Steven Erikson - Memories of Ice

The breath hissed from Silverfox.

'Before Houses there were Holds,' Paran continued with remorseless logic. 'Both fixed, both stationary. Settled. Before settlement … there was wandering. House from Hold, Hold from … a gate in motion, ceaseless motion …' He squeezed shut his eyes. 'A wagon, burdened beneath the countless souls sealing the gate into Dark. ' And I sent two Hounds through that wound, I saw the seal punctured. by the Abyss …

'Paran, something has happened — to the Deck of Dragons. A new card has arrived. Unaligned, yet, I think, dominant. The Deck has never possessed a … master.' She faced him. 'I now believe it has one. You.'

His eyes snapped open; he stared at her in disbelief, then scorn. 'Nonsense, Tatter- Silverfox. Not me. You are wrong. You must be-'

'I am not. My hand was guided in fashioning the card that is you-'

'What card?'

She did not answer, continued as if she had not heard him. 'Was it the Azath that guided me? Or some other unknown force? I do not know. Jen'isand Rul, the Wanderer within the Sword.' She met his eyes. 'You are a new Unaligned, Ganoes Paran. Birthed by accident or by some purpose the need of which only the Azath know. You must find the answer for your own creation, you must find the purpose behind what you have become.'

His brows rose mockingly. 'You set for me a quest? Really, Silverfox. Aimless, purposeless men do not undertake quests. That's for wall-eyed heroes in epic poems. I don't believe in goals — not any more. They're naught but self-delusions. You set for me this task and you shall be gravely disappointed. As shall the Azath.'

'An unseen war has begun, Paran. The warrens themselves are under assault — I can feel the pressure within the Deck of Dragons, though I have yet to rest a hand upon one. An army is being … assembled, perhaps, and you — a soldier — are part of that army.'

Oh yes, so speaks Tattersail. 'I have enough wars to fight, Silverfox…'

Her eyes glistened as she looked up at him. 'Perhaps, Ganoes Paran, they are all one war.'

'I'm no Dujek, or Brood — I can't manage all these … campaigns. It's — it's tearing me apart.'

'I know. You cannot hide your pain from me — I see it in your face, and it breaks my heart.'

He looked away. 'I have dreams as well. a child within a wound. Screaming.'

'Do you run from that child?'

'Aye,' he admitted shakily. 'Those screams are … terrible.'

'You must run towards the child, my love. Flight will close your heart.'

He turned to her. 'My love' — words to manipulate my heart? 'Who is that child?'

She shook her head. 'I don't know. A victim in the unseen war, perhaps.' She attempted a smile. 'Your courage has been tested before, Paran, and it did not fail.'

Grimacing, he muttered, 'There's always a first time.'

'You are the Wanderer within the Sword. The card exists.'

'I don't care.'

'Nor does it,' she retorted. 'You don't have any choice-'

He rounded on her. 'Nothing new in that! Now ask Oponn how well I performed!' His laugh was savage. 'I doubt the Twins will ever recover. The wrong choice, Tattersail, I am ever the wrong choice !'

She stared up at him, then, infuriatingly, simply shrugged.

Suddenly deflated, Paran turned away. His gaze fell on the Mhybe, Whiskeyjack, Mallet and Quick Ben. The four had not moved in all this time. Their patience — dammit, their faith — made the captain want to scream. You choose wrongly. Every damned one of you. But he knew they would not listen. 'I know nothing of the Deck of Dragons,' he said dully.

'If we've the time, I will teach you. If not, you will find your own way.'

Paran closed his eyes. The pain in his stomach was returning, rising, a slowly building wave he could no longer push back. Yes, of course. Tattersail could do no less than she has done. There you have it then, Whiskeyjack. She now leads, and the others follow. A good soldier, is Captain Ganoes Paran …

In his mind he returned to that fraught, nightmarish realm within the sword Dragnipur, the legions of chained souls ceaselessly dragging their impossible burden. and at the heart of the wagon, a cold, dark void, from whence came the chains. The wagon carries the gate, the gate into Kurald Galain, the warren of Darkness. The sword gathers souls to seal it. such a wound it must be, to demand so many souls . He grunted at a wave of pain. Silverfox's small hand reached up to touch his arm.

He almost flinched at the contact.

I will fail you all.

He rises bloodless from dust,

with dead eyes that are pits

twin reaches to eternal pain.

He is the lodestone

to the gathering clan,

made anew and dream-racked.

The standard a rotted hide,

the throne a bone cage, the king

a ghost from dark fields of battle.

And now the horn moans

on this grey clad dawn

drawing the disparate host

To war, to war,

and the charging frenzy

of unbidden memories of ice.

Lay of the First Sword

Irig Thann Delusa (b. 1091)

Two days and seven leagues of black, clinging clouds of ash, and Lady Envy's telaba showed not a single stain. Grumbling, Toc the Younger pulled the caked cloth from his face and slowly lowered his heavy leather pack to the ground. He never thought he'd bless the sight of a sweeping, featureless grassy plain, but, after the volcanic ash, the undulating vista stretching northward beckoned like paradise.

'Will this hill suffice for a camp?' Lady Envy asked, striding over to stand close to him. 'It seems frightfully exposed. What if there are marauders on this plain?'

'Granted, marauders aren't usually clever,' Toc replied, 'but even the stupidest bandit would hesitate before trying three Seguleh. The wind you're feeling up here will keep the biting insects away come night, Lady. I wouldn't recommend low ground — on any prairie.'

'I bow to your wisdom, Scout.'

He coughed, straightening to scan the area. 'Can't see your four-legged friends anywhere.'

'Nor your bony companion.' She turned wide eyes on him. 'Do you believe they have stumbled into mischief?'

He studied her, bemused, and said nothing.

She raised an eyebrow, then smiled.

Toc swiftly turned his attention back to his pack. 'I'd best pitch the tents,' he muttered.

'As I assured you last night, Toc, my servants are quite capable of managing such mundane activities. I'd much rather you assumed for yourself a higher rank than mere menial labourer for the duration of this great adventure.'

He paused. 'You wish me to strike heroic poses against the sunset, Lady Envy?'

'Indeed!'

'I wasn't aware I existed for your entertainment.'

'Oh, now you're cross again.' She stepped closer, rested a sparrow-light hand on his shoulder. 'Please don't be angry with me. I can hardly hold interesting conversations with my servants, can I? Nor is your friend Tool a social blossom flushed with enlivening vigour. And while my two pups are near-perfect companions in always listening and never interrupting, one yearns for the spice of witty exchanges. You and I, Toc, we have only each other for this journey, so let us fashion the bonds of friendship.'

Staring down at the bundled tents, Toc the Younger was silent for a long moment, then he sighed. 'I'm a poor excuse for witty exchanges, Lady, alas. I am a soldier and scant else.' More, I've a soldier's scars — who can naught but flinch upon seeing me?

'Not modesty, but deception, Toc'

He winced at the edge to her tone.

'You have been educated, far beyond what is common for a professional soldier. And I have heard enough of your sharp exchanges with the T'lan Imass to value your wit. What is this sudden shyness? Why the growing discomfort?'