Memories of Ice

Just visible beyond the creature, perhaps a thousand paces down the cavern's length, squatted another such apparition, its arms upraised as well.



Twisting, Quick Ben's gaze travelled the opposite length of the cavern. More servants — the wizard saw four, possibly five of them — each one reaching up to the ceiling. The cavern was in fact a vast tunnel, curving in the distance.



I am indeed within Burn, the Sleeping Goddess. A living warren. Flesh, and bone. And these. servants …



'You have my gratitude!' he called up to the creature looming above him.



A flattened, misshapen head tilted down. Diamond eyes stared like descending stars. 'Help us.'



The voice was childlike, filled with despair.



Quick Ben gaped. Help?



'She weakens,' the creature moaned. 'Mother weakens. We die. Help us.'



'How?'



'Help us, please.'



'I–I don't know how.'



'Help.'



Quick Ben staggered upright. The clay flesh, he now saw, was melting, running in wet streams down the giant's thick arms. Chunks of diamond fell away. The Crippled God's killing them, poisoning Burn's flesh. The wizard's thoughts raced. 'Servant, child of Burn! How much time? Until it is too late?'



'Not long,' the creature replied. 'It nears. The moment nears.'



Panic gripped Quick Ben. 'How close? Can you be more specific? I need to know what I can work with, friend. Please try!'



'Very soon. Tens. Tens of years, no more. The moment nears. Help us.'



The wizard sighed. For such powers, it seemed, centuries were as but days. Even so, the enormity of the servant's plea threatened to overwhelm him. As did the threat. What would happen if Burn dies? Beru fend, I don't think I want to find out. All right, then, it's my war, now. He glanced down at the mud-strewn ground around him, questing with his senses. He quickly found the tracker. 'Servant! I will leave something here, so that I may find you again. I will find help — I promise — and I will come back to you-'



'Not me,' the giant said. 'I die. Another will come. Perhaps.' The creature's arms had thinned, were now almost devoid of their diamond armour. 'I die now.' It began to sag. The red stain in the ceiling had spread to the ribs it held, and cracks had begun to show.



'I will find an answer,' Quick Ben whispered. 'I swear it.' He gestured and a warren opened. Without a last glance — lest the vision break his heart — he stepped within, and was gone.



A hand shook his shoulder incessantly. Quick Ben opened his eyes.



'Damn you, mage,' Picker hissed. 'It's almost dawn — we have to fly.'



Groaning, the wizard unfolded his legs, wincing with every move, then let the corporal help him upright.



'Did you get it back?' she demanded as she half carried him to the waiting quorl.



'Get what back?'



'That pebble.'



'No. We're in trouble, Picker-'



'We're always in trouble-'



'No, I mean all of us.' He dug in his heels, stared at her. ' All of us .'



Whatever she saw in his expression left her shaken. 'All right. But right now we've got to get moving.'



'Aye. You'd better strap me in — I won't be able to stay awake.'



They came to the quorl. The Moranth seated in the forward chitinous saddle swung its helmed head to regard them in silence.



'Queen of Dreams,' Picker muttered as she wrapped the leather harness around Quick Ben's limbs. 'I ain't never seen you this scared, Wizard. You got me ready to piss ice-cubes.'



They were the last words of the night that Quick Ben remembered, but remember them he did.



Ganoes Paran was plagued by images of drowning, but not in water. Drowning in darkness. Disorientated, thrashing in panic in an unknown and unknowable place. Whenever he closed his eyes, vertigo seized him, knots tightening in his gut, and it was as if he'd been stripped down to a child once again. Terrified, uncomprehending, his soul twisting with pain.



The captain left the barricade at the Divide, where the day's last traders were still struggling through the press of Malazan guards, soldiers and clerics. He'd done as Dujek had commanded, setting up his encampment across the throat of the pass. Taxation and wagon searches had yielded a substantial haul, although, as the news spread, the takings were diminishing. It was a fine balance, keeping the tax at a level that the merchants could stomach, and allowing enough contraband through lest the chokehold turn to strangulation and travel between Darujhistan and Pale dried up entirely. Paran was managing, but just barely. Yet it was the least of his difficulties.