Steven Erikson - Memories of Ice

Rath'Shadowthrone snorted. 'Until when? Until the Pannions have completed razing the city? Why not call upon your father and have him bring down the clans of the Barghast? Have him break the siege, and then you and your kin can cart away these bones in peace and with our blessing!'

'No. Fight your own war.'

'The Pannions shall devour you once we're gone!' Rath' Shadowthrone shrieked. 'You are fools! You, your father! Your clans! All fools!'

Hetan grinned. 'Is it panic I see on your god's face?'

The priest hunched suddenly, rasped, 'Shadowthrone never panics.'

'Then it must be the mortal man behind the fa?ade,' Hetan concluded with a triumphant sneer.

Hissing, Rath'Shadowthrone wheeled and pushed through his comrades, his sandals flapping as he hurried from the chamber.

Hetan clambered up from the pit. 'I am done here. Cafal! We return to the barracks!'

Brukhalian reached down to help Itkovian climb from the pit, and as the Shield Anvil straightened the Mortal Sword pulled him close. 'Escort these two,' he murmured. 'They've something planned for the removal of-'

'Perhaps,' Itkovian interjected, 'but frankly, sir, I don't see how.'

'Think on it, then, sir,' Brukhalian commanded.

'I shall.'

'Through any means, Shield Anvil.'

Still standing close, Itkovian met the man's dark eyes. 'Sir, my vows-'

'I am Fener's Mortal Sword, sir. This demand for knowledge comes not from me, but from the Tusked One himself. Shield Anvil, it is a demand born of fear. Our god, sir, is filled with fear. Do you understand?'

'No,' Itkovian snapped. 'I do not. But I have heard your command, sir. So be it.'

Brukhalian released the Shield Anvil's arm, turned slightly to face Karnadas, who stood, pale and still, beside them. 'Contact Quick Ben, sir, by whatever means-'

'I am not sure I can,' the Destriant replied, 'but I shall try, sir.'

'This siege,' Brukhalian growled, eyes clouding with some inner vision, 'is a bloodied flower, and before this day is done it shall unfold before us. And in grasping the stalk, we shall discover its thorns-'

The three men turned at the approach of a Rath' priest. Calm, sleepy eyes were visible behind the striped, feline mask. 'Gentlemen,' the man said, 'a battle awaits us.'

'Indeed,' Brukhalian said drily. 'We were unaware of that.'

'Our lords of war will find themselves in its fierce midst. The Boar. The Tiger. An ascendant in peril, and a spirit about to awaken to true godhood. Do you not wonder, gentlemen, whose war this truly is? Who is it who would dare cross blades with our Lords? But there is something that is even more curious in all this — whose hidden face lies behind this fated ascension of Trake? What, indeed, would be the value of two gods of war? Two Lords of Summer?'

'That,' the Destriant drawled, 'is not a singular title, sir. We have never contested Trake's sharing it.'

'You have not succeeded in hiding your alarm at my words, Karnadas, but I shall let it pass. One final question, however. When, I wonder, will you depose Rath'Fener, as is your right as Fener's Destriant — a title no-one has rightfully held for a thousand years… except for you, of course and, in aside, why has Fener seen the need to revive that loftiest of positions now?' After a moment, he shrugged. 'Ah, well, never mind that. Rath'Fener is no ally of yours, nor your god's — you must know that. He senses the threat you present to him, and will do all he can to break you and your company. Should you ever require assistance, seek me out.'

'Yet you claim you and your Lord as our rivals, Rath'Trake,' Brukhalian growled.

The mask hinged into a fierce smile. 'It only seems that way, right now, Mortal Sword. I shall take my leave of you, for the moment. Farewell, friends.'

A long moment of silence passed whilst the three Grey Swords watched the Rath' priest stride away, then Brukhalian shook himself. 'Be on your way, Shield Anvil. Destriant, I would have a few more words with you …'

Shaken, Itkovian swung about and set off after the two Barghast warriors. The earth has shifted beneath our feet. Unbalanced, moments from drawing blood, and peril now besets us from all sides. Tusked One, deliver us from uncertainty. I beg you. Now is not the time.

The Malazan military's vaunted ability to adapt to

whatever style of warfare the opposition offered

was in fact superficial. Behind the illusion of

malleability there remained a hard certainty in the

supremacy of the Imperial way. Contributing to

that illusion of flexibility was the sheer resiliency

of the Malazan military structure, and a

foundation bolstered by profound knowledge, and

insightful analysis, of disparate and numerous

styles of warfare.

Abstract (Part XXVII, Book VII, Vol. IX)

on Temul's thirteen-page treatise, 'Malazan Warfare'

Enet Obar (the Lifeless)

Spindle's hairshirt had caught fire. Eyes watering and coughing at the foul stench, Picker watched the scrawny mage rolling back and forth on the dusty ground beside the firepit. Smoke snaked from smouldering hair, curses rode sparks up into the night air. Since everyone else was too busy laughing, the corporal reached over to collect a water skin, which she wedged between her knees. Unstoppering the spout and pressing her thighs together, she tracked Spindle with the lone stream of water until she heard hissing sounds.

'All right all right!' the mage shrieked, smudged hands waving about. 'Stop! I'm drowning!'

Convulsed in his own fits, Hedge had rolled perilously close to the flames. Picker stretched out one booted foot and kicked the sapper. 'Everyone calm down,' she snapped. 'Before the whole squad gets burnt crispy. Hood's breath!'

In the gloom at her side, Blend spoke. 'We're dying of boredom, Corporal, that's the problem.'

'If boredom was fatal there wouldn't be a soldier alive on this whole world, Blend. Feeble excuse. The problem's simple: starting with the sergeant writhing around over there, the whole Oponn-cursed squad is insane.'

'Except for you, of course-'

'You kissing my dung-stained boots, lass? Wrong move. I'm crazier than the rest of you. If I wasn't, I'd have run off long ago. Gods, look at these idiots. Got a mage wearing his dead mother's hair and every time he opens his warren we get attacked by snarling ground squirrels. Got a sapper with permanent flashburns whose bladder must be a warren unto itself since I ain't seen him wander off once and it's three days running now at this camp. Got a Napan woman being stalked by a rogue bhederin bull that's either blind or sees more than we do when he looks at her. And then there's a healer who went and got himself so badly sunburned he's running a fever.'

'Don't bother mentioning Antsy,' Blend murmured. 'The sergeant would top anyone's list as a wall-eyed lunatic-'

'I wasn't done. Got a woman who likes sneaking up on her friends. And finally,' she added in a low growl, 'dear old Antsy. Nerves of cold iron, that one. Convinced the gods themselves have snatched Quick Ben and it's all Antsy's own fault. Somehow.' Picker reached up and slipped a finger under the torcs on her arm, her scowl deepening. 'As if the gods care a whit about Quick Ben, never mind the sergeant himself. As if they take note of any of us no matter what we do.'

'Treach's torcs bothering you, Corporal?'

'Careful, Blend,' Picker murmured. 'I ain't in the mood.'

Sodden and miserable, Spindle was climbing to his feet. 'Evil spark!' he hissed. 'Finger-flicked like a burning booger — there's malevolent spirits lurkin' about, mark my words.'

'Mark 'em!' Picker snorted. 'I'll carve 'em in your gravestone, Spindle, and that's a Hood-blown promise!'