Steven Erikson - Memories of Ice

Quick Ben shot her a look, but said nothing. The wizard seemed to be waiting for something.

Paran glanced down at the sticksnare, Talamandas. 'You were Barghast once, weren't you?'

'I still am, Master of the Deck. My newborn gods are within me.'

Actually, there's more of Hood's presence within you than your Barghast gods. But the captain simply nodded. 'You were the reason why Quick Ben could use his warrens.'

'Aye, but I am much more than that.'

'No doubt.'

'Here she comes,' Quick Ben announced with relief.

Paran turned to see a figure approaching down the long, winding tunnel. Ancient, wrapped in rags, hobbling on two canes.

'Welcome!' Quick Ben called out. 'I wasn't sure-'

'The young lack faith, and you, Desert Snake, are no exception!' She leaned on a single cane and fumbled in the folds of her cloak for a moment, then withdrew a small stone. 'You left me this, yes? Your summons was heard, Wizard. Now, where are these fell Jaghut? Ah — and a Bonecaster Soletaken, too. My, such extraordinary company — what a tale it must be, that has seen you all brought together! No, don't tell it to me, I'm not that interested.' She halted in front of the Seer and studied the child in his arms for a moment before lifting her sharp gaze. 'I'm an old woman,' she hissed. 'Chosen by the Sleeping Goddess, to assist you in the care of your sister. But first, you must unveil your warren. With cold, you shall fight this infection. With cold, you shall slow the dissolution, harden this legion of servants. Omtose Phellack, Jaghut. Free it. Here. Burn will now embrace you.'

Paran grimaced. 'That's a poor choice of words.'

The ancient witch cackled. 'But words he will understand, yes?'

'Not unless you plan on killing him.'

'Don't be pedantic, soldier. Jaghut, your warren.'

The Seer nodded, unveiled Omtose Phellack.

The air was suddenly bitter cold, rime and frost misting the air.

Quick Ben was grinning. 'Chilly enough for you, witch?'

She cackled again. 'I knew you were no fool, Desert Snake.'

'Truth to tell, I'll have to thank Picker for giving me the idea. The night I crossed paths with the Crippled God. That, and your hints about the cold.'

The witch twisted to glare at Kilava. 'Bonecaster,' she snapped. 'Heed my words well — this warren is not to be assailed by you or your kin. You are to tell no-one of this, the final manifestation of Omtose Phellack.'

'I understand you, Witch. I begin, here, my own path to redemption, it seems. I have defied my own kin enough times to suffer few pangs doing so once more.' She turned to Quick Ben. 'And now, Wizard, I would leave. Will you guide us from this place?'

'No, better the Master of the Deck lead us out — that way, there'll be no trail.'

Paran blinked. 'Me?'

'Fashion a card, Captain. In your mind.'

'A card? Of what?'

The wizard shrugged. 'Think of something.'

Soldiers had drawn the three bodies to one side, covered them with standard-issue rain-capes. Gruntle saw Korlat standing near them, her back to him.

The Daru stood near the side closest to the trader road, beyond which, he could see, lay Itkovian. Motionless, forlorn in the distance.

The T'lan Imass were gone.

The surviving Grey Swords were slowly approaching Itkovian, on foot with the exception of one-eyed Anaster, who sat on his dray horse, seemingly unaffected by anything, including the massive floating mountain that loomed over the north ridge, throwing a deep shroud upon the parkland forest.

On the hilltop, facing the dark city, stood Caladan Brood, flanked by Humbrall Taur on his right, Hetan and Cafal on his left.

Gruntle could see, emerging in a ragged line from the north gate, Dujek's surviving army. There were so few left. Rhivi wagons were being driven into Coral, their beds cleared for the coming burden of bodies. Dusk was less than a bell away — the night ahead would be a long one.

A troop of Malazan officers, led by Dujek, had reached the base of the hill. Among them, a Seerdomin representing the now surrendered forces of the Domin.

Gruntle moved closer to where Brood and the Barghast waited.

The High Fist had heard the news — Gruntle could see it in his slumped shoulders, the way he repeatedly drew his lone hand down the length of his aged face, the spirit of the man so plainly, unutterably broken.

A warren opened to Brood's right. Emerging from it were a half-dozen Malazans, led by Artanthos. Bright, unsullied uniforms beneath grave expressions.

'Mortal Sword?'

Gruntle turned at the voice. One of the older women in his legion stood before him. 'Yes?'

'We would raise the Child's Standard, Mortal Sword.'

'Not here.'

'Sir?'

Gruntle pointed down to the killing field. 'There, among our fallen.'

'Sir, that is within the darkness.'

He nodded. 'So it is. Raise it there.'

'Aye, sir.'

'And no more of the titles or honorifics. The name's Gruntle. I'm a caravan guard, temporarily unemployed.'

'Sir, you are the Mortal Sword of Trake.'

His eyes narrowed on her.

Her gaze flicked away, down to the killing field. 'A title purchased in blood, sir.'

Gruntle winced, looked away, and was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded. 'All right. But I'm not a soldier. I hate war. I hate killing.' And I never want to see another battlefield ever again.

To that, she simply shrugged and set off to rejoin her meagre squad.

Gruntle returned his attention to the gathering of dignitaries.

Artanthos — Tayschrenn — was making introductions. Ambassador Aragan — a tall, battle-scarred man who seemed to be suffering from a headache — here to speak on behalf of Empress Laseen, regarding the governance of Black Coral. A handful of hangers-on.

Brood replied that the formal negotiations would have to await the arrival of Anomander Rake, who was expected shortly.

Gruntle's gaze returned to Dujek, who had just arrived with his officers. The High Fist's eyes were fixed on Korlat at the far end, and on the three covered bodies lying in the grasses. The rain still falling, the stench of burning heavy in the air, a shroud descending.

Aye, this day ends in ashes and rain.

In ashes and rain.

Running, memory's echo of glory and joy. He rode the sensation, the flight from pain, from prisons of bone, from massive arms damp and scaled, from a place without wind, without light, without warmth.

From chilled meat. Pale, boiled. Black, charred. From numbed, misshapen fingers pushing the morsels into a mouth that, as he chewed, filled with his own blood. From hard, cold stone with its patina of human grease.

Flesh fouled, the stench of smeared excrement -

Running -

An explosion of pain, swallowed in a sudden rush. Blood in veins. Breath drawn ragged — yet deep, deep into healthy lungs.

He opened his lone eye.

Toc looked around. He sat on a broad-backed horse. Grey-clad soldiers surrounded him, studying him from beneath war-worn helms.

I–I am. whole.

Hale.

I -

An armoured woman stepped forward. 'Would you leave your god, now, sir?'

My god? Dead flesh clothing, hard]aghut soul — no, not a god. The Seer. Fear-clutched. Betrayal-scarred.

My god?

Running. Freed. The beast.

The wolf.

Togg.

My namesake.

'He has delivered you, sir, yet would make no demands. We know that your soul has run with the wolf-gods. But you are once more in the mortal realm. The body you now find yourself in was blessed. It is now yours. Still, sir, you must choose. Would you leave your gods?'

Toc studied his own arms, the muscles of his thighs. Long-fingered hands. He reached up, probed his face. A fresh scar, taking the same eye. No matter. He'd grown used to that. A young body — younger than he had been.