Steven Erikson - Memories of Ice

Weapons swung to the doorway.

A woman in a blindingly white telaba stood there, her long black hair shimmering, impossibly clean, perfectly combed. Veiled, stunningly beautiful eyes studied them. 'Have you, by any chance, seen three masked warriors? They should have passed this way, looking for the throne room, assuming there is one, that is. You might have heard some fighting-'

'No,' Bucklund growled. 'I mean, yes, we've heard fighting. Everywhere, ma'am. That is-'

'Shut up,' Picker sighed. 'No,' she said to the woman, 'we ain't seen no three masked warriors-'

'What of a T'lan Imass?'

'As a matter of fact, yeah-'

'Excellent! Tell me, does she still have all those swords impaling her? I can't imagine she'd leave-'

'What swords?' Picker demanded. 'Besides, it was male. I think.'

'It was,' another soldier piped up, then reddened as her comrades swung to her with broad grins.

'A male T'lan Imass?' The white-robed woman raised a finger to her full lips, then smiled, 'Why, that would be Tool! Excellent!' The smile vanished. 'Unless, of course, Mok finds him …'

'Who are you?' Picker demanded.

'You know, dear, it's growing increasingly difficult to understand what you are saying through all that blood and such. I believe you're Malazans, yes? Unwitting allies, but you are all so terribly injured. I have an idea, a wonderful idea — as are all my ideas, of course. Wonderful, that is. We are here, you see, to effect the rescue of one Toc the Younger, a soldier of-'

'Toc the Younger?' Picker repeated. 'Toc? But he's-'

'A prisoner of the Seer, alas. A distressing fact, and I dislike being distressed. It irritates me. Immeasurably. Now, as I was saying, I have an idea. Assist me in this rescue, and I will heal those of you who need healing — which seems to be all of you.'

Picker gestured down at Blend. 'Deal. Start with her.'

As the woman stepped into the room, Bucklund shouted and scrabbled back from the doorway.

Picker looked up. A massive wolf stood in the hallway beyond, eyes gleaming through the dust-shrouded gloom.

The woman glanced back. 'Oh, not to worry. That is Baaljagg. Garath has wandered off, I believe. Busy killing Pannions, I expect. He seems to have acquired a taste for Seerdomin… now, this poor woman — well, we'll have you right in no time, dear…'

'What in Hood's name is happening over there?'

On the other side of the low wall, a flight of stairs gave access to the parapet overlooking the harbour and the bay beyond — or, rather, so Paran concluded, since nothing else made sense. In any case, some kind of approach was being contested, and from the screams, whatever was on its way to the flat rooftop was wreaking havoc on the defenders.

Beside Paran, Quick Ben raised his head a fraction. 'I don't know and I'm not popping up for a look, either,' he said in answer to the captain's question, 'but let's hope it proves a worthwhile diversion. I can't keep us here much longer, without those condors finding us.'

'Something's keeping them busy,' Spindle asserted, 'and you know it, Quick. If one of them took the time to look hard — we'd be feeding the chicks in its nest by now.'

'You're right.'

'Then what in Hood's name are we still doing here?'

Good question. Paran twisted round, looked back along the roof to the north. There was a trapdoor there.

'We're still here,' Quick Ben grated, 'because this is where we need to be-'

'Hold it,' Paran growled, reaching up to wipe what he thought was sweat from his eyes, though the smear on his hand was red — the stitches on his temple had pulled loose. 'Not quite true, Quick. It's where you and I need to be. Mallet, if there's anything left of the Bridgeburners, they need you right now.'

'Aye, Captain, and knowing that's been eating me up inside.'

'All right. Listen, then. The fiery Abyss has broken loose down in this keep under us. We've no idea who's doing the fighting, but we do know one thing — they're no friends of the Pannions. So, Mallet, take Spindle and the rest — that trapdoor back there looks flimsy enough to break open if it's locked.'

'Aye, Captain. Only, how do we get there without being seen?'

'Spindle's right about those condors — they're busy with something else, and looking more agitated with every beat of the heart. It's a short sprint, Healer. But if you're not willing to risk it-'

Mallet glanced at Spindle, then at Detoran and Trotts. Finally, at Antsy. The sergeant nodded. Mallet sighed. 'Aye, sir, we'll give it a go.'

Paran glanced at Quick Ben. 'Any objections, Wizard?'

'No, Captain. At the very least. ' He fell silent.

At the very least, they've a better chance of getting out alive. I hear you, Quick. 'OK, Mallet, make your run when you're ready.'

'Push and pull, Captain.'

'And to you, Healer.'

With a grunted command, the squad scrambled for the trapdoor.

Dujek dragged the wounded soldier through the doorway, and only then noticed that the man's legs had been left behind, and the trail of blood leading back to the limbs thinned to virtually nothing by the time it reached the threshold. He let the body drop, sagged against the frame.

The K'Chain Che'Malle had cut through the company in the span of a dozen heartbeats, and though the Hunter had lost an arm, it had not slowed as it thumped westward — in search of another company of hapless Malazans.

Dujek's elite bodyguard of Untan heavy infantry lay in a chopped ruin in front of the building into which they had pushed the High Fist. As sworn, they'd given their lives in his defence. At the moment, however, Dujek would rather they'd failed — or, better yet, fled.

Locked in battle since dawn with Beklites, Urdomen and Seerdomin, Onearm's Host had more than held its own. And when the first dozen or so K'Chain Che'Malle appeared, Moranth munitions — cussers and burners — destroyed the undead K'ell Hunters. The same fate befell the second wave. By the time the third arrived, the cussers were gone, and soldiers died by the score. The fifth and sixth waves were met only with swords, and battle became slaughter.

Dujek had no idea how many remained among the five thousand Malazans who had been delivered into the city. He did not think a cohesive defence still existed. The battle had become a hunt, plain and simple. A cleansing by the K'Chain Che'Malle of pockets of Malazan resistance.

Until recently, he could still hear sounds of battle — of collapsing walls and perhaps sorcery — from the keep, though perhaps, he now reflected, he had been wrong in that — the storm-cloud that filled the sky to the south was itself thundering, arcs of lightning splitting the sky to lance at the thrashing seas below. Its rage now overwhelmed all other sounds.

A scrabble of boots behind him. Dujek swung about, shortsword in hand.

'High Fist!'

'Which company, soldier?'

'Eleventh, sir,' the woman gasped. 'Captain Hareb sent a squad to look for you, High Fist. I'm what's left.'

'Does Hareb still hold?'

'Aye, sir. We're collecting souvenirs — pieces of K'Chain Che'Malle.'

'And how in Hood's name are you managing that?'

'Twist, sir, he led a final flight in with the last of the munitions — mostly sharpers and crackers, High Fist — but the sappers are rigging buildings along our retreat, dropping tons of brick and stone on the damned lizards — your pardon, sir — on the Hunters.'

'Where is Hareb's company right now, soldier?'

'Not far, High Fist. Follow me.'

Hareb, that Seven Cities noble-born with the permanent sneer. Gods, 1 could kiss the man.

Moving to the head of his legion, Gruntle watched the Shield Anvil of the Grey Swords approach. The woman reined in even as he arrived.