Memories of Ice

The two women nodded.



The three strode onto the concourse. Thousands of eyes fixed on them, followed by a rumbling murmur, then a rhythmic, muted clashing of blade on blade.



Another party emerged, from the right. Soldiers, wearing uniforms Itkovian did not recognize, and, in their company, figures displaying barbed, feline tattooing. Leading the latter group, a man Itkovian had seen before. The Shield Anvil's steps slowed.



Gruntle. The name was a hammerblow to his chest. Brutal certainty forced his next thoughts. The Mortal Sword of Trake, Tiger of Summer. The First Hero is ascended.



We. we are replaced.



Steeling himself, Itkovian resumed his pace, then halted in the centre of the expanse.



A single soldier in the foreign uniform had moved up alongside Gruntle. He closed a hand around the big Daru's striped arm and barked something back to the others, who all stopped, while the man and Gruntle continued on, directly towards Itkovian.



A commotion from the Thrall's gate caught their attention. Priests and priestesses of the Mask Council were emerging, holding a struggling comrade among them as they hastened forward. In the lead, Rath'Trake. A step behind, the Daru merchant, Keruli.



The soldier and Gruntle reached Itkovian first.



Beneath the Daru's helm, Gruntle's tiger eyes studied the Shield Anvil. 'Itkovian of the Grey Swords,' he rumbled, 'it is done.'



Itkovian had no need to ask for elaboration. The truth was a knife in his heart.



'No, it isn't,' the foreign soldier snapped. 'I greet you, Shield Anvil. I am Captain Paran, of the Bridgeburners. Onearm's Host.'



'He is more than that,' Gruntle muttered. 'What he claims now-'



'Is nothing I do willingly,' Paran finished. 'Shield Anvil. Fener has been torn from his realm. He strides a distant land. You — your company — you have lost your god.'



And so it is known to all. 'We are aware of this, sir.'



'Gruntle says that your place, your role, is done. The Grey Swords must step aside, for a new god of war has gained pre-eminence. But that doesn't have to be. A path for you has been prepared…' Paran's gaze went past Itkovian. He raised his voice. 'Welcome, Humbrall Taur. Your children no doubt await within the Thrall.'



The Shield Anvil glanced back over his shoulder to see, standing ten paces behind him, a huge Barghast warchief in coin-threaded armour.



'They can wait a while longer,' Humbrall Taur growled. 'I would witness this.'



Paran grimaced. 'Nosy bastard-'



'Aye.'



The Malazan returned his attention to Itkovian and made to speak, but the Shield Anvil interrupted him: 'A moment, sir.' He stepped past the two men.



Rath'Fener jerked and twisted in the grip of his fellow priests. His mask was awry, wisps of grey hair pulled free of the leather strapping. 'Shield Anvil!' he cried upon seeing Itkovian's approach. 'In the name of Fener-'



'In his name, aye, sir,' Itkovian cut in. 'To my side, Captain Norul. The Reve's law is invoked.'



'Sir,' the grizzled woman replied, stepping forward.



'You can't!' Rath'Fener screamed. 'For this, only the Mortal Sword can invoke the Reve!'



Itkovian stood motionless.



The priest managed to pull one arm forward to jab a finger at the Shield Anvil. 'My rank is as Destriant! Unless you've one to make claim to that title?'



'Destriant Karnadas is dead.'



'That man was no Destriant, Shield Anvil! An Aspirant, perhaps, but my rank was and remains pre-eminent. Thus, only a Mortal Sword can invoke the Reve against me, and this you know.'



Gruntle snorted. 'Itkovian, Paran here told me there was a betrayal. Your priest sold Brukhalian's life to the Pannions. Not only disgusting, but ill-advised. So.' He paused. 'Will any Mortal Sword do? If so, I invoke the Reve.' He bared his teeth at Rath'Fener. 'Punish the bastard.'



We are replaced. The Lord of Battle is transformed indeed.



'He cannot!' Rath'Fener shrieked.



'A bold claim,' Itkovian said to the masked priest. 'In order to deny this man's right to the title, sir, you must call upon our god. In your defence. Do so, sir, and you shall walk from here a free man.'



The eyes within the mask went wide. 'You know that is impossible, Itkovian!'



'Then your defence is over, sir. The Reve is invoked. I am become Fener's hand of justice.'



Rath'Trake, who had been standing nearby in watchful silence, now spoke, 'There is no need for any of this, Shield Anvil. Your god's absence changes … everything. Surely, you understand the implications of the traditional form of punishment. A simple execution — not the Reve's law-'