Memories of Ice

Gruntle glanced at the glowering, hulking youth. 'I can see his excitement.'

Hetan turned, gaze narrowing on her brother. 'You must have sharp eyes.'

By the Abyss, another humourless woman for company.

Looping a leg over her saddle, Stonny Menackis dropped to the ground, raising a puff of dust. 'Our captain's too obvious with his jokes, Hetan. They end up thudding like ox dung, and smelling just as foul. Pay him no mind, lass, unless you enjoy being confused.'

'I enjoy killing and riding men and little else,' Hetan growled, crossing her muscled arms.

Harllo quickly clambered down from the carriage and approached her with a broad smile. 'I am named Harllo and I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Hetan!'

'You can kill him any time you like,' Stonny drawled.

The two brothers were indeed miserable creatures, taciturn and, as far as Gruntle could determine, singularly thick. Harllo's futile efforts with Hetan proved amusing enough whilst they sat around the rekindled hearth beneath a star-spattered sky. Keruli made a brief appearance shortly before everyone began bedding down, but only to share a bowl of herbal tea before once again retiring to his carriage. It fell to Gruntle — he and Hetan the last two lingering at the firepit — to pry loose more information from the Barghast.

'These demons,' he began, 'how have they been described?'

She leaned forward and ritually spat into the fire. 'Fast on two legs. Talons like an eagle's, only much larger, at the ends of those legs. Their arms are blades-'

'Blades? What do you mean?'

She shrugged. 'Bladed. Blood-iron. Their eyes are hollow pits. They stink of urns in the dark circle. They make no sound, no sound at all.'

Urns in the dark circle? Cremation urns. in a chamber bar-row. Ah, they smell of death, then. Their arms are blades. how? What in Hood's name does that mean? Blood-iron — that's iron quenched in snow-chilled blood … a Barghast practice when shamans invest weapons. Thus, the wielder and the weapon are linked. Merged… 'Has anyone in your clan seen one?'

'No, the demons have not journeyed north to our mountain fastnesses. They remain in these grasslands.'

'Who, then, delivered the tales?'

'Our shouldermen have seen them in their dreams. The spirits whisper to them and warn of the threat. The White Clan has chosen a warchief — our father — and await what is to come. But our father would know his enemy, so he has sent his children down onto the flatlands.'

Gruntle ruminated on this, his eyes watching the fire slowly ebb. 'Will your father the warchief of the White Faces lead the clans south? If Capustan is besieged, the Capan territories will be vulnerable to your raids, at least until the Pannions complete their conquest.'

'Our father has no plans to lead us south, Captain.' She spat a second time into the fire. 'The Pannion war will come to us, in time. So the shouldermen have read in bhederin blades. Then, there shall be war.'

'If these demons are advance elements of the Pannion forces…'

'Then, when they first appear in our fastnesses, we will know that the time has come.'

'Fighting,' Gruntle muttered. 'What you enjoy the most.'

'Yes, but for now, I would ride you.'

Ride? More like batter me senseless. Ah, well. 'What man would say no to such an elegant offer?'

Collecting her bedroll in both arms, Hetan rose. 'Follow me, and hurry.'

'Alas,' he replied, slowly gaining his feet, 'I never hurry, as you're about to discover.'

'Tomorrow night I shall ride your friend.'

'You're doing so tonight, dear, in his dreams.'

She nodded seriously. 'He has big hands.'

'Aye.'

'So do you.'

'I thought you were in a hurry, Hetan.'

'I am. Let's go.'

The Barghast Range crept down from the north as the day slowly passed, from distant mountains to worn, humped-back hills. Many of the hills edging the traders' track to Capustan were sacred sites, their summits displaying the inverted tree trunks that were the Barghast custom of anchoring spirits — or so Hetan explained as she walked alongside Gruntle, who was leading his horse by the reins. While the captain had little interest in things religious, he admitted to some curiosity as to why the Barghast would bury trees upside-down in hills.

'Mortal souls are savage things,' she explained, spitting to punctuate her words. 'Many must be held down to keep them from ill-wandering. Thus, the oaks are brought down from the north. The shouldermen carve magic into their trunks. The one to be buried is pinned beneath the tree. Spirits are drawn as well, as guardians, and other traps are placed along the edges of the dark circle. Even so, sometimes the souls escape — imprisoned by one of the traps, yet able to travel the land. Those who return to the clans where they once lived are quickly destroyed, so they have learned to stay away — here, in these lowlands. Sometimes, such a sticksnare retains a loyalty to its mortal kin, and will send dreams to our shouldermen, to tell us of danger.'

'A sticksnare, you called it. What does that mean?'

'You may well see for yourself,' she replied with a shrug.

'Was it one of these sticksnares that sent the dreams of demons?'

'Yes, and other spirits besides. That so many sought to reach us…'

Added veracity to the threat, aye, I understand. He scanned the empty land before them, wondering what was out there.

Stormy rode fifty paces ahead. At the moment, Gruntle could not see her, as the trail leaned round a boulder-studded hill and vanished from sight thirty paces on. She had a frustrating knack for ignoring his orders — he'd wanted her to remain in sight at all times. The two Barghast brothers ranged to the sides, flanking the carriage from a distance that varied with the demands of the ground they covered. Cafal had taken the inland side and was jogging up the same hill's rocky slope. Netok walked along the sandy bank of the river, surrounded by a cloud of midges that seemed to grow larger and thicker with every stride. Given the alarmingly thick and rancid greases with which the Barghast covered their bodies, Gruntle suspected those insects were suffering from frustration — drawn close by a warm body but unwilling or unable to alight.

That grease had been something of a challenge the night just past, Gruntle reflected, but he'd managed none the less, sporting a formidable collection of bruises, scratches and bites as proof. Hetan had been … energetic-

A shout from Cafal. At the same moment Stonny reappeared. The slow canter at which she approached eased the captain's nerves somewhat, though it was clear that both she and the Barghast on the hill had spotted something ahead/He glanced over to see Cafal now crouched low, his attention fixed on something further up the trail, but he had not drawn his weapons.

Stonny reined in, her expression closed. 'Bauchelain's carriage ahead. It's been … damaged. There's been a fight of some kind. Messy.'

'See anyone still standing?'

'No, just the oxen, looking placid enough. No bodies either.'

Hetan faced her brother on the hill and caught his eye. She made a half-dozen hand gestures, and, drawing forth a lance, Cafal padded forward, dropping down from view.

'All right,' Gruntle sighed. 'Weapons out — let's go for a look.'

'Want me to keep back?' Harllo asked from the driver's bench.

'No.'

Rounding the hill, they saw that the trail opened out again, the land flattening on both sides. Forty paces on was Bauchelain and Korbal Broach's massive carriage, on its side, the rear spoke torn entirely off and lying shattered nearby. The four oxen stood a few paces away, grazing on the prairie grasses. Swathes of burned ground stretched out from the carriage, the air reeking of sorcery. A low mound just beyond had been blasted open, the inverted tree it had contained torn up and shattered as if it had been struck by lightning. Smoke still drifted from the gaping pit where the burial chamber had once been. Cafal was even now cautiously approaching it, his left hand scribing warding gestures in the air, the lance poised for a cast in his right.