Steven Erikson - Memories of Ice

The Seer held something in his hands, pallid, smooth and oblong — an egg, not from a bird. A lizard's egg, latticed in grey magic.

Magic that waxed with every word of the Seer's song.

Toc watched as something exploded from the Matron's body, a coruscation of power that sought to flee upward-

— but was, instead, snared by the web of sorcery; snared, then drawn into the egg in the Seer's hands.

The Matron's shrieking suddenly ceased. The creature settled back with a mindless whimper.

In the numbing silence within the cavern, Toc could now hear more clearly the sounds of battle in the corridor beyond. Close, and closing.

The Seer, clutching the Finnest, spun to stare down at Toc. The Jaghut's smile split the corpse's desiccated lips. 'We shall return,' he whispered.

The sorcery blossomed once more, then, as heavy chains clattered freely to the floor, darkness returned.

And Toc knew that he was alone within the cavern. The Seer had taken Mother's power, and then he had taken her as well.

The wolf thrashed in his chest, launching spikes of pain along his broken, malformed limbs. It yearned to loose its howl, its call to lover and to kin. Yet it could not draw breath- cannot draw breath. It dies. The hail, these savage gifts, they mean nothing. With me, the god's fatal choice, we die -

The sounds of fighting had stopped. Toc heard iron bars snap, one after another, heard metal clang on the flagstones.

Then someone was crouching down beside him. A hand that was little more than rough bone and tendon settled on Toc's forehead.

The Malazan could not see. There was no light. But the hand was cool, its weight gentle.

'Hood? Have you come for us, then?' The words were clearly spoken in his mind, but came out incomprehensibly — and he realized that his tongue was gone.

'Ah, my friend,' the figure replied in a rasp. 'It is I, Onos T'oolan, once of the Tarad Clan, of the Logros T'lan Imass, but now kin to Aral Fayle, to Toc the Younger.'

Kin.

Withered arms gathered him up.

'We are leaving now, young brother.'

Leaving?

Picker eyed the breach. The bravado that had been behind her proclamation that they would follow the T'lan Imass into the keep had not survived a sudden return to caution once they came within sight of the fortress. It was under assault, and whatever enemy had stormed into the keep had kicked hard the hornet nest.

K'Chain Che'Malle were thundering back through the compound gate. Sorcerous detonations shook the entire structure. Urdomen and Beklites raced along the top of the walls. Twisting spirals of grey lightning writhed skyward from the south roof, linking the score of condors wheeling overhead. Beyond it, filling the sky above the harbour, was an enormous storm-cloud, flashes burgeoning from its heaving depths.

The lieutenant glanced back at her paltry squads. They'd lost the three badly wounded soldiers, as she had expected. Not one of the Bridgeburners crouching in the smoke-hazed street had been spared — she saw far too much blood on the soot-smeared uniforms behind her.

To the northwest, the sounds of battle continued, drawing no closer. Picker knew that Dujek would have sought to reach the keep, if at all possible. From what she could hear, however, he was being pushed back, street by street.

The gambit had failed.

Leaving us on our own.

'K'Chain Che'Malle!' a soldier hissed from the back. 'Coming up behind us!'

'Well, that settles it, then,' Picker muttered. 'Doubletime to Hedge's breach!'

The Bridgeburners sprinted across the rubble-littered street.

Blend was the first to complete her scramble over the tower's wreckage. Immediately beyond was a shattered building — three walls and half of the roof remaining. Within lay dusty darkness, and what might be a doorway far to the left of the room's far wall.

Two steps behind Blend, Picker leapt clear of the tumbled stone blocks to land skidding on the room's floor — colliding with a cursing, backpedalling Blend.

Feet tangling, the two women fell.

'Damn it, Blend-'

'Guards-'

A third voice cut in. 'Picker! Lieutenant!'

As her Bridgeburners gathered behind her, Picker sat up to see Hedge, Bluepearl and seven additional Bridgeburners — the ones who had taken crossbows to the top of the wall and had survived the consequences — emerge from the shadows.

'We tried getting back to you-'

'Never mind, Hedge,' Picker said, clambering to her feet. 'You played it right, soldier, trust me-'

Hedge was holding a cusser in one hand, which he raised with a grin. 'Held one back-'

'Did a T'lan Imass come through here?'

'Aye, a beat-up bastard, looked neither left nor right — just walked right past us — deeper into the keep-'

A Bridgeburner to the rear shouted, 'We got that K'Chain Che'Malle coming up behind us!'

'Through the door back there!' Hedge squealed. 'Clear the way, idiots! I've been waiting for this-'

Picker began shoving her soldiers towards the back wall.

The sapper scrambled back towards the breach.

The following events were a tumble in Picker's mind-

Blend gripped her arm and bodily threw her towards the doorway, where her soldiers were plunging through into whatever lay beyond. Picker swore, but Blend's hands were suddenly on her back, pushing her face first through the portal. Picker twisted with a snarl, and saw over Blend's shoulder-The K'Chain Che'Malle seemed to flow as it raced over the rubble, blades lifting.

Hedge looked up — to find himself four paces away from the charging reptile.

Picker heard him grunt, a muted, momentary sound-

The sapper threw the cusser straight down.

The K'Chain Che'Malle was already swinging — two huge blades descending-

The explosion beat them clean.

Blend and Picker were thrown through the doorway. The lieutenant's head snapped back to the thudding, staccato impact of flying stones against her helm and the lowered visor and cheek-guards. Those that made it past lanced fire into her face, filled her nose and mouth with blood.

Deafened, she reeled back through clouds of dust and smoke.

Voices were screaming — issuing from what seemed very far away then swiftly closing to surround her.

Stones falling — a cross-beam of tarred wood, raging with flames, sweeping down, ending with a solid thud and crunch of bones — a death-groan amidst the chaos, so close to Picker that she wondered if it wasn't her own.

Hands gripped her once again, pulled her round, propelled her down what seemed to be a corridor.

A tunnel of smoke and dust — no air — the pounding of boots, blind collisions, curses — darkness — that suddenly dissipated.

Picker stumbled into the midst of her soldiers, spitting blood, coughing. Around them, a room littered with dead Beklites, another door, opposite, that looked to have been shattered with a single punch. A lone lantern swung wildly from a hook above them.

'Look!' someone grunted. 'A dog's been chewing on the lieutenant's chin!'

Not even a jest — simply the absurd madness of battle. Shaking her head to a spatter of blood, Picker spat again and surveyed her troops through stinging, streaming eyes.

'Blend?' The name came out mangled but understandable.

Silence.

'Bucklund — back into the corridor! Find her!'

The Twelfth Squad's sergeant was back a moment later, dragging a blood-drenched body through the doorway. 'She's breathing — Hood knows how! Her back's full of stones and shards!'

Picker dropped to her knees beside her friend. 'You damned idiot,' she mumbled.

'We should've had Mallet with us,' Bucklund grumbled beside her.

Aye, not the only mistake in this fouled-up game.

'Oh!' a woman's voice cried. 'You are not Pannions!'