Memories of Ice

I need to go back. Into the sword. I need to ask -



'Jen'isand Rul. Aye, Draconus, the one you spoke with within Dragnipur — my other brother — made use of you, Ganoes Paran. Does that truth seem brutal to you? Is it beyond understanding? Like the others within the sword, my brother faces. eternity. He sought to outwit a curse, yet he never imagined that doing so would take so long. He is changed, mortal. His legendary cruelty has been. blunted. Wisdom earned a thousand times over. More, we need him.'



You want me to free Draconus from Rake's sword.



'Yes.'



To then have him go after Rake himself in an effort to reclaim the weapon he forged. Nightchill, I would rather Rake than Draconus -



'There will be no such battle, Ganoes Paran.'



Why not?



'To free Draconus, the sword must be shattered.'



The cold steel between his ribs now twisted. And that would free. everyone else. Everything else. Sorry, woman, I won't do it -



'If there is a way to prevent that woeful release of mad, malign spirits — whose numbers are indeed beyond legion and too horrifying to contemplate — then only one man will know it.'



Draconus himself.



'Yes. Think on this, Ganoes Paran. Do not rush — there is still time.'



Glad to hear it.



'We are not as cruel as you think.'



Vengeance hasn't blackened your heart, Nightchill? Excuse my scepticism.



'Oh, I seek vengeance, mortal, but not against the minor players who acted out my betrayal, for mat betrayal was fore' told. An ancient curse. The one who voiced that curse is the sole focus of my desire for vengeance.'



I'm surprised he or she's still around.



There was a cold smile in her words. 'Such was our curse against him.'



I'm beginning to mink you all deserve each other.



There was a pause, then she said, 'Perhaps we do, Ganoes Paran.'



What have you done with Tattersail?



'Nothing. Her attentions are presently elsewhere.'



So I was flattering myself, thinking otherwise. Dammit, Paran, you're still a fool.



'We shall not harm her, mortal. Even were we able, which we are not. There is honour within her. And integrity. Rare qualities, for one so powerful. Thus, we have faith -'



A gloved hand on his shoulder startled Paran awake. He blinked, looked around. The roof. I'm back.



'Captain?'



He met Mallet's concerned gaze. 'What?'



'Sorry, sir, it seemed we'd lost you there … for a moment.'



He grimaced, wanting to deny it to the man's face, but unable to do so. 'How long?'



'A dozen heartbeats, sir.'



'Is that all? Good. We have to get moving. To the Thrall.'



'Sir?'



I'm between them and us, now, Mallet. But there's more of 'us' than you realize. Damn, I wish I could explain this. Without sounding like a pompous bastard. Not replying to the healer's question, he swung round and found Trotts. 'Warchief. The Thrall beckons.'



'Aye, Captain.'



The Bridgeburners were one and all avoiding his gaze. Paran wondered why. Wondered what he'd missed. Mentally shrugging, he strode over to Gruntle. 'You're coming with us,' he said.



'I know.'



Yes, you would at that. Fine, let's get this done.



The palace tower rose like a spear, wreathed in banners of ghostly smoke. The dark, colourless stone dulled the bright sunlight bathing it. Three hundred and thirty-nine winding steps led up the tower's interior, to emerge onto an open platform with a peaked roof of copper tiles that showed no sign of verdigris. The wind howled between the columns holding the roof and the smooth stone platform, yet the tower did not sway.



Itkovian stood looking east, the wind whipping against his face. His body felt bloodless, strangely hot beneath the tattered armour. He knew that exhaustion was finally taking its toll. Flesh and bone had its limits. The defence of the dead prince in his Great Hall had been brutal and artless. Hallways and entrances had become abattoirs. The stench of slaughter remained like a new layer beneath his skin — even the wind could not strip it away.



The battles at the coast and the landings were drawing to a grim close, a lone surviving scout had reported. The Betrullid had been broken, fleeing north along the coast, where the Shield Anvil well knew their horses would become mired in the salt marsh. The pursuing Barghast would make short work of them.



The besiegers' camps had been shattered, as if a tornado had ripped through them. A few hundred Barghast — old women and men and children — wandered through the carnage, gathering the spoils amidst squalling seagulls.