Memories of Ice

'We'll need a different warren for this,' the wizard finally said. 'The choice is this: Hood's own, or Aral Gamelon-'



'Aral what? I've never heard-'



'Demonic. Most conjurors who summon demons are opening a path to Gamelon — though they probably don't know it, not by its true name, anyway. Granted, one can find demons in other warrens — the Aptorians of Shadow, for example. But the Korvalahrai and the Galayn, the Empire's favoured, are both of Gamelon. Anyway, if my instincts are accurate, there's both kinds of necromancy present in that estate — you did say there were two of them, didn't you?'



'Aye, and two kinds of madness.'



'Sounds interesting.'



'This is a whim! Have you learned nothing from your multiple souls, Wizard? Whims are deadly. Do something for no reason but curiosity and it closes like a wolf's jaws on your throat. And even if you manage to escape, it haunts you. For ever.'



'You talk too much, Sticksnare. I've made my decision. Time to move.' He folded the warren of Rashan about himself, then stepped forward.



'Ashes in the urn!' Talamandas hissed.



'Aye, Hood's own. Comforted by the familiarity? It's the safer choice, since Hood himself has blessed you, right?'



'I am not comforted.'



That wasn't too surprising, as Quick Ben studied the transformation around him. Death ran riot in this city. Souls crowded the streets, trapped in cycles of their own last moments of life. The air was filled with shrieks, wailing, the chop of weapons, the crushing collapse of stone and the suffocating smoke. Layered beneath this were countless other deaths — those that were set down, like successive snowfalls, on any place where humans gathered. Generation upon generation.



Yet, Quick Ben slowly realized, this conflagration was naught but echoes, the souls themselves ghostly. 'Gods below,' he murmured in sudden understanding. 'This is but memory — what the stones of the streets and buildings hold, memories of the air itself. The souls — they've all gone through Hood's Gate …'



Talamandas was motionless on his shoulder. 'You speak true, Wizard,' he muttered. 'What has happened here? Who has taken all these dead?'



'Taken, aye, under wing. They've been blessed, one and all, their pain ended. Is this the work of the Mask Council?'



The sticksnare spat, 'Those fools? Not likely.'



Quick Ben said nothing for a time, then he sighed. 'Capustan might recover, after all. I didn't think that was possible. Well, shall we walk with these ghosts?'



'Do we have to?'



Not replying, Quick Ben strode forward. The undead guards — Seerdomin and Urdomen — were dark smears, stains on Hood's own warren. But they were blind to his presence in the realm where the wizard now walked. Of the two necromancers residing within, one was now negated.



The only risk remaining was if the other one — the summoner — had released any demons to supplement the estate's defences.



Quick Ben strode through the gateway. The compound before him was clear of any bodies, though caked blood coated the flagstones here and there.



Twig fingers spasmed tight on his shoulder. 'I smell-'



The Sirinth demon had been squatting in front of the main house doors, draped in the lintel stone's shadow. It now grunted and heaved its bulk clear of the landing, coming into full view. Swathed in folds of toad-like skin, splay-limbed, with a wide, low head that was mostly jaws and fangs, the Sirinth massed more than a bhederin bull. In short bursts, however, it could be lightning fast.



A short burst was all it needed to reach Quick Ben and Talamandas.



The sticksnare shrieked.



Quick Ben lithely side-stepped, even as he unfolded yet another warren, this one layered over Hood's own. A backward stride took him into that warren, where heat flowed like liquid and dry amber light suffused the air.



The Sirinth wheeled, then dropped flat on its belly within Aral Gamelon.



Quick Ben edged further into the demonic warren.



Whining, the Sirinth sought to follow, only to be brought short by a now visible iron collar and chain, the chain leading back out — all the way, Quick Ben knew, to whatever binding circle the summoner had conjured when chaining this creature.



'Too bad, friend,' the wizard said as the demon squealed. 'Might I suggest a deal, Sirinth? I break the chain and you go find your loved ones. Peace between us.'



The creature went perfectly motionless. Folded lids slid back to reveal large, luminous eyes. In the mortal realm they'd just left, those eyes burned like fire. Here, within Aral Gamelon, they were almost docile.