Steven Erikson - Memories of Ice

Faces lifted, then all but one-hooded and indistinct — lowered once more.

The captain slipped between victims of Dragnipur, closing on the one shadowed face still regarding him, stepping within reach of the mad, the numbed, the failing — not one of whom sought to impede him, or even acknowledged his presence. He moved as a ghost through the press.

'Greetings, mortal,' Draconus said. 'Walk with me, then.'

'I wanted Rake.'

'You found his sword, instead. For which I am not sorry.'

'Yes, I've spoken with Nightchill, Draconus — but don't press me on that subject. When I reach a decision, you'll be the first to know. I need to speak with Rake.'

'Aye,' the ancient warrior rumbled, 'you do. Explain to him this truth, mortal. He is too merciful, too merciful to wield Dragnipur. The situation is growing desperate.'

'What are you talking about?'

'Dragnipur needs to feed. Look around us, mortal. There are those who, at long last, fail in pulling this burden. They are carried to the wagon, then, and tossed onto it — you think this preferable? Too weak to move, they are soon buried by those like them. Buried, trapped for eternity. And the more the wagon bears, the greater its weight — the more difficult the burden for those of us still able to heave, on these chains. Do you understand? Dragnipur needs to feed. We require … fresh legs. Tell Rake — he must draw the sword. He must take souls. Powerful ones, preferably. And he must do so soon-'

'What will happen if the wagon stops, Draconus?'

The man who forged his own prison was silent for a long time. 'Project your vision, mortal, onto our trail. See for yourself, what pursues us.'

Pursues! He closed his eyes, yet the scene did not vanish — the wagon lumbered on, there in his mind, the multitudes passing by him like ghosts. Then the massive contrivance was past, its groans fading behind him. The ruts of its wheels flanked him, each one as wide as an imperial road. The earth was sodden with blood, bile and sweat, a foul mud that drew his boots down, swallowed them up to his ankles.

His gaze followed those tracks, back, to the horizon.

Where chaos raged. Filling the sky, a storm such as he had never seen before. Rapacious hunger poured from it. Frenzied anticipation.

Lost memories.

Power born from rendered souls.

Malice and desire, a presence almost self-aware, with hundreds of thousands of eyes all fixed on the wagon behind Paran.

So … so eager to feed …

He recoiled.

With a gasp, Paran found himself stumbling once more alongside Draconus. The residue of what he had witnessed clung to him, making his heart drum savagely in his chest. Another thirty steps passed before he was able to raise his head, to speak. 'Draconus,' he grated, 'you have made a very unpleasant sword.'

'Darkness has ever warred against Chaos, mortal. Ever retreated. And each time that Mother Dark relented — to the Coming of Light, to the Birth of Shadow — her power has diminished, the imbalance growing more profound. Such was the state of the realms around me in those early times. A growing imbalance. Until Chaos approached the very Gate to Kurald Galain itself. A defence needed to be fashioned. Souls were … required …'

'Wait, please. I need to think-'

'Chaos hungers for the power in those souls — for what Dragnipur has claimed. To feed on such power will make it stronger — tenfold. A hundredfold. Sufficient to breach the Gate. Look to your mortal realm, Ganoes Paran. Devastating, civilization-destroying wars, civil wars, pogroms, wounded and dying gods — you and your kind progress at a perilous pace on the path forged by Chaos. Blinded by rage, lusting for vengeance, those darkest of desires-'

'Wait-'

'Where history means nothing. Lessons are forgotten. Memories — of humanity, of all that is humane — are lost. Without balance, Ganoes Paran-'

'But you want me to shatter Dragnipur!'

'Ah, now I understand your resistance to all that I say. Mortal, I have had time to think. To recognize the grave error I have made. I had believed, Ganoes Paran, in those early times, that only in Darkness could the power that is order be manifested. I sought to help Mother Dark — for it seemed she was incapable of helping herself. She would not answer, she would not even acknowledge her children. She had withdrawn, deep into her own realm, far from all of us, so far that we could not find her.'

'Draconus-'

'Hear me, please. Before the Houses, there were Holds. Before Holds, there was wandering. Your own words, yes? But you were both right and wrong. Not wandering, but migration. A seasonal round — predictable, cyclical. What seemed aimless, random, was in truth fixed, bound to its own laws. A truth — a power — I failed to recognize.'

'So the shattering of Dragnipur will release the Gate once more — to its migration.'

'To what gave it its own strength to resist Chaos, yes. Dragnipur has bound the Gate of Darkness to flight, for eternity — but should the souls chained to it diminish-'

'The flight slows down-'

'Fatally.'

'So, either Rake begins killing — taking souls — or Dragnipur must be destroyed.'

'The former is necessary — to buy us time — until the latter occurs. The sword must be shattered. The purpose of its very existence was misguided. Besides which, there is another truth I have but stumbled on — far too late for it to make any difference. At least to me.'

'And that is?'

'Just as Chaos possesses the capacity to act in its own defence, to indeed alter its own nature to its own advantage in its eternal war, so too can Order. It is not solely bound to Darkness. It understands, if you will, the value of balance.'

Paran felt an intuitive flash. 'The Houses of the Azath. The Deck of Dragons.'

The hooded head shifted slightly and Paran felt cold, unhuman eyes fixing upon him. 'Aye, Ganoes Paran.'

'The Houses take souls …'

'And bind them in place. Beyond the grasp of Chaos.'

'So it shouldn't matter, then, if Darkness succumbs.'

'Don't be a fool. Losses and gains accumulate, shift the tide, but not always in ways that redress the balance. We are in an imbalance, Ganoes Paran, that approaches a threshold. This war, which has seemed eternal to us trapped within it, may come to an end. What awaits us all, should that happen. well, mortal, you have felt its breath, there in our wake.'

'I need to speak with Rake.'

'Then find him. Assuming, of course, he still carries the sword.'

Easier said than done, it seems - 'Hold on — what do you mean by that? About still carrying the sword?'

'Just that, Ganoes Paran.'

But why wouldn't he be? What in Hood's name are you hinting at, Draconus? This is Anomander Rake we're talking about, damn it! If we were living in one of those bad fables with some dimwitted farmboy stumbling on a magical sword, well, then losing the weapon might be possible. But. Anomander Rake? Son of Darkness? Lord of Moon's Spawn?

A grunt from Draconus drew his attention. Directly in their path, tangled in chains gone slack, lay a huge, demonic figure. 'Byrys. I myself killed him, so long ago. I did not think…' He came up to the black-skinned creature, reached down and — to Paran's astonishment — heaved it over a shoulder. 'To the wagon,' Draconus said, 'my old nemesis …'

'Who summoned me,' the demon rumbled, 'to do battle with you?'

'Ever the same question, Byrys. I do not know. I have never known.'

'Who summoned me, Draconus, to die by the sword?'

'Someone long dead, no doubt.'

'Who summoned …'

As Draconus and the demon draped across his shoulders continued their pointless conversation, Paran felt himelf drawing away, the words growing indistinct, the image dimming … until he stood once more on flagstones, far beneath the Finnest House.