Steven Erikson - Memories of Ice

Pale hands gripping the arms of the throne, he sat unmoving, stalking the landscape of his own memories, dragging them forth like corpses pulled from the ground, drawing their visages close for a moment before casting them away and moving on.

Eight mighty wizards, hands linked, voices rising in unison. Desperate for power. Seeking it from a distant, unknown realm. Unsuspecting, curious, the strange god in that strange place edged closer, then the trap was sprung. Down he came, torn to pieces yet remaining alive. Brought down, shattering a continent, obliterating warrens. Himself broken, damaged, crippled.

Eight mighty wizards, who sought to oppose me and so loosed a nightmare that rises once more, millennia later. Fools. Now, they are dust and ashes.

Three gods, assailing my realm. Too many insults delivered by my hand. My existence had gone beyond irritation, and so they banded together to crush me once and for all. In their ignorance, they assumed I would play by their rules. Either fight, or yield my realm. My, weren't they surprised, striding into my empire, only to find. nothing left alive. Nothing but charred bones and lifeless ash.

They could not comprehend — nor did they ever — that I would yield nothing. Rather than surrender all I had fashioned, I destroyed it. That is the privilege of the creator — to give, then to take away. I shall never forget the world's death cry — for it was the voice of my triumph.

And one of you remains, pursuing me once more. Oh, I know it is you, K'rul. But, instead of me, you have found another enemy, and he is killing you. Slowly, deliciously. You have returned to this realm, only to die, as I said you would. And did you know? Your sister has succumbed to my ancient curse as well. So little left of her, will she ever recover? Not if I can help it.

A faint smile spread across his withered, pallid face.

His eyes narrowed as a portal began to take shape before him. Miasmic power swirled from it. A figure emerged, tall, gaunt, a face shattered — massive cuts gaping red, the shards of broken bone glimmering in the candlelight. The portal closed behind the Jaghut, who stood relaxed, eyes flickering pools of darkness.

'I convey greetings from the Crippled God,' the Jaghut said, 'to you, Kallor' — he paused to survey the tent's interior — 'and your vast empire.'

'You tempt me,' Kallor rasped, 'to add to your … facial distress, Gethol. My empire may be gone, but I shall not yield this throne. You, of all people, should recognize that I am not yet done in my ambitions, and I am a patient man.'

Gethol grunted a laugh. 'Ah, dear Kallor. You are to me the exception to the rule that patience is a virtue.'

'I can destroy you, Jaghut, no matter who you call master these days. I can complete what your capable punisher began. Do you doubt me?'

'Most certainly not,' Gethol replied easily. 'I've seen you wield that two-handed sword of yours.'

'Then withdraw your verbal knives and tell me what you do here.'

'Apologies for disrupting your … concentration. I shall now explain. I am Herald to the Crippled God — aye, a new House has come to the Deck of Dragons. The House of Chains. The first renditions have been fashioned. And soon every Reader of the Deck will be seeking their likenesses.'

Kallor snorted. 'And you expect this gambit to work? That House shall be assailed. Obliterated.'

'Oh, the battle is well under way, old man. You cannot be blind to that, nor to the fact that we are winning.'

Kallor's eyes thinned to slits. 'The poisoning of the warrens? The Crippled God is a fool. What point in destroying the power he requires to assert his claim? Without the warrens, the Deck of Dragons is nothing.'

'The appellation "poison" is erroneous, Kallor. Rather, consider the infection one of enforcing a certain … alteration … to the warrens. Aye, those who resist it view it as a deadly manifestation, a "poison" indeed. But only because its primary effect is to make the warrens impassable to them. Servants of the Crippled God, however, will find themselves able to travel freely in the paths.'

'I am servant to no-one,' Kallor growled.

'The position of High King is vacant within the Crippled God's House of Chains.'

Kallor shrugged. 'None the less requiring that I stain my knees before the Chained One.'

'No such gestures are demanded of the High King. The House of Chains exists beyond the Crippled God's influence — is that not obvious? He is chained, after all. Trapped in a lifeless fragment of a long-dead warren. Bound to the flesh of the Sleeping Goddess — aye, that has proved his singular means of efficacy, but it is limited. Understand, Kallor, that the Crippled God now casts the House of Chains into the world, indeed, abandons it to its fate. Survival depends on those who come to the titles it contains. Some of those the Chained One can influence — though never directly — whilst others, such as that of King of High House Chains, must be freely assumed.'

'If so,' Kallor rumbled after a long moment, 'why are you not the King?'

Gethol bowed his head. 'You honour me, sir,' he said drily. 'I am, however, content to be Herald-'

'Under the delusion that the messenger is ever spared, no matter what the message? You were never as smart as your brother, were you? Somewhere, Gothos must be laughing.'

'Gothos never laughs. But, given that I know where he languishes, I do. Often. Now, should I remain here much longer awaiting your answer, my presence may well be detected. There are Tiste Andii nearby-'

'Very near. Not to mention Caladan Brood. Lucky for you Anomander Rake has left — returned to Moon's Spawn, wherever it is-'

'Its location must be discovered, revealed to the Crippled God.'

The grey-haired warrior raised an eyebrow. 'A task for the King?'

'Does betrayal sting your sense of honour, Kallor?'

'If you call it a sudden reversal of strategy, the sting fades. What I require, in exchange, is an opportunity, arranged howsoever the Crippled God pleases.'

'What is the nature of this opportunity, High King?'

Kallor smiled, then his expression hardened. 'The woman Silverfox … a moment of vulnerability, that is all I ask.'

Gethol slowly bowed. 'I am your Herald, sire, and shall convey your desires to the Crippled God.'

'Tell me,' Kallor said, 'before you go. Does this throne suit the House of Chains, Gethol?'

The Jaghut studied the battered, iron-coloured wood, noted the cracks in its frame. 'It most certainly does, sire.'

'Begone, then.'

The Herald bowed once more, the portal opening behind him. A moment later he stepped back, and was gone.

Smoke from the candle swirled in the wake of the vanishing portal. Kallor drew a deep breath. Adding years and years of renewed vigour. He sat motionless … a hunter on the edge of ambush. Suitably explosive. Suitably deadly.

Whiskeyjack stepped out of the command tent, stood gazing up at the sweep of stars overhead. It had been a long time since he'd felt so weary.

He heard movement behind him, then a soft, long-fingered hand settled on his shoulder, the touch sending waves through him. 'It would be nice,' Korlat murmured, 'to hear good news for a change.'

He grunted.

'I see the worry in your eyes, Whiskeyjack. It's a long list, isn't it? Your Bridgeburners, Silverfox, her mother, and now this assault on the warrens. We are marching blind. So much rests on unknowns. Does Capustan still hold, or has the city fallen? And what of Trotts? And Paran? Quick Ben?'

'I am aware of that list, Korlat,' he rumbled.

'Sorry. I share them, that is all.'

He glanced at her. 'Forgive me, but why? This is not your war — gods below, it's not even your world! Why are you yielding to its needs?' He sighed loudly and shook his head, returning his gaze to the night sky. 'That's a question we asked often, early in the campaigns. I remember, in Blackdog Forest, stumbling over a half-dozen of your kin. A Moranth cusser had taken them out. A squad of regulars was busy looting the bodies. They were cursing — not finding anything of worth. A few knotted strips of coloured cloth, a stream-polished pebble, plain weapons — the kind you could pick up in any market in any city.' He was silent for a moment, then he continued, 'And I remember wondering — what was the story of their lives? Their dreams, their aspirations? Would their kin miss them? The Mhybe once mentioned that the Rhivi took on the task of burying the Tiste Andii fallen … well, we did the same, there in that wood. We sent the regulars packing with boots to the backside. We buried your dead, Korlat. Consigned their souls in the Malazan way …'