Steven Erikson - Memories of Ice

Thus, unless we are all playing out roles that are predetermined and so inevitable — thereby potentially knowable by such beings as the Elder Gods — unless that, then, what each and every one of us chooses to do, or not to do, can have profound consequences. Not just on our own lives, but on the world — the worlds, every realm in existence.

He recalled the writings of historians who had asserted precisely that. The old soldier Duiker, for one, though he's long since fallen out of favour. Any scholar who accepts an Imperial robe is immediately suspect. for obvious reasons of compromised integrity and bias. Still, in his early days, he was a fierce proponent of individual efficacy.

The curse of great minds. Arriving young to an idea, surviving the siege that invariably assails it, then, finally, standing guard on the ramparts long after the war's over, weapons dull in leaden hands. damn, I'm wandering yet again.

So, he was to be the fulcrum. A position demanding a sudden burgeoning of his ego, the unassailable belief in his own efficacy. That's the last thing I'm capable of, alas. Plagued by uncertainty, scepticism, by all the flaws inherent in someone who's chronically without purpose. Who undermines every personal goal like a tree gnawing its own roots, if only to prove its grim opinion by toppling.

Gods, talk about the wrong choice.

A scuffling sound alerted Paran to the presence of someone else in the chamber. Blinking, he scanned the gloom. A figure was among the canoes, hulking, armoured in tarnished coins.

The captain cleared his throat. 'Paying a last visit?'

The Barghast warrior straightened.

His face was familiar, but it was a moment before Paran recognized the young man. 'Cafal, isn't it? Brother to Hetan.'

'And you are the Malazan captain.'

'Ganoes Paran.'

'The One Who Blesses.'

Paran frowned. 'No, that title would better fit Itkovian, the Shield Anvil-'

Cafal shook his head. 'He but carries burdens. You are the One Who Blesses.'

'Are you suggesting that if anyone is capable of relieving Itkovian's… burden … then it's me? I need only … bless him?' Adjudicator, I'd thought. Obviously more complicated than that. The power to bless? Bern fend.

'Not for me to say,' Cafal growled, his eyes glittering in the torchlight. 'You can't bless someone who denies your right to do so.'

'A good point. No wonder most priests are miserable.'

Teeth glimmered in either a grin or something nastier.

Oh, I think I dislike this notion of blessing. But it makes sense. How else does a Master of the Deck conclude arbitration? Like an Untan magistrate indeed, only there's something of the religious in this — and that makes me uneasy. Mull on that later, Ganoes.

'I was sitting here,' Paran said, 'thinking — every now and then — that there is a secret within those decaying canoes.'

Cafal grunted.

'If I take that as agreement, would I be wrong?'

'No.'

Paran smiled. He'd learned that Barghast hated saying yes to anything, but an affirmative could be gleaned by guiding them into saying no to the opposite. 'Would you rather I leave?'

'No. Only cowards hoard secrets. Come closer, if you like, and witness at least one of the truths within these ancient craft.'

'Thank you,' Paran replied, slowly pushing himself upright. He collected a lantern and strode to the edge of the pit, then climbed down to stand on the mouldy earth beside Cafal.

The Barghast's right hand was resting on a carved prow.

Paran studied it. 'Battle scenes. On the sea.'

'Not the secret I would show you,' Cafal rumbled. 'The carvers possessed great skill. They hid the joins, and even the passing of centuries has done little to reveal their subterfuge. See how this canoe looks to have been carved of a single tree? It was, but none the less the craft was constructed in pieces — can you discern that, Ganoes Paran?'

The captain crouched close. 'Barely,' he said after a while, 'but only because some of the pieces have warped away from the joins. These panels with the battle scenes, for example-'

'Aye, those ones. Now, witness the secret.' Cafal drew a wide-bladed hunting knife. He worked the point and edge between the carved panel and its underlying contact. Twisted.

The battle-scene gunnel sprang free at the prow end. Within, a long hollow was visible. Something gleamed dull within it. Returning the knife to his belt, Cafal reached into the cavity and withdrew the object.

A sword, its water-etched blade narrow, single-edged, and like liquid in the play of torchlight. The weapon was overlong, tip flaring at the last hand-span. A small diamond-shaped hilt of black iron protected the sinew-wrapped grip. The sword was unmarked by its centuries unoiled and unsheathed.

'There is sorcery within that.'

'No.' Cafal raised the weapon, closing both hands in an odd finger-locking grasp around the grip. 'In our people's youth, patience and skill were wedded in perfect union. The blades we made were without equal then, and remain so now.'

'Forgive me, Cafal, but the hook-blades and spears I've seen among your warriors hardly evince singular skill.'

Cafal bared his teeth. 'No need to forgive. Indeed, you tread too kindly with your words. The weapons our smiths forge these days are poorly made. We have lost the ancient knowledge.'

'I can't imagine a wholly mundane sword to survive unscathed such neglect, Cafal. Are you sure it has not been imbued with-'

'I am. The blend of metals defies time's assault. Among them, metals that have yet to be rediscovered and now, with sorcery so prevalent, may never be.' He held the sword out to Paran. 'It looks unbalanced, yes? Top-heavy. Here.'

Paran accepted the weapon. It was as light as a dagger. 'Impossible,' he muttered. 'It must break-'

'Not easily, Captain. The flex seems stiff, yes? Thus you conclude it is brittle, but it is not. Examine the edge. There are no nicks, yet this particular sword has seen battle many, many times. The edge remains true and sharp. This sword does not need mothering.'

Handing it back, Paran turned his gaze upon the canoes. 'And these craft possess more of such weapons?'

'They do.'

'Who will use them? The warchiefs?'

'No. Children.'

'Children?'

'Carefully selected, to begin their training with these swords. Imagine swinging this blade, Captain. Your muscles are tuned to something far heavier. You will either over-swing or over-compensate. A hard blow could spring it from your hand. No, the true potential of these swords can only be found in hands that know no other weapon. And much of what those children learn, they must do so by themselves — after all, how can we teach what we do not know?'

'And what will be the purpose of these swords? Of those young warriors who will wield them?'

'You may find an answer one day, Ganoes Paran.'

Paran was silent for a time. 'I think,' he finally said, 'I have gleaned another secret.'

'And what is that?'

You will dismantle these canoes. Learn the. art of making them. 'Will the land remain your home for much longer, Barghast?'

Cafal smiled. 'No.'

'Thus.'

'Thus. Captain, Humbrall Taur would ask something of you. Would you hear his request from him, or may I voice it on his behalf?'

'Go ahead.'

'The Barghast would have their gods… blessed.'

'What? You don't need me for that-'

'That is true. We ask it none the less.'

'Well, let me think about it, Cafal. One of my problems is, I don't know how it's done. Do I just walk up to the bones and say "I bless you" or is something more complicated necessary?'

Cafal's heavy brows rose. 'You do not know?'

'No. You might want to call together all your shamans and discuss the matter.'