiers. I'm their new officer.'

  'They are disobedient. You should kill one or two of them, then the others will respect you.'

  'It's my task to keep them alive, not kill them, Warchief.'

  Humbrall Taur's eyes narrowed. 'Your Barghast fought in the style of you foreigners. He did not fight as kin to us. Twenty-three duels, my unnamed son. Without loss, without so much as a wound. I have lost one of my blood, a great warrior.'

  'Trotts lives still,' Paran said.

  'He should be dead. Crush a man's throat and the convulsions take him. He should not have been able to swing his sword. My son sacrificed a hand to kill him.'

  'A valiant effort, Warchief.'

  'In vain, it seems. Do you claim that Trotts will survive his wounds?'

  'I don't know. I need to confer with my healer.'

  'The spirits are silent, Malazan,' Humbrall Taur said after a moment. 'They wait. As must we.'

  'Your council of chiefs might not agree with you,' Paran observed.

  Taur scowled. 'That is a matter for the Barghast. Return to your company, Malazan. Keep them alive… if you can.'

  'Does our fate rest on Trotts's surviving, Warchief?'

  The huge warrior bared his teeth. 'Not entirely. I am done with you, now.' He turned his back on the captain. The other chiefs closed in once again.

  Paran pulled away, fighting a resurgence of pain in his stomach, and strode to where Trotts lay. Eyes on the Barghast warrior, he crouched down beside the healer, Mulch. There was a hole between Trotts's collar bones, home to a hollow bone tube that whistled softly as he breathed. The rest of his throat was crumpled, a mass of green and blue bruising. The Barghast's eyes were open, aware and filled with pain.

  Mulch glanced over. 'I've healed the vessels and tendons in his arm,' he said quietly. 'He won't lose it, I think. It'll be weaker, though, unless Mallet gets here soon.'

  Paran pointed at the bone tube. 'What in Hood's name is that, healer?'

  'It ain't easy playing with warrens right now, sir. Besides, I ain't good enough to fix anything like that anyway. It's a cutter's trick, learned it from Bullit when I was in the 6th Army—he was always figuring ways of doing things without magic, since he could never find his warren when things got hot.'

  'Looks… temporary.'

  'Aye, Captain. We need Mallet. Soon.'

  'That was fast work, Mulch,' Paran said, straightening. 'Well done.'

  'Thanks, sir.'

  'Corporal Aimless.'

  'Captain?'

  'Get some soldiers down here. I don't want any Barghast getting too close to Trotts. When Mulch gives the word, move him back to our camp.'

  'Aye, sir.'

  Paran watched the soldier hurry off, then he faced south and scanned the sky. 'Hood's breath!' he muttered with plaintive relief.

  Mulch rose. 'You sent Twist to find 'em, didn't you, sir? Look, he's got a passenger. Probably Quick Ben, though…'

  Paran slowly smiled, squinting at the distant black speck above the ridgeline. 'Not if Twist followed my orders, Healer.'

  Mulch looked over. 'Mallet. Fener's hoof, that was a good play, Captain.'

  Paran met the healer's gaze. 'Nobody dies on this mission, Mulch.' The old veteran slowly nodded, then knelt once again to tend to Trotts.

  Picker studied Quick Ben as they trudged up yet another grass-backed hillside. 'You want us to get someone to carry you, Mage?'

  Quick Ben wiped the sweat from his brow, shook his head. 'No, it's getting better. The Barghast spirits are thick here, and getting thicker. They're resisting the infection. I'll be all right, Corporal.'

  'If you say so, only you're looking pretty rough to me.' And ain't that an understatement.

  'Hood's warren is never a fun place.'

  'That's bad news, Mage. What have we all got to look forward to, then?'

  Quick Ben said nothing.

  Picker scowled. 'That bad, huh? Well; that's just great. Wait till Antsy hears.'

  The wizard managed a smile. 'You tell him news only to see him squirm, don't you?'

  'Sure. The squad needs its entertainment, right?'

  The summit revealed yet another set of small cairns, scattered here and there on its weathered expanse. Tiny, long-legged grey birds hopped from their path as the soldiers marched on. Few words were wasted—the heat was oppressive, with half a day of sunlight remaining. Buzzing flies kept pace.

  The squad had seen no-one since Twist's visit at dawn. They knew the duel had taken place by now, but had no idea of its outcome. Hood, we could walk in to our own execution. Spindle and Quick Ben were next to useless, unable and unwilling to test the taste of their warrens, pallid and shaky and uncommunicative. Hedge's jaw was too swollen for him to manage anything more than grunts, but the looks he cast at Detoran's back as she walked point hinted at plans of murderous vengeance. Blend was scouting somewhere ahead, or behind—or maybe in my Hood-damned shadow—she glanced over her shoulder to check, but the woman wasn't there. Antsy, taking up the rear, kept up a private conversation with himself, his ceaseless mumbling a steady accompaniment to the droning flies.

  The landscape showed no life beyond the grasses cloaking the hills and the stunted trees occasionally visible in the valleys where seasonal streams hoarded water beneath the soil. The sky was cloudless, not a bird in sight to mar the blue vastness. Far to the north and east rose the white peaks of the Barghast Range, jagged in their youth and forbidding.

  By Twist's estimate, the Barghast gathering was in a valley four leagues to the north. They'd arrive before sunset, if all went well.

  Striding at her side, Quick Ben voiced a soft grunt, and the corporal turned in time to see a score of dirt-smeared hands closing around the wizard's legs. The earth seemed to foam beneath Quick Ben's boots, then he was being dragged down, stained, bony fingers clutching, tugging, gnarled forearms reaching upward to wrap themselves about the wizard's struggling form.

  'Quick!' Picker bellowed, flinging herself towards him. He reached for her, a look a dumb amazement on his face as the soil heaved around his waist. Pounding footsteps and shouts closed in. Picker's hand clamped on the wizard's wrist.

  The earth surged to his chest. The hands reappeared to grasp Quick Ben's right arm and drag it down.

  Her eyes met his, then he shook his head. 'Let me go, Corporal—'

  'Are you mad—'

  'Now, before you get my arm torn off—' His right shoulder was yanked beneath the soil.

  Spindle appeared, flinging himself forward to wrap an arm around Quick Ben's neck.

  'Let him go!' Picker yelled, releasing the wizard's wrist.

  Spindle stared up at her. 'What?'

  'Let him go, damn you!'

  The squad mage unlocked his arm and rolled away, cursing.

  Antsy burst among them, his short-handled shovel already in his hands as Quick Ben's head vanished beneath the earth. Dirt began flying.

  'Ease off there, Sergeant,' Picker snapped. 'You'll end up taking off the top of his damned head!'

  The sergeant stared at her, then leapt back as if standing on coals. 'Hood!' He raised his shovel and squinted at the blade. 'I don't see no blood! Anybody see any blood? Or—gods!—hair! Is that hair? Oh, Queen of Dreams—'

  'That ain't hair,' Spindle growled, pulling the shovel from Antsy's hands. 'That's roots, you idiot! They got 'im. They got Quick Ben.'

  'Who has?' Picker demanded.

  'Barghast spirits. A whole horde of 'em! We was ambushed!'

  'What about you, then?' the corporal asked.

  'I ain't dangerous enough, I guess. At least'—his head snapped as he looked around—'I hope not. I gotta get off this damned barrow, that's what I gotta do!'

  Picker watched him scamper away. 'Hedge, keep an eye on him, will you?'

  The swollen-faced sapper nodded, trudged off after Spindle.

  'What do we do now?' Antsy hissed, his moustache twitching.
r />   'We wait a bell or two, then if the wizard ain't managed to claw his way back out, we go on.'

  The sergeant's blue eyes widened. 'We leave him?' he whispered.

  'It's either that or we level this damned hill. And we wouldn't find him anyway—he's been pulled into their warren. It's here but it ain't here, if you know what I mean. Maybe when Spindle finds his nerve he can do some probing.'

  'I knew that Quick Ben wasn't nothing but trouble,' Antsy muttered. 'Can't count on mages for nothing. You're right, what's the point of waiting around? They're damned useless anyway. Let's pack up and get going.'

  'It won't hurt to wait a little while,' Picker said.

  'Yeah, probably a good idea.'

  She shot him a glance, then looked away with a sigh. 'Could do with something to eat. Might want to fix us something special, Sergeant.'

  'I got dried dates and breadfruit, and some smoked leeches from that market south side in Pale.'

  She winced. 'Sounds good.'

  'I'll get right on it.'

  He hurried off.

  Gods, Antsy, you're losing it fast. And what about me? Mention dates and leeches and my mouth's salivating…

  The high-prowed canoes lay rotting in the swamp, the ropes strung between them and nearby cedar boles bearded in moss. Dozens of the craft were visible. Humped bundles of supplies lay on low rises, swathed in thick mould, sprouting toadstools and mushrooms. The light was pallid, faintly yellow. Quick Ben, dripping with slime, dragged himself upright, spitting foul water from his mouth as he slowly straightened to look around.

  His attackers were nowhere in sight. Insects flitted through the air in a desultory absence of haste. Frogs croaked and the sound of dripping water was constant. A faint smell of salt was in the air. I'm in a long-dead warren, decayed by the loss of mortal memory. The living Barghast know nothing of this place, yet it is where their dead go—assuming they make it this far. 'All right,' he said, his voice strangely muted by the turgid, heavy air, 'I'm here. What do you want?'

  Movement in the mists alerted him. Figures appeared, closing in tentatively, knee-deep in the swirling black water. The wizard's eyes narrowed. These creatures were not the Barghast he knew from the mortal realm. Squatter, wider, robustly boned, they were a mix of Imass and Toblakai. Gods, how old is this place? Hooded brow-ridges hid small, glittering eyes in darkness. Black leather strips stitched their way down gaunt cheeks, reaching past hairless jawlines where they were tied around small longbones that ran parallel to the jaw. Black hair hung in rough braids, parted down the middle. The men and women closing in around Quick Ben were one and all dressed in close-fitting sealskins decorated with bone, antler and shell. Long, thin-bladed knives hung at their hips. A few of the males carried barbed spears that seemed made entirely of bone.