Steven Erikson - Memories of Ice

Aye, it's all so bright and flushed right now. Only, colours fade. They always do.

One day, the Malazan Empire will come face to face with its own mortality. One day, dusk will fall on the empire.

He bent over as yet another knot of burning pain seized his stomach. No, dunk not of the empire! Think not of Laseen's cull! Trust in Tavore, Ganoes Paran — your sister will salvage the House. Better than you might have managed. Far better. Trust in your sister… The pain eased slightly. Drawing a deep breath, the captain resumed making his way down to the crossing.

Drowning. By the Abyss, I am drowning.

Clambering like a rock ape, Hedge reached the summit. His bandy legs carried him to the Barghast's side. As he passed behind Trotts he reached out and gave the warrior's single knotted braid a sharp tug. 'Hah,' he said, moving to settle down beside the warrior, 'I love the way your eyes bug out when I do that.'

'You, sapper,' the Barghast said, 'are the scum beneath a pebble in a stream running through a field of sickly pigs.'

'Good one, though a tad longwinded. Got the captain's head spinning, have ya?'

Trotts said nothing, his gaze now on the distant Tahlyn Mountains.

Hedge pulled his scorched leather cap from his head, scratched vigorously through the few remaining wisps of hair on his pate, studied his companion for a long moment. 'Not bad,' he judged. 'Noble and mysterious. I'm impressed.'

'You should be. Such poses are not easy to hold, you know.'

'You're a natural. So why are you twisting Paran around?'

Trotts grinned, revealing a blue-stained row of filed teeth. 'It is fun. Besides, it's up to Whiskeyjack to explain things-'

'Only he ain't done any explaining yet. Dujek wants us back in Pale, gathering up what's left of the Bridgeburners. Paran should be happy he's getting a company to command again, instead of just a couple of beat-up squads. Did Whiskeyjack say anything about the upcoming parley with Brood?'

Trotts slowly nodded.

Hedge scowled. 'Well, what?'

'It is coming up.'

'Oh, thanks for that. By the way, you're officially relieved of this post, soldier. They're cooking up a bhederin carcass for you down there. I had the cook stuff it with dung since that's how you like it.'

Trotts rose. 'One day I may cook and eat you, sapper.'

'And choke to death on my lucky bone.'

The Barghast frowned. 'My offer was true, Hedge. To honour you, my friend.'

The sapper squinted up at Trotts, then grinned. 'Bastard! You almost had me there!'

Sniffing, Trotts turned away. '"Almost", he said. Hah hah.'

Whiskeyjack was waiting when Paran returned to the trader post and its makeshift barricade. Once sergeant, now Dujek Onearm's second-in-command, the grizzled veteran had come in with the last flight of Moranth. He stood with his old squad's healer, Mallet, the two of them watching a score of soldiers from the 2nd Army loading the past week's toll onto the quorls. Paran approached, walking cautiously so as to hide the pain within him.

'How fares the leg, Commander?' he asked.

Whiskeyjack shrugged.

'We were just discussing that,' Mallet said, his round face flushed. 'It's healed badly. Needs serious attention-'

'Later,' the bearded commander growled. 'Captain Paran, have the squads assembled in two bells — have you decided what to do with what's left of the Ninth?'

'Aye, they'll join what's left of Sergeant Antsy's squad.'

Whiskeyjack frowned. 'Give me some names.'

'Antsy's got Corporal Picker, and … let's see … Spindle, Blend, Detoran. So, with Mallet here, and Hedge, Trotts and Quick Ben-'

'Quick Ben and Spindle are now cadre mages, Captain. But you'll have them with your company in any case. Otherwise, I'd guess Antsy will be happy enough-'

Mallet snorted. 'Happy? Antsy don't know the meaning of the word.'

Paran's eyes narrowed. 'I take it, then, that the Bridgeburners won't be marching with the rest of the Host.'

'No, you won't be — we'll go into that back at Pale, though.' Whiskeyjack's flat grey eyes studied the captain for a moment, then slid away. 'There's thirty-eight Bridgeburners left — not much of a company. If you prefer, Captain, you can decline the position. There's a few companies of elite marines short on officers, and they're used to noble-borns commanding them …'

There was silence.

Paran turned away. Dusk was coming, the valley's shadow rising up the slopes of the surrounding hillsides, a spatter of dim stars emerging from the sky's dome. I might take a knife in the back, is what he's telling me. Bridgeburners have an abiding dislike for noble-born officers. A year ago he would have spoken those words out loud, in the belief that baring ugly truths was a good thing to do. The misguided notion that it was the soldier's way. when in fact it's the opposite that is a soldier's way. In a world full of pitfalls and sinkholes, you dance the edges. Only fools jump feet first, and fools don't live long besides. He'd felt knives enter his body once. Wounds that should have been fatal. The memory sheathed him in sweat. The threat was not something he could simply shrug off in a display of youthful, ignorant bravado. He knew that, and the two men facing him knew it as well. 'I still,' Paran said, eyes on the darkness devouring the south road, 'would consider it an honour to command the Bridgeburners, sir. Perhaps, in time, I might have the opportunity to prove myself worthy of such soldiers.'

Whiskeyjack grunted. 'As you like, Captain. The offer remains open if you change your mind.'

Paran faced him.

The commander grinned. 'For a little while longer, anyway.'

A huge, dark-skinned figure emerged from the gloom, her weapons and armour softly clinking. Seeing both Whiskeyjack and Paran, the woman hesitated, then, fixing her gaze on the commander, she said, 'The watch is being turned over, sir. We're all coming in, as ordered.'

'Why are you telling me, soldier?' Whiskeyjack rumbled. 'You talk to your immediate superior.'

The woman scowled, pivoted to face Paran. 'The watch-'

'I heard, Detoran. Have the Bridgeburners get their gear and assemble in the compound.'

'It's still a bell and a half before we leave-'

'I'm aware of that, soldier.'

'Yes, sir. At once, sir.'

The woman ambled off.

Whiskeyjack sighed. 'About that offer-'

'My tutor was Napan,' Paran said. 'I've yet to meet a Napan who knows the meaning of respect, and Detoran's no exception. I'm also aware,' he continued, 'that she's no exception as far as Bridgeburners go, either.'

'It seems your tutor taught you well,' Whiskeyjack muttered.

Paran frowned. 'What do you mean?'

'His disrespect for authority's rubbed off, Captain. You just interrupted your commander.'

'Uh, my apologies. I keep forgetting you're not a sergeant any more.'

'So do I, which is why I need people like you to get it right.' The veteran turned to Mallet. 'Remember what I said, Healer.'

'Aye, sir.'

Whiskeyjack glanced once more at Paran. 'The hurry up and wait was a good touch, Captain. Soldiers love to stew.'

Paran watched the man head off towards the gatehouse, then said to Mallet, 'Your private discussion with the commander, Healer. Anything I should know?'

Mallet's blink was sleepy. 'No, sir.'

'Very well. You may rejoin your squad.'

'Yes, sir.'

When he was alone, Paran sighed. Thirty-eight bitter, resentful veterans, already twice betrayed. I wasn't part of the treachery at the siege of Pale, and Laseen's proclamation of outlawry embraced me as much as it did them. Neither event can be laid at my feet, yet they're doing it anyway.

He rubbed at his eyes. Sleep had become an … unwelcome thing. Night after night, ever since their flight from Darujhistan … pain — and dreams, no, nightmares. Gods below. He spent the dark hours twisted beneath his blankets, his blood racing through him, acids bubbling in his stomach, and when consciousness finally slipped from him, his sleep was fitful, racked with dreams of running. Running on all fours. Then drowning .