Memories of Ice

styles of warfare.

Abstract (Part XXVII, Book VII, Vol. IX)

on Temul's thirteen-page treatise, 'Malazan Warfare'

Enet Obar (the Lifeless)

Spindle's hairshirt had caught fire. Eyes watering and coughing at the foul stench, Picker watched the scrawny mage rolling back and forth on the dusty ground beside the firepit. Smoke snaked from smouldering hair, curses rode sparks up into the night air. Since everyone else was too busy laughing, the corporal reached over to collect a water skin, which she wedged between her knees. Unstoppering the spout and pressing her thighs together, she tracked Spindle with the lone stream of water until she heard hissing sounds.

'All right all right!' the mage shrieked, smudged hands waving about. 'Stop! I'm drowning!'

Convulsed in his own fits, Hedge had rolled perilously close to the flames. Picker stretched out one booted foot and kicked the sapper. 'Everyone calm down,' she snapped. 'Before the whole squad gets burnt crispy. Hood's breath!'

In the gloom at her side, Blend spoke. 'We're dying of boredom, Corporal, that's the problem.'

'If boredom was fatal there wouldn't be a soldier alive on this whole world, Blend. Feeble excuse. The problem's simple: starting with the sergeant writhing around over there, the whole Oponn-cursed squad is insane.'

'Except for you, of course-'

'You kissing my dung-stained boots, lass? Wrong move. I'm crazier than the rest of you. If I wasn't, I'd have run off long ago. Gods, look at these idiots. Got a mage wearing his dead mother's hair and every time he opens his warren we get attacked by snarling ground squirrels. Got a sapper with permanent flashburns whose bladder must be a warren unto itself since I ain't seen him wander off once and it's three days running now at this camp. Got a Napan woman being stalked by a rogue bhederin bull that's either blind or sees more than we do when he looks at her. And then there's a healer who went and got himself so badly sunburned he's running a fever.'

'Don't bother mentioning Antsy,' Blend murmured. 'The sergeant would top anyone's list as a wall-eyed lunatic-'

'I wasn't done. Got a woman who likes sneaking up on her friends. And finally,' she added in a low growl, 'dear old Antsy. Nerves of cold iron, that one. Convinced the gods themselves have snatched Quick Ben and it's all Antsy's own fault. Somehow.' Picker reached up and slipped a finger under the torcs on her arm, her scowl deepening. 'As if the gods care a whit about Quick Ben, never mind the sergeant himself. As if they take note of any of us no matter what we do.'

'Treach's torcs bothering you, Corporal?'

'Careful, Blend,' Picker murmured. 'I ain't in the mood.'

Sodden and miserable, Spindle was climbing to his feet. 'Evil spark!' he hissed. 'Finger-flicked like a burning booger — there's malevolent spirits lurkin' about, mark my words.'

'Mark 'em!' Picker snorted. 'I'll carve 'em in your gravestone, Spindle, and that's a Hood-blown promise!'

'Gods, what a stink!' Hedge swore. 'I doubt even a grease-smeared Barghast will come near you! I say we should vote — the whole squad, I mean. Vote to tear that disgusting shirt off of Spindle's pimply back and bury it somewhere — ideally under a few tons of rubble. What say you, Sergeant? Hey, Antsy?'

'Shhh!' the sergeant hissed from where he sat at the very edge of the firelight, staring out into the darkness. 'Something's out there!'

'If it's another angry squirrel-' Picker began.

'I ain't done nothing!' Spindle growled. 'And nobody's gonna bury my shirt, not while I'm still breathing, anyway. So forget it, sapper. Besides, we don't vote on nothing in this squad. Hood knows what Whiskeyjack let you idiots do back in the Ninth, but you ain't in the Ninth any more, are ya?'

'Be quiet!' Antsy snarled. 'Someone's out there! Snuffling around!'

A huge shape loomed into view directly in front of the sergeant, who let out a yelp and leapt back, almost stumbling into the fire in his gibbering retreat.

'It's that bhederin bull!' Hedge shouted. 'Hey, Detoran! Your date's arrived — ow! Gods, what did you just hit me with, woman? A mace? A Hood-cursed — your fist? Liar! Antsy, this soldier almost broke my head! Can't take a joke — ow! Ow!'

'Leave off him,' Picker ordered. 'Someone shoo that beast away-'

'This I gotta see,' Blend chortled. 'Two thousand pounds of horns, hooves and cock-'

'Enough of that,' Picker said. 'There's delicate ears present, lass. Look, you got Detoran all blushing in between punching Hedge senseless.'

'I'd say the high colour was exertion, Corporal. The sapper's got some good dodging tactics — oh, well, all right, so he missed slipping that one. Ouch.'

'Ease up, Detoran!' Picker bellowed. 'He ain't seeing straight any more as it is and you'd better start hoping it ain't permanent damage you done there!'

'Aye,' Spindle added. 'The lad's got cussers in that bag of his and if he can't throw straight…'

That was enough to make Detoran drop her fists and step back. Hedge reeled about drunkenly then sat with a heavy thump, blood streaming from his broken nose. 'Can't take a joke,' he mumbled through puffed lips. A moment later he keeled over.

'Terrific,' Picker muttered. 'If he ain't come to in the morning and we gotta march, guess who's pulling the travois, Detoran?'

The large woman scowled and turned away to find her bedroll.

'Who's injured?' a high voice piped up.

The soldiers looked up to see Mallet, wrapped in a blanket, totter into the firelight. 'I heard punching.'

'The boiled crayfish is awake,' Spindle observed. 'Guess you won't nap on any more sunward hillsides, eh, Healer?'

'It's Hedge,' Picker said. 'Rubbed Detoran's fur the wrong way. Slumped by the fire — see him?'

Nodding, Mallet hobbled to the sapper's side. 'Alarming image you conjured there, Corporal.' He crouched, began examining Hedge. 'Hood's breath! Busted nose, fractured jaw … and concussed, too — the man's done a quiet puke.' He glared over at Picker. 'Didn't anybody think to stop this little argument?'

With a soft grunt, the bhederin bull wheeled away and thumped off into the darkness.

Mallet's head snapped around. 'What by Fener's hoof was that?

'Hedge's rival,' Blend murmured. 'Probably saw enough to take his chances elsewhere.'

Sighing, Picker leaned back, watching Mallet tend to the unconscious sapper. Squad's not gelling too good. Antsy ain't no 'Whiskeyjack, Spindle ain't Quick Ben, and I ain't no Corporal Kalam neither. If there was a best of the best among the Bridgeburners, it was the Ninth. Mind you, Detoran could stand toe to toe with Trotts.

'That wizard had better show up soon,' Blend murmured after a time.

Picker nodded in the darkness, then said, 'Might be the captain and the rest are with the White Faces already. Might be Quick Ben and us'll come too late to make any difference in the outcome-'

'We won't make any difference anyway,' Blend said. 'What you mean is we'll be too late to see the spectacle.'

'Could be a good thing, that.'

'You're starting to sound like Antsy.'

'Yeah, well, things ain't looking too good,' Picker said under her breath. 'The company's best mage has disappeared. Add that to a green noble-born captain and Whiskeyjack gone and what do you know — we ain't the company we once was.'

'Not since Pale, that's for sure.'

Visions of the chaos and horror in the tunnels the day of the Enfilade returned to the corporal and she grimaced. 'Betrayed by our own. That's the worst thing there is, Blend. I can take falling to enemy swords, or magefire, or even demons tearing me limb from limb. But to have one of your own flash the knife when your back's turned …' She spat into the fire.

'It broke us,' Blend said.