Steven Erikson - Memories of Ice

'I've still got my pig-sticker.'

'Pull it out, I think we're close …'

Ahead, between the trees, broken branches littered the floor. Smoke drifted from the ground.

Then Paran saw it — Quick Ben's warning grip on the captain's arm indicated that the wizard, too, had detected the black mass in the shadows off to one side, a mass that glistened as it moved.

The flash of a pale grey neck, the glimmer of a hooked beak. Tendrils of sorcery, dancing, building.

Paran hesitated no longer, rushing past the wizard, knife sliding from its scabbard.

The creature was huge, its body the size of a female bhed-erin, the neck rising from hunched shoulders like a snake. Black, slimy head with nightmare eyes swinging towards him.

Something whipped past Paran from behind — a wraith, clawed hands reaching for the condor.

The creature hissed, recoiling, then the head snapped out.

Sorcery flashed.

The wraith was gone.

Paran twisted away from the condor's head. Drove the sticker's long blade down, deep into its back. He felt the blade deflect from the spine and cursed.

A shrill scream, a flash of black motion, and Paran found himself engulfed in black, oily, smothering feathers. Hooked beak scored lashing pain along his temple, ripping down to take his ear — he felt the grisly snip, the spray of hot blood down onto his neck.

Awareness fragmented to an explosion of bestial rage, rising within him-

Ten paces away, on his knees — too battered to do more than simply watch — Quick Ben stared, disbelieving, as the two figures thrashed in battle. Paran was almost invisible within a writhing, shadow-woven Hound. Not a Soletaken — not a veering. These are two creatures — man and beast — woven together. somehow. And the power behind it — it's Shadow. Kurald Emurlahn.

The Hound's massive jaws and finger-long canines ripped into the condor, chewing a path up the creature's shoulders towards the neck. The demon, in turn, tore again and again into the beast — its flanks ribboned and spurting all too real blood.

The earth shook beneath the two beasts. A wing shot up to hammer into a tree. Bone and wood snapped as one. The condor screamed.

The tree's broken base — knee-high — punched out and then down, pinning the flailing wing, then grinding through the limb as it toppled back, away from the two contestants, crashing in a storm of branches and bark.

Hound's jaws closed on condor's neck.

Vertebrae crunched.

The creature's head flopped back to thud onto the churned forest floor.

The shadows of the triumphant Hound flickered — then the beast vanished.

Paran rolled from the dead bird's body.

Quick Ben could barely see the man beneath the shredded flesh and blood. The wizard's eyes widened as the ghastly figure slowly climbed to its feet. The skin along his right temple hung down, away from the bone. Half the ear on that side was gone, cut in a curved line that streamed blood.

Paran lifted his head, met the wizard's gaze. 'What happened?'

Quick Ben pushed himself to his feet. 'Come with me, Captain. We're taking a warren to a healer.'

'A healer?' Paran asked. 'Why?'

The wizard looked into the captain's eyes and saw no sign of awareness at all. 'All right.' Quick Ben took Paran's arm. 'Here we go …'

Picker pushed her way through the boughs until she came within sight of the forest floor below. No-one in sight. Muddy tracks were all that remained of the Beklites who had passed beneath them half a bell past. She could hear fighting upslope, along the embankment and perhaps beyond.

The explosions of sorcery that had struck the legions at the base of the ramp had not continued — a cause for worry. They'd had a worse scare with the avalanche, but its path had missed them by a hundred paces or more. As if Quick Ben had known where we were. Somehow. Even more incredible, that damned wizard also managed to control the descent of a third of the mountainside. Maybe if a dozen High Mages had showed up to give him a hand, I might believe it.

Or a god.

With that chilling thought, she began to make her way down the tree.

There had been condors in the sky earlier, and at least one had attacked the Malazan defences. Briefly. Where the others had gone, she had no idea.

Not here, thank Hood.

She dropped the last man's height to land on the ground in a jangle and clank of armour.

'That was subtle.'

Picker spun. 'Damn you, Blend-'

'Shh … uh, sir.'

'Do you know where the others are?'

'More or less. Want me to collect them?'

'That would be useful.'

'Then what?'

Damned if I know, woman. 'Just get them, Blend.'

'Aye, sir.'

Paran awoke to the stench of vomit, which he realized, from the stale taste in his mouth, was his own. Groaning, he rolled onto his side. It was dark. Muted voices conversed nearby. He sensed, but could not quite see, that others lay in the trench he'd found himself in.

Other. casualties.

Someone approached, a wide, burly shape.

Paran reached up to his temple, winced as his fingertips touched knotted gut. He tentatively traced the wound's length, down to a mass of damp bandages covering his ear.

'Captain?'

'That you, Mallet?'

'Aye, sir. We only just made it back.'

'Picker?'

'The squad's still breathing, sir. Had a couple of scrapes on the way up, but nothing to slow us much.'

'Why's it so dark?'

'No torches, sir. No lanterns. Dujek's order — we're assembling.'

Assembling. No, ask that later. 'Is Quick Ben still breathing? The last I remember, we were closing in on a downed condor…'

'Aye, though from what I hear, it was you plucking the goose, Captain. He brought you here and the cutters put you back together… more or less. Mostly superficial, you'll be glad to hear — I've come to make your face pretty again.'

Paran slowly sat up. 'There's plenty of soldiers around me who need your healing touch more than I do, Mallet.'

'True enough, sir, only Dujek said-'

'I'll carry my scars, Healer. See what you can do with these wounded. Now, where will I find the High Fist and Quick Ben?'

'Headquarters, Captain. That big chamber-'

'I know it.' Paran rose, stood for a moment until the spinning nausea passed. 'Now, a more important question — where am I?'

'Main trench, sir. Head left, straight down.'

'Thanks.'

The captain slowly threaded through the rows of wounded marines. The fight, he saw, had been bad — but not as bad as it might have been.

Dujek's Untan bodyguard commanded the tunnel's entrance. By their kit, they'd yet to draw blades. Their officer waved the captain past without a word.

Thirty paces later, Paran reached the chamber.

High Fist Dujek, Quick Ben and Lieutenant Picker were seated at the map table, a small lantern hanging from the wood-beamed ceiling above them. All three turned in their chairs as the captain entered.

Dujek scowled. 'Didn't Mallet find you?'

'He did, High Fist. I am fine.'

'You'll be seamed with scars, lad.'

Paran shrugged. 'So, what has happened? The Beklites don't like fighting at night?'

'They've withdrawn,' Dujek replied. 'And before you ask, no, it wasn't because we were too hard — they could've pushed, and if they had we'd be doubletiming through the woods right now — those few of us still able to draw breath, that is. Only one of those condors came after us, as well. We've been sitting here, Captain, trying to figure out why we got off so easy.'

'Any possible answers to that, sir?'

'Only one. We think Whiskeyjack and Brood are closing fast. The Seer doesn't want his forces tangled up with us when they arrive. He also doesn't want to risk any more of his damned condors.'