Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

The explosions of sorcery that had struck the legions at the base of the ramp had not continued—a cause for worry. They'd had a worse scare with the avalanche, but its path had missed them by a hundred paces or more. As if Quick Ben had known where we were. Somehow. Even more incredible, that damned wizard also managed to control the descent of a third of the mountainside. Maybe if a dozen High Mages had showed up to give him a hand, I might believe it.

  Or a god…

  With that chilling thought, she began to make her way down the tree.

  There had been condors in the sky earlier, and at least one had attacked the Malazan defences. Briefly. Where the others had gone, she had no idea.

  Not here, thank Hood…

  She dropped the last man's height to land on the ground in a jangle and clank of armour.

  'That was subtle.'

  Picker spun. 'Damn you, Blend—'

  'Shh… uh, sir.'

  'Do you know where the others are?'

  'More or less. Want me to collect them?'

  'That would be useful.'

  'Then what?'

  Damned if 1 know, woman. 'Just get them, Blend.'

  'Aye, sir.'

  Paran awoke to the stench of vomit, which he realized, from the stale taste in his mouth, was his own. Groaning, he rolled onto his side. It was dark. Muted voices conversed nearby. He sensed, but could not quite see, that others lay in the trench he'd found himself in.

  Other… casualties…

  Someone approached, a wide, burly shape.

  Paran reached up to his temple, winced as his fingertips touched knotted gut. He tentatively traced the wound's length, down to a mass of damp bandages covering his ear.

  'Captain?'

  'That you, Mallet?'

  'Aye, sir. We only just made it back.'

  'Picker?'

  'The squad's still breathing, sir. Had a couple of scrapes on the way up, but nothing to slow us much.'

  'Why's it so dark?'

  'No torches, sir. No lanterns. Dujek's order—we're assembling.'

  Assembling. No, ask that later. 'Is Quick Ben still breathing? The last I remember, we were closing in on a downed condor…'

  'Aye, though from what I hear, it was you plucking the goose, Captain. He brought you here and the cutters put you back together… more or less. Mostly superficial, you'll be glad to hear—I've come to make your face pretty again.'

  Paran slowly sat up. 'There's plenty of soldiers around me who need your healing touch more than I do, Mallet.'

  'True enough, sir, only Dujek said—'

  'I'll carry my scars, Healer. See what you can do with these wounded. Now, where will I find the High Fist and Quick Ben?'

  'Headquarters, Captain. That big chamber—'

  'I know it.' Paran rose, stood for a moment until the spinning nausea passed. 'Now, a more important question—where am I?'

  'Main trench, sir. Head left, straight down.'

  'Thanks.'

  The captain slowly threaded through the rows of wounded marines. The fight, he saw, had been bad—but not as bad as it might have been.

  Dujek's Untan bodyguard commanded the tunnel's entrance. By their kit, they'd yet to draw blades. Their officer waved the captain past without a word.

  Thirty paces later, Paran reached the chamber.

  High Fist Dujek, Quick Ben and Lieutenant Picker were seated at the map table, a small lantern hanging from the wood-beamed ceiling above them. All three turned in their chairs as the captain entered.

  Dujek scowled. 'Didn't Mallet find you?'

  'He did, High Fist. I am fine.'

  'You'll be seamed with scars, lad.'

  Paran shrugged. 'So, what has happened? The Beklites don't like fighting at night?'

  'They've withdrawn,' Dujek replied. 'And before you ask, no, it wasn't because we were too hard—they could've pushed, and if they had we'd be doubletiming through the woods right now—those few of us still able to draw breath, that is. Only one of those condors came after us, as well. We've been sitting here, Captain, trying to figure out why we got off so easy.'

  'Any possible answers to that, sir?'

  'Only one. We think Whiskeyjack and Brood are closing fast. The

  Seer doesn't want his forces tangled up with us when they arrive. He also doesn't want to risk any more of his damned condors.'

  'One was more than enough,' Quick Ben muttered.

  The wizard's exhaustion left the man looking aged, almost bent as he leaned on the table with both arms, bleary, red-webbed eyes fixed on the table's scarred surface.

  Numbed by the sight, Paran pulled his gaze away, back to the High Fist. 'Mallet said we were assembling, sir. Since Lieutenant Picker is here, I assume you have something in mind for the Bridgeburners.'

  'We do. We were just waiting for you, Captain.'

  Paran nodded, said nothing.

  'These trenches are indefensible,' Dujek growled. 'We're too exposed up here. Two or three more of those condors will finish us—and the Black Moranth. And I won't risk sending any more Moranth messengers back to Whiskeyjack—the Seer's birds cut the last ones down before they'd gone a tenth of a league from the mountainside. This close to Coral, it seems they're willing to fly at night. Nor is Quick Ben in any shape to try to magically contact Whiskeyjack. So, we're not waiting.'

  We're going into Coral. From the night sky, straight down into the damned streets. 'Understood, High Fist. And the Bridgeburners are the first in, sir?'

  'First in…' Dujek slowly nodded.

  And last out.

  'You're to strike straight for that keep. Knock a hole in the wall of its compound. The Black Moranth will take you in as close as they can.'

  'Sir,' Paran said, 'if Brood and Whiskeyjack aren't as close as you think

  Dujek shrugged. 'As I said earlier, Captain, this ain't the place to be waiting for one or the other. We're all going in—my first wave will be half a bell behind you.'

  This could drop us into a viper's nest… 'The lieutenant and I had better ready the squads, then.'

  'Aye. You'll have Quick Ben with you, and the mages—his cadre—are back with their respective squads. Hedge and the rest of the sappers have six cussers between them, ten crackers and twenty sharpers—you're to breach that wall, then pull back to us. Don't go after the Seer yourselves, understood?'

  'Understood, High Fist.'

  'All right, you three, get going.'

  Dawn still almost two bells away, the mists drifted grey and low through the parkland north of Coral, reaching tendrils out onto the plain beyond.

  Korlat rode to where Whiskeyjack had halted beneath the tree-lined crest that marked the beginning of the coppiced parkland, and drew rein alongside him.

  The Malazan wasted no time, 'What did he say?'

  'All rather peculiar, Whiskeyjack. Formal apologies from himself and from Brood. He humbly offers both his sword and his, as he called it, tactical prowess. I admit, it leaves me… uneasy.'

  Whiskeyjack shrugged. 'I'd welcome any advice Kallor might provide.'

  He noted but chose to ignore Korlat's wry disbelief at this statement.

  After a moment, the Malazan continued, 'Follow me.' He nudged his horse forward, down the wide trader road as it wound between groves and across gently humped glades.

  Their horses stumbled often, heads drooping as they trotted through the dark. A short while later they approached another ridge, this one cleared of trees. Beyond it, rising slowly as they drew nearer, was the city of Coral, climbing in tiers revealed by dull reflections of torchlight from the streets. The dark mass of the keep was an indistinct presence hunched above the last visible tier. They reached the ridge and halted.

  Korlat studied the lie of the land before them. The killing ground before the city's wall was a sixth of a league across, a single stone bridge spanning a ditch close to the wall. Half a league to the west loomed a forested mountain, the flank facing them wreathed in mist or smoke.

  'Aye,' Whiskeyjack said, follo
wing her gaze, 'that's where the flashes of sorcery came from. It's where I would have positioned an army to break the siege, were I the Seer.'

  'And Dujek has fouled their plans.'

  'He's there, I suspect. Likely driven back or surrounded—that magic we saw lighting the sky was mostly Pannion. Quick Ben must have been overwhelmed. I think Dujek's taken a beating, Korlat. We need to draw the Seer's attention away from that mountain, buy the High Fist time to regroup.'

  She faced him, was silent for a moment, then said, 'Your soldiers are dead on their feet, Whiskeyjack.' As you are, my love.

  'None the less, I will have us lining this ridge come the dawn, the Ilgres Clan on our left, Taur and his White Faces on our right.' He glanced at her. 'I admit the thought of the other… form you can assume still leaves me, uh, alarmed. None the less, if you and Orfantal could take to the sky…'

  'My brother and I have already discussed it, Whiskeyjack. He would fly to Dujek. Perhaps his presence will give the Seer's condors pause.'

  'More likely draw them like a lodestone, Korlat. With the two of you together, guarding each other…'

  'Even alone, we are not easily driven off. No, Dujek's need is greater. I shall take my Soletaken form and guard your forces. Orfantal will strike for the mountain. At the very least, he will be able to determine the disposition of the High Fist and his army.'

  She saw the muscles of his jaw bunching beneath the beard. Finally, he sighed and said, 'I fear for you, Korlat—you will be alone above us.'

  'With, among your soldiers, my remaining kin—mages all, my love—I shall not be as alone as you imagine.'

  Whiskeyjack gathered his reins. 'Have you sensed anything at all of your Lord?'

  She shook her head.

  'Does that trouble you? No, you've no need to answer that.'

  True, it seems there is little I can disguise from you.

  'We'd best get back,' Whiskeyjack continued.

  Both swung their mounts round.

  Had their conversation continued for another half-dozen heartbeats, Korlat—with her preternatural vision—would have seen the first flight of Black Moranth rise from the mountain's forested slope, forty in all, and, flying low, wing hard and fast for the city.

  A half-dozen heartbeats, within which Oponn's coin spun…

  A single, lazy turn…

  From Lady to Lord.

  Less than a man's height beneath them, the city's wall blurred past. Once past it, the Moranth swept their quorls still lower, slipped into an avenue between buildings, flying below the roof-lines. A sharp turn at an intersection directed the flight towards the keep.

  Paran, struggling to ignore the fierce burning itch of the stitches threading the side of his face, risked a glance down. Feast-piles were visible in the street, many of them still glowing dull red and sheathed in smoke. The occasional torch mounted on building walls revealed cobbles cluttered with refuse. The city slept beneath them, it seemed—he saw not a single guard or soldier.

  The captain returned his attention to the keep. Its outer wall was high, well fortified—if anything, stronger than the one enclosing the city. The main structure beyond it was as much raw rock as worked stone. The keep had been carved into a mountainside.

  Monstrous gargoyles lined the ragged roof's edge, black and hunched, barely visible as darker blots against the night sky.

  Then Paran saw one move.

  Condors. Oh, we're in the Abyss now… He thumped on the Moranth's shoulder, jabbed a gloved finger down to the street below. The officer nodded.

  As one, the quorls carrying the Bridgeburners darted down, skimmed a dozen paces at waist-height over the street, then settled with a single tilt of wings.

  Soldiers scrambled from the saddles, seeking shadows.

  The Moranth and their quorls leapt skyward once more, wheeling for the return flight.

  Crouched in a dark alley mouth, Paran waited for the squads to gather around him. Quick Ben was first to his side.

  'The keep's roof—'

  'I saw,' Paran growled. 'Any ideas, Wizard?'

  Antsy spoke up, 'How 'bout finding a cellar and hiding, Captain?'

  Quick Ben glared at the sergeant, then looked around. 'Where's Hedge?'

  The sapper pushed forward, waddling beneath bulging leather sacks.

  'Did you see the damned sparrows?' the wizard asked him, making a strange half-shrugging motion with his left shoulder.

  'Aye. We need sharpshooters atop the wall. I got twelve quarrels with sharpers instead of points. We do it right and we can take out that many—'

  'Raining bird-meat,' Spindle cut in. 'Burning feathers.'

  'Is that worse than burning hairshirt, Spin?'

  'Quiet,' Paran snapped. 'All right, get hooks on the wall and line our brilliant crossbow experts to the top. Hedge, find the right place to set the cusser-bundle and crackers, and do it fast—we've got to time this right. I want those birds knocked from their perches, not in the air. Dujek's first wave is probably already on the way, so let's move.'

  The captain waved Picker to point. They headed towards the keep wall.

  Reaching the street's edge opposite, Picker raised a hand and crouched low. Everyone froze.

  Paran moved up to just behind her. She leaned back. 'Urdomen guards,' she whispered. 'The gate's twenty paces to the left, well lit—'

  'The guards are well lit?'

  'Aye.'

  'Idiots!'

  'Aye, but I'm wondering…'

  'What?'

  'We switch back and head right, come up again, we'll be at a corner of the wall. Hedge likes corners…'

  'So we leave the guards where they are.'

  'Aye, Captain. Hood knows, in that light, they won't see a damned thing. And we'll be far enough away for the sound the hooks make if they make any not to reach 'em.'

  'You hope.'

  'They're all wearing great-helms, sir.'

  'All right, take us round, Lieutenant.'

  'A moment, sir. Blend?'

  'Here.'

  'Stay here. Keep an eye on those guards.'

  'Aye, sir.'

  Picker nodded to Paran and headed back down the street. The squads wheeled and followed.

  It seemed to the captain as he padded along that he was the only one making a sound—and far too much sound at that. The thirty-odd soldiers around him were ghostly silent. They moved from shadow to shadow without pause.

  A sixth of a bell later, Picker once more approached the street facing the compound wall. Directly ahead was a squared corner tower, surmounted by a massive battlement. The squads closed in behind the lieutenant.

  Paran heard the sappers whispering with glee upon seeing the tower.

  'Won't that come down pretty—'

  'Like a potato on a spindly stick—'

  'Brace the crackers, right? Drive the forces in at an angle to meet an arm's reach inside the cornerstone—'

  'You tellin' Granda where's the pretty hole, Runter? Shut up and leave it to me and Spin, right?'

  'I was just sayin', Hedge—'

  Paran cut in, 'Enough, all of you. Crossbows up top before any of you do anything else.'

  'Aye, sir,' Hedge agreed. 'Ready the hooks, dearies. You with the crossbows, line up and get your sharper-quarrels—hey, no cutting in, show some manners, woman!'

  Paran drew Quick Ben to one side a few paces behind the others. 'Twelve explosive quarrels, Wizard,' he muttered under his breath. 'There's at least thirty condors.'

  'You don't think Dujek's attack inside the city walls will draw 'em away?'

  'Sure, long enough for them to annihilate that first wave, leave a few of their own circling to greet the second wave, while the rest come back to take care of us.'

  'You've something in mind, Captain?'

  'A second diversion, one to pull the rest of the condors away from both Dujek and the Bridgeburners. Quick, can you take us through a warren to that roof?'

  'Us, sir?'

  'You and I, yes. And A
ntsy, Spindle, Detoran, Mallet and Trotts.'

  'I can do that, Captain, but I'm just about used up—'

  'Just get us there, Wizard. Where's Spin?' Paran looked back at the others, nodded when he found the man. 'Wait here.' The captain hurried to where Spindle crouched with the other sappers, reached out and dragged him from the huddle. 'Hedge, you'll have to do without this man.'

  Hedge grinned. 'What a relief, Captain.'

  'Hey!'

  'Quiet, Spindle.' Paran pulled him to where Quick Ben waited.

  'What have you got in mind?' the wizard asked as soon as they arrived.

  'In a moment. Quick, those condors—what precisely are they?'

  'Not sure, sir.'

  'Not what I want to hear, Wizard. Try again.'

  'All right, I think they once were real condors—smaller, normal sized, that is. Then the Seer somehow figured out a way of stuffing the birds—'

  'Stuffing the birds, ha!' Spindle snickered.

  Quick Ben reached out and cuffed the man. 'Don't interrupt again, Spin. Demons, Captain. Possession. Chaos-aspected, which is why their bodies can't quite hold it all.'

  'So, demon and bird both.'

  'One the master over the other, of course.'

  'Of course. Now, which one does the flying?'

  'Well, the condor…' Quick Ben's eyes narrowed. He glanced at Spindle, then grinned. 'Well, hey, maybe…'

  'What are you two going on about?'

  'You hoarding any munitions, Spindle?' Paran asked.

  'Six sharpers.'

  'Good, in case this goes wrong.'

  They turned at a hissed command from Picker to see a half-dozen soldiers sprinting across the street to pull up at the base of the compound wall. Hooks and ropes were readied.

  'Damn, I didn't realize how high that wall was—how are they—'

  'Look again, sir,' Quick Ben said. 'Toes is with them.'

  'So?'

  'Watch, sir.'

  The squad mage had opened his warren. Paran tried to recall the man's speciality, was answered by the smoky appearance of a dozen ghosts who drifted close around Toes. Paran softly grunted, 'If those are the ones who keep falling over…'

  'No, these are local spirits, Captain. People fall from walls all the time, and since this one is more than a few hundred years old, well, the numbers pile up. Anyway, most ghosts are somewhat… single-minded. The last they remember, they were on the wall, patrolling, standing guard, whatever. So, they want to get back up there…'