Memories of Ice Read online

  At the moment, the young woman's master was her horse. The chestnut gelding knew its place in the crooked wing shape of the raptor formation. If trouble came, it would also know enough to pull its rider away from danger.

  It was enough that she had been chosen to accompany the patrol. Train the soldier in the real world was one of the company's tenets.

  Spread out into the formation, with Itkovian as the raptor's head, the troop rode on at a slow canter. A league, then another as the heat slowly became oppressive.

  The sudden slowing of the north wing pulled the others round as if invisible ropes bound every animal together. A trail had been found. Itkovian glanced ahead to see Outrider Sidlis slow her horse, wheel it round, confirming that both she and her mount had sensed the shift in motion behind them. She held position, watching.

  The Shield Anvil slowed his horse as he approached his right-flanking riders.

  'Report.'

  'Recruit caught the trail first, sir,' the wing's spokesman said. 'The tip of a spiral. The pattern of discovery that followed suggests a northwest direction. Something upright, on two legs, sir. Large. Three-toed and taloned.'

  'Just the one set?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'How old?'

  'Passed this way this morning, sir.'

  A second glance at Sidlis brought her riding back towards the troop.

  'Relieve the outrider, Nakalian. We'll pick up this trail and pursue.'

  'Sir,' the spokesman acknowledged. He hesitated, then said, 'Shield Anvil, the span between the steps is… vast. The creature was moving with speed.'

  Itkovian met the soldier's eyes. 'How fast, sir? A canter? Gallop?'

  'Hard to know for certain. I'd judge twice a canter, sir.'

  We have, it seems, found our demonic apparition. 'Archers on the tips. All others barring Torun, Farakalian.and the recruit, lances to hand. Named soldiers, coils out.'

  Nakalian now in the lead, the wings moved out once again, the riders at the very ends with arrows fitted to their short, recurved bows. Torun and Farakalian rode to either side of the Shield Anvil, lasso and rope coils in hand.

  The sun crawled across the sky. Nakalian held them to the trail without much difficulty, the tracks now a straight, direct line northwest. Itkovian had opportunity to see the imprints in the hard earth himself. A huge animal indeed, to have driven such deep impressions. Given its obvious speed, the Shield Anvil suspected they would never catch up with the creature.

  Unless, of course, Itkovian silently added as he watched Nakalian suddenly rein in at the top of a low rise ahead, the beast decided to stop and wait for us.

  The troop slowed, all eyes on the soldier on point. Nakalian's attention remained fixed on something only he could see. He had drawn his lance but was not readying for a charge. His horse shied nervously beneath him, and as Itkovian and the others neared, the Shield Anvil could see the animal's fear.

  They reached the rise.

  A basin stretched out before them, the grasses trampled and scattered in a wide swathe—the recent passing of a herd of wild bhederin—cutting diagonally across the plain. Towards the centre, at a distance of at least two hundred paces, stood a grey-skinned creature, two-legged, long-tailed, its snout two rows of jagged fangs. Broad-bladed swords flashed from the ends of its arms. Motionless, its head, torso and tail almost horizontal as it balanced on its two legs, the creature was watching them.

  Itkovian's eyes narrowed to slits.

  'I judge,' Nakalian said at his side, 'five heartbeats to cover the distance between us, Shield Anvil.'

  'Yet it makes no move.'

  'With that speed, sir, it needn't bother.'

  Until it elects to, at which point it will be upon us. We'd best test this apparition's abilities. 'Let us choose our own timing, sir,' Itkovian said. 'Lancers—hit the beast low and leave your weapons in, foul its stride if you can. Archers, go for the eyes and neck. One down the throat as well if the opportunity presents itself. A staggered pass, random evasion once you've planted your weapons, then draw swords. Torun and Farakalian'—he drew his longsword—'you're with me. Very well, canter to gallop at fifty, sooner if the beast reacts.'

  The wings rode forward, down the gentle slope, lances levelling.

  The creature continued to watch them, unmoving. With a hundred paces remaining between them, it slowly raised its blades, head dropping enough for the riders to see its ridged shoulders behind what was clearly some kind of helmet.

  At seventy paces the creature swung round to face them, swords out to the sides, tail twitching.

  Out on the tips the archers rose high in their stirrups, drew taut on the strings of their squat, powerful bows, held them motionless for a long moment, then loosed.

  The arrows converged on the creature's head. Barbed heads plunged into its black eye sockets. Seemingly indifferent to the arrows buried deep, the beast took a step forward.

  Fifty paces. Again the bowstrings thrummed. Shafts sprouted on either side of the neck. The archers angled their mounts away to maintain distance in their pass. The lancers' horses stretched their necks, and the closing charge had begun.

  Blinded, yet not blind. I see no blood. Fener, reveal to me the nature of this demon. A command to evade—

  The creature darted forward with unbelievable speed. At once, it was among the Grey Swords. Lances skewered it from all sides, then the huge blades flashed. Screams. Blood flying in gouts. Itkovian saw the rump of a horse plunge down in front of him, saw the soldier's right leg, foot still in the stirrup, falling outward. Without comprehension, he watched the rump—legs kicking spasmodically—twist round, revealing that the front half of the horse was gone. Severed spine, curved rows of rib stubs, intestines tumbling out, blood spraying from red flesh.

  His own horse leapt high to clear the animal wreckage.

  Crimson rain splashed the Shield Anvil's face as the creature's massive jaws—studded with arrows—snapped out at him. He leaned to his left, barely avoiding the meat-strewn fangs, and swung a wild backhand slash with his longsword as he rode past. The blade clashed against armour.

  In mid-leap, his horse shrieked as something clipped it from behind. Plunging down on its forelimbs and still screaming, it managed a stagger forward before its rump sank down behind Itkovian. Knowing that something had gone desperately wrong with the beast's rocking, horrible stumble, he pulled free his heart-knife, leaned forward and opened the animal's jugular with a single slash. Then, kicking free of the stirrups, the Shield Anvil pitched forward and to the left even as he yanked the dying horse's head to the right.

  They struck the ground, rolled apart.

  Completing his tumble at a crouch, Itkovian spared a glance at his horse, to see the animal kicking in the air. The two hind legs ended just above the fetlocks. Both hooves had been sliced off. The dead animal quickly stilled.

  The bodies of mounts and soldiers lay on both sides of the creature, which was now slowly turning to face Itkovian. Blood and gore painted its long, leathery arms. A woman's red-streaked brown hair had snagged in thick tufts between the beast's smeared fangs.

  Then Itkovian saw the lassos. Both hung loose, one around the creature's neck, the other high on its right leg.

  Earth thumped as the demon took a step towards the Shield Anvil. Itkovian raised his longsword.

  As it lifted a three-toed foot for another stride, the two ropes snapped taut, neck to the left, leg to the right. The creature was thrown upward by the savage, perfectly timed yanks to opposite sides. Leg tore away from hip in a dry, ripping snap, even as the head parted from the neck with an identical sickly sound.

  Torso and head struck the earth with heavy, bone-breaking thumps.

  No movement. The beast was dead.

  Suddenly trembling, Itkovian slowly straightened.

  Torun had taken three riders with him. Farakalian had done the same. Ropes wound around each saddlehorn, the force behind the sudden, explosive tightening—four warhorses to each side—had m
anaged what weapons could not.

  The pair of archers rode up to the Shield Anvil. One reached down an arm. 'Quickly, sir, the stirrup's clear.'

  Unquestioningly, Itkovian clasped the wrist and swung himself up behind the rider. And saw what approached.

  Four more demons, four hundred paces away and closing with the speed of boulders tumbling down a mountainside.

  'We'll not outrun them.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'So we split up,' Itkovian said.

  The rider kicked his mount into a gallop. 'Yes, sir. We're the slowest—Torun and Farakalian will engage—give us time—'

  The horse swerved suddenly beneath them. Caught unprepared, the Shield Anvil's head snapped back, and he tumbled from the saddle. He hit the hard-packed soil, the air bursting from his lungs, then rolled, stunned, to come to a stop against a pair of legs hard as iron.

  Blinking, gasping, Itkovian found himself staring up at a squat, fur-clad corpse. The dark-brown, withered face beneath the antlered head-dress tilted downward. Shadowed sockets studied him.

  Gods, what a day.

  'Your soldiers approach,' the apparition rasped in Elin. 'From this engagement… you are relieved.'

  The archer was still struggling with his startled horse, cursing, then he hissed in surprise.

  The Shield Anvil frowned up at the undead figure. 'We are?'

  'Against undead,' the corpse said, 'arises an army in kind.'

  Distantly, Itkovian heard the sounds of battle—no screams, simply the clash of weapons, relentless, ever growing. With a groan, he rolled onto his side. A headache was building in the back of his skull, waves of nausea rippling through him. Gritting his teeth, he sat up.

  'Ten survivors,' the figure above him mused. 'You did well… for mortals.'

  Itkovian stared across the basin. An army of corpses identical to the one beside him surrounded the demons, of which only two remained standing. The battle around those two creatures was horrible to witness. Pieces of the undead warriors flew in all directions, but still they kept coming, huge flint swords chopping into the demons, carving them down where they stood. A half-dozen heartbeats later, the fight was over.

  The Shield Anvil judged that at least sixty of the fur-clad warriors had been destroyed. The others continued chopping on the felled beasts, swinging ever lower as the remaining pieces grew ever smaller. Even as he watched, dust swirled from the hillsides in every direction—more of the undead warriors with their weapons of stone. An army, motionless beneath the sun.

  'We did not know that K'Chain Che'Malle had returned to this land,' the hide-wrapped corpse said.

  Itkovian's remaining soldiers approached, tense, driven into watchful silence by the conjurations rising on all sides.

  'Who,' Itkovian asked dully, 'are you?'

  'I am the Bonecaster Pran Chole, of the Kron T'lan Imass. We are come to the Gathering. And, it seems, to a war. I think, mortal, you have need of us.'

  The Shield Anvil looked upon his ten surviving soldiers. The recruit was among them, but not her two guardians. Twenty. Soldiers and horses. Twenty… gone. He scanned the faces now arrayed before him, and slowly nodded. 'Aye, Pran Chole, we have need.'

  The recruit's face was the hue of bleached parchment. She sat on the ground, eyes unfocused, spattered with the blood of one or both of the soldiers who had given their lives protecting her.

  Itkovian stood beside her, saying nothing. The brutality of the engagement may well have broken the Capan recruit, he suspected. Active service was intended to hone, not destroy. The Shield Anvil's underestimation of the enemy had made of this young woman's future a world of ashes. Two blindingly sudden deaths would haunt her for the rest of her days. And there was nothing Itkovian could do, or say, to ease the pain.

  'Shield Anvil.'

  He looked down at her, surprised that she would speak, wondering at the hardness of her voice. 'Recruit?'

  She was looking round, eyes thinning as she studied the legions of undead warriors who stood in ragged ranks, unmoving, on all sides. 'There are thousands.'

  Spectral figures, risen to stand above the plain's tawny grasses, row on row. As if the earth herself had thrust them clear of her flesh. 'Aye. I'd judge well over ten thousand. T'lan Imass. Tales of these warriors had reached us'—tales I found hard to countenance—'but this represents our first encounter, and a timely one at that.'

  'Do we return to Capustan now?'

  Itkovian shook his head. 'Not all of us. Not immediately. There are more of these K'Chain Che'Malle on this plain. Pran Chole—the unarmed one, some kind of high priest or shaman—has suggested a joint exercise, and I have approved. I will lead eight of the troop west.'

  'Bait.'

  He raised a brow. 'Correct. The T'lan Imass travel unseen, and will therefore surround us at all times. Were they to remain visible in this hunt, the K'Chain Che'Malle would probably avoid them, at least until they have gathered in such numbers as to challenge the entire army.

  'Better they were cut down in twos and threes. Recruit, I am attaching an escort of one soldier to you for an immediate return to Capustan. A report must needs be made to the Mortal Sword. Accompanying the two of you, unseen, will be a select squad of T'lan Imass. Emissaries. I have been assured that no K'Chain Che'Malle are present between here and the city.'

  She slowly rose. 'Sir, a single rider would do as well. You return me to Capustan to spare me… from what? From seeing K'Chain Che'Malle cut to pieces by these T'lan Imass? Shield Anvil, there is no mercy or compassion in your decision.'

  'It seems,' Itkovian said, staring out upon the vast army arrayed around them, 'you are not lost to us, after all. The Boar of Summer despises blind obedience. You will ride with us, sir.'

  'Thank you, Shield Anvil.'

  'Recruit, I trust you have not deluded yourself into believing that witnessing the destruction of more K'Chain Che'Malle will silence the cries within you. Soldiers are issued armour for their flesh and bones, but they must fashion their own for their souls. Piece by piece.'

  She looked down at the blood spattered across her uniform. 'It has begun.'

  Itkovian was silent for a moment, studying the recruit at his side. 'The Capan are a foolish people, to deny freedom to their women. The truth of that is before me.'

  She shrugged. 'I am not unique.'

  'Attend to your horse, soldier. And direct Sidlis to join me.'

  'Sir.'

  He watched her walk towards the waiting horses and the surviving soldiers of the wings, all of whom had gathered around their mounts to check girth straps, fittings and equipment. She joined their ranks, spoke with Sidlis, who nodded and approached the Shield Anvil.

  Pran Chole strode up at the same time. 'Itkovian, our choices have been made. Kron's emissaries have been assembled and await your messenger.'

  'Understood.'

  Sidlis arrived. 'Capustan, Shield Anvil?' she asked.

  'With an unseen escort. Report directly to the Mortal Sword and the Destriant. In private. The T'lan Imass emissaries are to speak with the Grey Swords and none other, for the moment at least.'

  'Sir.'

  'Mortals,' Pran Chole addressed them tonelessly, 'Kron has commanded that I inform you of certain details. These K'Chain Che'Malle are what was once known as K'ell Hunters. Chosen children of a matriarch, bred to battle. However, they are undead, and that which controls them hides well its identity—somewhere to the south, we believe. The K'ell Hunters were freed from tombs situated in the Place of the Rent, called Morn. We do not know if present maps of this land mass know the place by these ancient names—'

  'Morn,' Itkovian nodded. 'South of the Lamatath Plain, on the west coast and directly north of the island wherein dwell the Seguleh. Our company is from Elingarth, which borders the Lamatath Plain to the east. While we know of no-one who has visited Morn, the name has been copied from the oldest maps and so remains. The general understanding is that nothing is there. Nothing at all.'

  The Bonecaster sh
rugged. The barrows are much worn down, I would imagine. It has been a long time since we last visited the Rent. The K'ell Hunters may well be under the command of their matriarch, for we believe she has finally worked her way free from her own imprisonment. This, then, is the enemy you face.'

  Frowning, the Shield Anvil shook his head and said, 'The threat from the south comes from an empire called the Pannion Domin, ruled by the Seer—a mortal man. The reports of these K'Chain Che'Malle are recent developments, whilst the expansion of the Pannion Domin has been under way for some years now.' He drew breath to say more, then fell silent, realizing that over ten thousand withered, undead faces were now turned towards him. His mouth dried to parchment, his heart suddenly pounding.

  'Itkovian,' Pran Chole rasped, 'this word "Pannion". Has it a particular meaning among the natives?'

  He shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

  'Pannion,' the Bonecaster said. 'A Jaghut word. A Jaghut name.'

  As the afternoon waned, Toc the Younger sat by the fire, his lone eye studying the huge, sleeping wolf at his side. Baaljagg—what had Tool called her? An ay—had a face longer and narrower than the timber wolves the scout recalled seeing in Blackdog Forest, hundreds of leagues to the north. At the shoulder, the creature beside him had two, maybe three hands on those formidable northern wolves. Sloping brow, small ears, with canines to challenge those of a lion or a plains bear. Broadly muscled, the animal nevertheless had a build suggesting both speed and endurance. A swift kill or a league-devouring pursuit, Baaljagg looked capable of both.

  The wolf opened one eye to look upon him.

  'You're supposed to be extinct,' Toc murmured. 'Vanished from the world for a hundred thousand years. What are you doing here?'

  The ay was the scout's only company, for the moment. Lady Envy had elected to make a detour through her warren, northwestward a hundred and twenty leagues to the city of Callows, to replenish her supplies. Supplies of what? Bath oil? He was unconvinced of the justification, but even his suspicious nature yielded him no clue as to her real reasons. She had taken the dog, Garath, with her, as well as Mok. Safe enough to leave Senu and Thurule, I suppose. Tool dropped them both, after all. Still, what was important enough to make Envy break her own rule of a minimum of three servants?