Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  'Sorry, Lieutenant,' she said. 'Captain sniffed me out—not sure how, but he did. I didn't get much chance to listen in, I'm afraid. Anyway, I in to tell you to get the squads ready.'

  'Finally,' Picker muttered. 'I was about to freeze in place.'

  'Even so,' Mallet said, 'but I'm already missing the Moranth—these woods are damned dark.'

  'But empty, right?'

  The healer shrugged. 'Seems so. It's the skies we've got to worry about, come the day.'

  Picker straightened. 'Follow me, you two. Time to rouse the others . . .'

  Brood's march to Maurik had become something of a race, the various elements of his army straggling out depending on whatever speed they could maintain—or, in the case of the Grey Swords and Gruntle's legion, what they chose to maintain. As a consequence, the forces were now stretched over almost a league of scorched farmland along the battered trader road leading south, with the Grey Swords, Trake's Legion and another ragtag force in effect forming a rearguard, by virtue of their leisurely pace.

  Itkovian had chosen to remain in Gruntle's company. The big Daru and Stonny Menackis wove a succession of tales from their shared past that kept Itkovian entertained, as much from the clash of their disparate recollections as from the often outrageous events the two described.

  It had been a long time since Itkovian had last allowed himself such pleasure. He had come to value highly their company, in particular their appalling irreverence.

  On rare occasions, he rode up to the Grey Swords, spoke with the Shield Anvil and the Destriant, but the awkwardness soon forced him to leave—his old company had begun to heal, drawing into its weave the Tenescowri recruits, training conducted on the march and when the company halted at dusk. And, as the soldiers grew tighter, the more Itkovian felt himself to be an outsider—the more he missed the family he had known all his adult life.

  At the same time, they were his legacy, and he allowed himself a measure of pride when looking upon them. The new Shield Anvil had assumed the title and all it demanded—and for the first time Itkovian understood how others must have seen him, when he'd held the Reve's title. Remote, uncompromising, entirely self-contained. A hard figure, promising brutal justice. Granted, he'd had both Brukhalian and Karnadas from whom he could draw support. But, for the new Shield Anvil, there was naught but the Destriant—a young Capan woman of few words who had herself been a recruit not too long ago. Itkovian well understood how alone the Shield Anvil must be feeling, yet he could think of no way to ease that burden. Every word of advice he gave came, after all, from a man who had—in his own mind at least—failed his god.

  His return to Gruntle and Stonny, each time, held the bitter flavour of flight.

  'You chew on things like no other man I've known,' Gruntle said.

  Blinking, Itkovian glanced over at the Daru. 'Sir?'

  'Well, not quite true, come to think of it. Buke…'

  On Itkovian's other side, Stonny sniffed. 'Buke? Buke was a drunk.'

  'More than that, you miserable woman,' Gruntle replied. 'He carried on his shoulders—'

  'None of that,' Stonny warned.

  To Itkovian's surprise, Gruntle fell abruptly silent. Buke… ah, I recall. On his shoulders, the deaths of loved ones, 'There is no need, Stonny Menackis, for such uncharacteristic sensitivity. I see how I appear, to you both, similar to Buke. I am curious: did your sad friend seek redemption in his life? While he may have refused me when I was Shield Anvil, he might well have drawn strength from some inner resolve.'

  'Not a chance, Itkovian,' Stonny said. 'Buke drank to keep his torment at bay. He wasn't looking for redemption. He wanted death, plain and simple.'

  'Not simple,' Gruntle objected. 'He wanted an honourable death, such as his family was denied—by that honour he would redeem them in exchange. I know, a twisted notion, but what went on in his mind is less a mystery to me than to most, I suspect.'

  'Because you've thought the same,' Stonny snapped. 'Even though you didn't lose a family to some tenement fire. Even though the worst thing you've lost is maybe that harlot who married that merchant—'

  'Stonny,' the Daru growled, 'I lost Harllo. I nearly lost you.' The admission clearly left her speechless.

  Ah, these two… 'The distinction,' Itkovian said, 'between myself and Buke lies in the notion of redemption. I accept torment, such as it is for me, and so acknowledge responsibility for all that I have and have not done. As Shield Anvil, my faith demanded that I relieve others of their pain. In the name of Fener, I was to bring peace to souls, and to do so without judgement. This I have done.'

  'But your god's gone,' Stonny said. 'So who, in Hood's name, did you deliver those souls to?'

  'Why, no-one, Stonny Menackis. I carry them still.'

  Stonny was glaring across at Gruntle, who answered her with a despondent shrug. 'As I told you, lass,' he muttered.

  She rounded on Itkovian. 'You damned fool! That new Shield Anvil—what about her? Won't she embrace your burden or whatever it is you do? Won't she take those souls—she has a god, damn her!' Stonny gathered her reins. 'If she thinks she can—'

  Itkovian stayed her with a hand. 'No, sir. She has offered, as she must. But she is not ready for such a burden—it would kill her, destroy her soul—and that would wound her god, perhaps fatally so.'

  Stonny pulled her arm away, but remained beside him. Her eyes were!de. 'And what, precisely, do you plan on doing with—with—all of those souls?'

  'I must find a means, Stonny Menackis, of redeeming them. As my god would have done.'

  'Madness! You're not a god! You're a damned mortal! You can't—'

  'But I must. So, you see, I am like yet unlike your friend Buke. Forgive me, sirs, for "chewing" on such things. I know my answer awaits me—soon, I believe—and you are right, I would do better to simply exercise calm patience. I have held on this long, after all.'

  'Be as you are, Itkovian,' Gruntle said. 'We talk too much, Stonny and I. That's all. Forgive us.'

  'There is nothing to forgive, sir.'

  'Why can't I have normal friends?' Stonny demanded. 'Ones without tiger stripes and cat eyes? Ones without a hundred thousand souls riding their backs? Here comes a rider from that other lagging company—maybe he's normal! Hood knows, he's dressed like a farmer and looks inbred enough to manage only simple sentences. A perfect man! Hey! You! No, what are you hesitating for? Come to us, then! Please!'

  The lanky figure riding what seemed to be an odd breed of dray horse cautiously walked his mount forward. In terribly accented Daru, he called out, 'Hello, friends! Is this a bad time? It seems you argue—'

  'Argue?' Stonny snorted. 'You've been living in the woods too long if you think that was an argument! Come closer, and how by the Abyss did you come by such a huge nose?' The man wilted, hesitated.

  'Stonny!' Gruntle admonished. He addressed the rider, 'This woman is rude and miserable to everyone, soldier.'

  'I wasn't being rude!' she exclaimed. 'Big noses are like big hands, that's all…' No-one spoke.

  Slowly, the stranger's long, narrow face deepened to crimson. 'Welcome, sir,' Itkovian said. 'Regrets that we have not met before—especially since we all seem to have been left behind by Brood's vanguard, and the Rhivi and all the other companies.'

  The man managed a nod. 'Yeah. We'd noticed. I am High Marshal Straw, of the Mott Irregulars.' His pale, watery eyes flicked to Gruntle. 'Nice tattoos. I've got one, too.' He rolled up a grimy sleeve, revealing a muddled, misshapen image on his dirt-smeared shoulder. 'Not sure what happened to it, but it was supposed to be a treefrog on a stump. Of course, treefrogs are hard to see, so it might be pretty good at that—that smudge—here—I think that's the treefrog. Could be a mushroom, though.' His smile revealing enormous teeth, he rolled down his sleeve once more and settled back in his saddle. He suddenly frowned. 'Do you know where we're marching to? And why is everyone in such a hurry?'

  'Uh…'

  It seemed all Gruntle could manage, so Itkovian spoke
up, 'Excellent questions, sir. We march to a city called Maurik, there to rejoin the Malazan army. From Maurik, we will proceed further south, to the city of Coral.'

  Straw frowned. 'Will there be a battle at Maurik?'

  'No, the city is abandoned. It is simply a convenient locale for the reunification.'

  'And Coral?'

  'There will likely be a battle there, yes.'

  'Cities don't run away. So why are they all rushing?'

  Itkovian sighed. 'A perspicacious enquiry, sir, one that leads to certain challenges to previously held assumptions for all concerned.'

  'What?'

  'Good question, he said,' Stonny drawled.

  The Marshal nodded. 'That's why I asked it. I'm known for asking good questions.'

  'We see that,' she replied levelly.

  'Brood's in a hurry,' Gruntle said, 'because he wants to get to Maurik before the Malazans—who seem to be marching at a faster pace than we'd thought possible.'

  'So?'

  'Well, uh, the alliance has become rather… uncertain, of late.'

  'They're Malazans—what did you expect?'

  'To be honest,' Gruntle said, 'I don't think Brood knew what to expect. Are you saying you're not surprised by the recent schism?'

  'Schism? Oh, right. No. Anyway, it's obvious why the Malazans are moving so fast.'

  Itkovian leaned forward in his saddle. 'It is?'

  Straw shrugged. 'We've some of our people there—'

  'You have spies among the Malazans?' Gruntle demanded.

  'Sure. We always do. It pays to know what they're up to, especially when we was fighting them. Just because we allied with them there was no reason not to keep watching.'

  'So why are they marching so fast, Marshal Straw?'

  'The Black Moranth, of course. Coming each night, taking whole companies away. There's only about four thousand Malazans left on the road, and half of them support. Dujek's gone, too. Whiskeyjack leads the march—they've come to Maurik River and are making barges.'

  'Barges?'

  'Sure. To float down the river, I guess. Not to cross, since there was a ford there anyway, and the barges are downriver of it besides.'

  'And the river, of course,' Gruntle muttered, 'will take them straight to Maurik. In only a few days.'

  Itkovian addressed the Marshal. 'Sir, have you made Caladan Brood aware of this information?'

  'No.'

  'Why not?'

  Straw shrugged again. 'Well, me and the Bole brothers, we talked about that, some.'

  'And?'

  'We decided that Brood's kind of forgotten.'

  'Forgotten, sir? Forgotten what?'

  'About us. The Mott Irregulars. We think maybe he'd planned on leaving us behind. Up north. Blackdog Forest. There might have been some kind of order, back then, something about us staying while he went south. We're not sure. We can't remember.'

  Gruntle cleared his throat. 'Have you considered informing the warlord of your presence?'

  'Well, we don't want to make him mad. I think there was some kind of order, you see. Something like "go away", maybe.'

  'Go away? Why would Brood say that to you?'

  'Uh, that's just it. Not the warlord. Kallor. That's what had us confused. We don't like Kallor. We usually ignore his orders. So, anyway, here we are. Who are you people?'

  'I think, sir,' Itkovian said, 'you should send a rider to Brood—with your report on the Malazans.'

  'Oh, we have people there, too, up in the vanguard. They'd been trying to reach the warlord, but Kallor kept turning them back.'

  'Now, that's curious,' Gruntle murmured.

  'Kallor says we shouldn't even be here. Says the warlord will be furious. So, we're not going close any more. We're thinking of turning round, in fact. We miss Mott Wood—there's no trees here. We like wood. All kinds—we've just reacquired this amazing table… no legs, though, they seemed to have snapped off.'

  'For what it is worth,' Gruntle said, 'we'd rather you didn't leave the army, Marshal.'

  The man's long face grew glum.

  'There's trees!' Stonny suddenly exclaimed. 'South! A forest, around Coral!'

  The High Marshal brightened. 'Really?'

  'Indeed,' Itokovian said. 'Purportedly a forest of cedars, firs and spruce.'

  'Oh, that's OK, then. I'll tell the others. They'll be happy again, and it's better when they're all happy. They've been blunting their weapons of late—a bad sign when they do that.'

  'Blunting, sir?'

  Straw nodded. 'Dull the edges, make nicks. That way, the—damage they do is a lot messier. It's a bad sign when they get into that kind of mood. Very bad. Pretty soon they start dancing around the fire at night. Then that stops and when it stops you know it couldn't get worse, because that means the lads are ready to make war parties, head out in the night looking for something to kill. They been eyeing that big wagon on our trail…'

  'Oh,' Gruntle said, 'don't do that—tell them not to do that, Marshal. Those people—'

  'Necromancers, yeah. Dour. Very dour. We don't like necromancers, especially the Bole brothers don't like necromancers. They had one squatting on their land, you know, holed up in some old ruined tower in the swamp. Wraiths and spectres every night. So finally the Boles had to do something about it, and they went and rousted the squatter. It was messy, believe me—anyway, they strung up what was left of him at the Low Crossroads, just as a warning to others, you see.'

  'These Bole brothers,' Itkovian said, 'sound to be a formidable pair.'

  'Pair?' Straw's tangled brows rose. 'There's twenty-three of 'em. Not one of 'em shorter than me. And smart—some of 'em, anyway. Can't read, of course, but can count past ten and that's something, isn't it? Anyway, I got to go. Tell everyone about the trees down south. Goodbye.'

  They watched the man ride off.

  'He never did get an answer to his question,' Gruntle said after a while.

  Itkovian glanced at him. 'Which was?'

  'Who we are.'

  'Don't be an idiot,' Stonny said, 'he knows precisely who we are.'

  'You think that was an act?'

  'High Marshal Straw! Abyss take me, of course it was! And he had you both, didn't he? Well, not me. I saw right through it. Instantly.'

  'Do you think Brood should be informed, sir?' Itkovian asked her.

  'About what?'

  'Well, the Malazans, for one.'

  'Does it make any difference? Brood will still reach Maurik first. So we wait two days instead of two weeks, what of it? Just means we get this whole mess over with that much sooner—Hood knows, maybe Dujek's already conquered Coral—and he can have it, as far as I'm concerned.'

  'You've got a point,' Gruntle muttered.

  Itkovian glanced away. Perhaps she has. To what am I riding? What do I still seek from this world? I do not know. I care nothing for this Pannion Seer—he'll accept no embrace from me, after all, assuming the Malazans leave him breathing, which is itself unlikely.

  Is this why I lag so far behind those who will reshape the world? Indifferent, empty of concern? I seem to be done—why can I not accept that truth? My god is gone—my burden is my own. Perhaps there is no answer for me—is that what the new Shield Anvil sees when she looks upon me with such pity in her eyes?

  Is the entirety of my life now behind me, save for the daily, senseless trudge of this body?

  Perhaps I am done. Finally done…

  'Cheer up, Itkovian,' Gruntle said, 'the war might be over before we get even close—wouldn't that be a wild whimper to close this tale, eh?'

  'Rivers are for drinking from and drowning in,' Hetan grumbled, one arm wrapped about a barrel.

  Whiskeyjack smiled. 'I thought your ancestors were seafarers,' he said.

  'Who finally came to their senses and buried their damn canoes once and for all.'

  'You are sounding uncharacteristically irreverent, Hetan.'

  'I'm about to puke on your boots, old man, how else should I sound?'


  'Ignore my daughter,' Humbrall Taur said, hide-wrapped feet thumping as he approached. 'She's been bested by a Daru.'

  'Do not mention that slug!' Hetan hissed.

  'You'll be pleased to know he's been on another barge these last three days whilst you suffered,' Whiskeyjack told her. 'Recovering.'

  'He only left this one because I swore I'd kill him,' Hetan muttered. 'He wasn't supposed to get besotted, the slimy worm! Spirits below, such an appetite!'

  Humbrall Taur's laugh rumbled. 'I had never thought to witness such delicious—'

  'Oh, be quiet, Father!'

  The huge Barghast warchief winked at Whiskeyjack. 'I now look forward to actually meeting this man from Darujhistan.'

  'Then I should forewarn you that appearances deceive,' Whiskeyjack said, 'particularly in the person of Kruppe.'

  'Oh, I have seen him from afar, being dragged hither and thither by my daughter, at least in the beginning. And then of late I noted that the role of the master had reversed. Remarkable. Hetan is very much my wife's child, you see.'

  'And where is your wife?'

  'Almost far enough away back in the White Face Range to leave me breathing easily. Almost. Perhaps, by Coral…'

  Whiskeyjack smiled, feeling once more his wonder at the gifts of friendship he had received of late.

  The once-tamed shore of River Maurik swept past opposite him. Reeds surrounded fishing docks and mooring poles; old boats lay rotting and half buried in silts on the bank. Grasses grew high around fisher shacks further up the strand. The abandonment and all it signified darkened his mood momentarily.

  'Even for me,' Humbrall Taur growled beside him, 'it is an unwelcome sight.'

  Whiskeyjack sighed. 'We approach the city, yes?' The Malazan nodded. 'Perhaps another day.' Behind them, Hetan groaned in answer to that. 'Do you imagine that Brood knows?'

  'I think so, at least in some part. We've got Mott Irregulars among the stablers and handlers…'

  'Mott Irregulars—who or what is that, Commander?'

  'Something vaguely resembling a mercenary company, Warchief. Woodcutters and farmers, for the most part. Created by accident—by us Malazans, in fact. We'd just taken the city of Oraz and were marching west to Mott—which promptly surrendered with the exception of the outlanders in Mott Wood. Dujek didn't want a company of renegades preying on our supply lines with us pushing ever inland, so he sent the Bridgeburners into Mott Wood with the aim of hunting them down. A year and a half later and we were still there. The Irregulars were running circles around us. And the times they'd decided to stand and fight, it was as if some dark swamp god possessed them—they bloodied our noses more than once. Did the same to the Gold Moranth. Eventually, Dujek pulled us out, but by then the Mott irregulars had been contacted by Brood. He drew them into his army. In any case,' he shrugged, 'they're a deceptive bunch, keep coming back like a bad infestation of gut-worms—which we've learned to live with.'