Memories of Ice

The lieutenant snorted. 'Most of your troop's women, sir.'



'Whatever.'



A rider was driving his horse hard down the street. He reined in with a clatter of hooves, dismounted and paused to adjust his armoured gauntlets before striding to Gruntle.



'Are you Keruli's caravan captain?' he asked, face hidden behind a full-visored helm.



'Was. What do you want, mercenary?'



'Compliments from the Shield Anvil, sir.' The voice was hard, deep. 'The Tenescowri are massing-'



'I know.'



'It is the Shield Anvil's belief that their main assault will be from the east, for it is there that the First Child of the Dead Seed has assembled his vanguard.'



'Fine, what of it?'



The messenger was silent for a moment, then he continued. 'Sir, Capustan's citizens are being removed-'



'Removed where?'



'The Grey Swords have constructed tunnels beneath the city, sir. Below are amassed sufficient supplies to support twenty thousand citizens-'



'For how long?'



'Two weeks, perhaps three. The tunnels are extensive. In many cases, old empty barrows were opened as well, as storage repositories — there were more of those than anyone had anticipated. The entranceways are well hidden, and defensible.'



Two weeks. Pointless. 'Well, that takes care of the non-combatants. What about us fighters?'



The messenger's eyes grew veiled between the black-iron bars of the visor. 'We fight. Street by street, building by building. Room by room, sir. The Shield Anvil enquires of you, which section of the city do you wish to assume? And is there anything you require? Arrows, food …'



'We've no archers, but food and watered wine, aye. Which section?' Gruntle surveyed his troop. 'More like which building. There's a tenement just off Old Daru Street, the one with the black-stone foundations. We'll start at North Gate, then fall back to there.'



'Very good. Supplies will be delivered to that tenement house, sir.'



'Oh, there's a woman in one of the rooms on the upper floor — if your evacuation of citizens involved a house-by-house search-'



'The evacuation was voluntary, sir.'



'She wouldn't have agreed to it.'



'Then she remains where she is.'



Gruntle nodded.



The lieutenant came to the captain's side. 'Your cutlasses — time to hone your tiger-claws, sir.'



'Aye.' Turning away, Gruntle did not notice the messenger's head jerk back at the Lestari lieutenant's words.



Through the dark cage of his visor, Shield Anvil Itkovian studied the hulking caravan captain who now strode towards a swordsmith, the short-legged Lestari trailing a step behind. The blood-stained cutlasses were out, the wide, notched, tip-heavy blades the colour of smoky flames.



He had come to meet this man for himself, to take his fullest measure and fashion a face to accompany the man's extraordinary talents.



Itkovian already regretted the decision. He muttered a soft, lengthy curse at his own impetuosity. Fights like a boar? Gods, no, this man is a big, plains-hunting cat. He has bulk, aye, but it passes unnoticed behind a deadly grace. Fener save us all, the Tiger of Summer's ghost walks in this man's shadow.



Returning to his horse, Itkovian drew himself up into the saddle. He gathered the reins. Swinging his mount round, he tilted his head back and stared at the morning sun. The truth of this has burst like fire in my heart. On this, our last day, I have met this unnamed man, this servant of Treach, the Tiger of Summer. Treach ascending.



And Fener? The brutal boar whose savage cunning rides my soul — what of my lord?



Fener. descending. On this, our last day.



A susurrating roar rose in the distance, from all sides. The Tenescowri were on the move.



'Twin Tusks guard us,' Itkovian rasped, driving his heels into the horse's flanks. The animal surged forward, sparks raining as its hooves struck the cobbles.



Grey-faced with exhaustion, Buke made his way towards the necromancers' estate. It was a large edifice, commanding a long, low hill that looked too regular to be natural, surrounded by a high wall with mock guard towers at the corners. A grand entrance faced onto Kilsban Way, set back from the street itself with a ramped approach. The gate was a miniature version of the Thrall's, vertically raised and lowered by countersunk centre-holed millstones.



A fireball had struck the gate, blasting it into ruin. The flames had raged for a time, blackening the stone frame and cracking it, but somehow the structure remained upright.



As the old caravan guard limped his way up the ramp towards it, he was startled by the sudden exit of a tall, gaunt, black-robed man. Stumbling, half hopping like a huge ebon-winged vulture, the man spun round to glare at Buke. His face twisted. 'I am second only to Rath'Shadowthrone himself! Do you not know me? Do they not know me? I am Marble! Also known as the Malefic! Feared among all the cowering citizens of Capustan! A sorcerer of powers unimagined! Yet they …' He sputtered with fury. 'A boot to the backside, no less! I will have my revenge, this I swear!'