Memories of Ice

'Perhaps.'

'You are discovering the truth behind your oldest legends, Cafal. In my home of Elingarth, far to the south of here, there are stories of a distant continent in the direction you have indicated. A land, sir, of giant firs and redwoods and spruce — a forest unbroken, its feet hidden in shadows and peopled with deadly wraiths.

'As Shield Anvil,' Itkovian resumed after a moment, returning his attention once more to the carvings, 'I am as much a scholar as a warrior. T'isten'ur — a name with curious echoes. Tiste Andii, the Dwellers in Darkness. And, more rarely mentioned, and then in naught but fearful whispers, their shadow-kin, the Tiste Edur. Grey-skinned, believed extinct — and thankfully so, for it is a name sheathed in dread. T'isten'ur, the first glottal stop implies past tense, yes? Tlan, now T'lan — your language is kin to that of the Imass. Close kin. Tell me, do you understand Moranth?'

Cafal grunted. 'The Moranth speak the language of the Barghast shouldermen — the holy tongue — the language that rose from the pit of darkness from whence all thought and all words first came. The Moranth claim kinship with the Barghast — they call us their Fallen Kin. But it is they who have fallen, not us. They who have found a shadowed forest in which to live. They who have embraced the alchemies of the T'isten'ur. They who made peace with the demons long ago, exchanging secrets, before retreating into their mountain fastnesses and hiding for ever behind their insect masks. Ask no more of the Moranth, wolf. They are fallen and unrepentant. No more.'

'Very well, Cafal.' Itkovian slowly straightened. 'But the past refuses to remain buried — as you see here. The past hides restless truths, too, unpleasant truths as well as joyous ones. Once the effort of unveiling has begun … Sir, there is no going back.'

'I have reached that understanding,' the Barghast warrior growled. 'As my father warned us — in success, we shall find seeds of despair.'

'I should like to meet Humbrall Taur someday,' Itkovian murmured.

'My father can crush a man's chest in his embrace. He can wield hook-swords in both hands and slay ten warriors in a span of heartbeats. Yet what the clans fear most in their warleader is his intelligence. Of his ten children, Hetan is most like him in that wit.'

'She affects a blunt forthrightness.'

Cafal grunted. 'As does our father. I warn you now, Shield Anvil, she has lowered her lance in your direction and sighted along its length. You shall not escape. She will bed you despite all your vows, and then you shall belong to her.'

'You are mistaken, Cafal.'

The Barghast bared his filed teeth, said nothing.

You too have your father's wit, Cafal, as you deftly turn me away from the ancient secrets of the Barghast with yet another bold assault on my honour.

A dozen paces behind them, Hetan rose and faced the ring of priests and priestesses lining the edge of the floor. 'You may return the slabs of stone. The removal of the Founding Spirits' remains must wait-'

Rath'Shadowthrone snorted. 'Until when? Until the Pannions have completed razing the city? Why not call upon your father and have him bring down the clans of the Barghast? Have him break the siege, and then you and your kin can cart away these bones in peace and with our blessing!'

'No. Fight your own war.'

'The Pannions shall devour you once we're gone!' Rath' Shadowthrone shrieked. 'You are fools! You, your father! Your clans! All fools!'

Hetan grinned. 'Is it panic I see on your god's face?'

The priest hunched suddenly, rasped, 'Shadowthrone never panics.'

'Then it must be the mortal man behind the fa?ade,' Hetan concluded with a triumphant sneer.

Hissing, Rath'Shadowthrone wheeled and pushed through his comrades, his sandals flapping as he hurried from the chamber.

Hetan clambered up from the pit. 'I am done here. Cafal! We return to the barracks!'

Brukhalian reached down to help Itkovian climb from the pit, and as the Shield Anvil straightened the Mortal Sword pulled him close. 'Escort these two,' he murmured. 'They've something planned for the removal of-'

'Perhaps,' Itkovian interjected, 'but frankly, sir, I don't see how.'

'Think on it, then, sir,' Brukhalian commanded.

'I shall.'

'Through any means, Shield Anvil.'

Still standing close, Itkovian met the man's dark eyes. 'Sir, my vows-'

'I am Fener's Mortal Sword, sir. This demand for knowledge comes not from me, but from the Tusked One himself. Shield Anvil, it is a demand born of fear. Our god, sir, is filled with fear. Do you understand?'

'No,' Itkovian snapped. 'I do not. But I have heard your command, sir. So be it.'

Brukhalian released the Shield Anvil's arm, turned slightly to face Karnadas, who stood, pale and still, beside them. 'Contact Quick Ben, sir, by whatever means-'

'I am not sure I can,' the Destriant replied, 'but I shall try, sir.'

'This siege,' Brukhalian growled, eyes clouding with some inner vision, 'is a bloodied flower, and before this day is done it shall unfold before us. And in grasping the stalk, we shall discover its thorns-'

The three men turned at the approach of a Rath' priest. Calm, sleepy eyes were visible behind the striped, feline mask. 'Gentlemen,' the man said, 'a battle awaits us.'

'Indeed,' Brukhalian said drily. 'We were unaware of that.'

'Our lords of war will find themselves in its fierce midst. The Boar. The Tiger. An ascendant in peril, and a spirit about to awaken to true godhood. Do you not wonder, gentlemen, whose war this truly is? Who is it who would dare cross blades with our Lords? But there is something that is even more curious in all this — whose hidden face lies behind this fated ascension of Trake? What, indeed, would be the value of two gods of war? Two Lords of Summer?'

'That,' the Destriant drawled, 'is not a singular title, sir. We have never contested Trake's sharing it.'

'You have not succeeded in hiding your alarm at my words, Karnadas, but I shall let it pass. One final question, however. When, I wonder, will you depose Rath'Fener, as is your right as Fener's Destriant — a title no-one has rightfully held for a thousand years… except for you, of course and, in aside, why has Fener seen the need to revive that loftiest of positions now?' After a moment, he shrugged. 'Ah, well, never mind that. Rath'Fener is no ally of yours, nor your god's — you must know that. He senses the threat you present to him, and will do all he can to break you and your company. Should you ever require assistance, seek me out.'

'Yet you claim you and your Lord as our rivals, Rath'Trake,' Brukhalian growled.

The mask hinged into a fierce smile. 'It only seems that way, right now, Mortal Sword. I shall take my leave of you, for the moment. Farewell, friends.'

A long moment of silence passed whilst the three Grey Swords watched the Rath' priest stride away, then Brukhalian shook himself. 'Be on your way, Shield Anvil. Destriant, I would have a few more words with you …'

Shaken, Itkovian swung about and set off after the two Barghast warriors. The earth has shifted beneath our feet. Unbalanced, moments from drawing blood, and peril now besets us from all sides. Tusked One, deliver us from uncertainty. I beg you. Now is not the time.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Malazan military's vaunted ability to adapt to

whatever style of warfare the opposition offered

was in fact superficial. Behind the illusion of

malleability there remained a hard certainty in the

supremacy of the Imperial way. Contributing to

that illusion of flexibility was the sheer resiliency

of the Malazan military structure, and a

foundation bolstered by profound knowledge, and

insightful analysis, of disparate and numerous