Memories of Ice

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!'

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.