Memories of Ice

Paran felt himself being pulled forward, down, into the scene.



He appeared in a wide, low chamber. Unadorned, dressed stone formed the walls, water-stained and covered in lichen, mould and moss. High to his right and left were wide windows — horizontal slits — both crowded with a riot of creepers and vines that snaked down into the room, onto the floor and through a carpet of dead leaves.



The air smelled of the sea, and somewhere outside the chamber seagulls bickered above a crashing surf.



Paran's heart thudded loud in his chest. He had not expected this. I'm not in another realm. This is mine.



Seven paces ahead, on a raised dais, stood a throne. Carved from a single trunk of crimson wood, unplaned, broad strips of bark on its flanks, many of them split, had pulled away from the wood beneath. Shadows flowed in that bark, swam the deep grooves, spilling out to dart through the surrounding air before vanishing in the chamber's gloom.



The Throne of Shadow. Not in some hidden, long-forgotten realm. It's here, on — or rather in — my world … A small, tattered fragment of Kurald Galain.



. and the Tiste Edur have come to find it. They're searching, crossing the seas, seeking this place. How do I know this?



He stepped forward. The shadows raced over the throne in a frenzy. Another step. You want to tell me something, Throne, don't you? He strode to the dais, reached out-



The shadows poured over him.



Hound — not Hound! Blood and not blood! Master and mortal!



'Oh, be quiet! Tell me of this place.'



The wandering isle! Wanders not! Flees! Yes! The Children are corrupted, the souls of the Edur are poisoned! Storm of madness — we elude! Protect us, Hound not Hound! Save us — they come!



'The wandering isle. This is Drift Avalii, isn't it? West of Quon Tali. I thought there were supposed to be Tiste Andii on this island-'



Sworn to defend! Spawn of Anomander Rake — gone! Leaving a blood trail, leading the Edur away with the spilling out of their own lives — oh, where is Anomander Rake? They call for him, they call and call! They beg for his help!



'He's busy, I'm afraid.'



Anomander Rake, Son of Darkness! The Edur have sworn to destroy Mother Dark. You must warn him! Poisoned souls, led by the one who has been slain a hundred times, oh, 'ware this new Emperor of the Edur, this Tyrant of Pain, this Deliverer of Midnight Tides!



Paran pulled himself back with a mental wrench, staggered a step further away, then another. He was sheathed in sweat, trembling with the aftermath of such visceral terror.



Barely conscious of his own intent, he whirled — the chamber around him blurring, swallowed by darkness, then, with a grinding shift, something deeper than darkness.



'Oh, Abyss …'



A rubble-strewn plain beneath a dead sky. In the distance to his right, the groan of massive, wooden wheels, the slither and snap of chains, countless plodding footfalls. In the air, a pall of suffering that threatened to suffocate Paran where he stood.



Gritting his teeth, he swung towards the dreadful sounds, pushed himself forward.



Grainy shapes appeared ahead, coming directly for Paran. Leaning figures, stretched chains. Beyond them, a hundred or more paces distant, loomed the terrible wagon, massed with writhing bodies, clunking and shifting over stones, swallowed in a haze of mist.



Paran stumbled forward. 'Draconus!' he shouted. 'Where in Hood's name are you? Draconus!'



Faces lifted, then all but one-hooded and indistinct — lowered once more.



The captain slipped between victims of Dragnipur, closing on the one shadowed face still regarding him, stepping within reach of the mad, the numbed, the failing — not one of whom sought to impede him, or even acknowledged his presence. He moved as a ghost through the press.



'Greetings, mortal,' Draconus said. 'Walk with me, then.'



'I wanted Rake.'



'You found his sword, instead. For which I am not sorry.'



'Yes, I've spoken with Nightchill, Draconus — but don't press me on that subject. When I reach a decision, you'll be the first to know. I need to speak with Rake.'



'Aye,' the ancient warrior rumbled, 'you do. Explain to him this truth, mortal. He is too merciful, too merciful to wield Dragnipur. The situation is growing desperate.'



'What are you talking about?'



'Dragnipur needs to feed. Look around us, mortal. There are those who, at long last, fail in pulling this burden. They are carried to the wagon, then, and tossed onto it — you think this preferable? Too weak to move, they are soon buried by those like them. Buried, trapped for eternity. And the more the wagon bears, the greater its weight — the more difficult the burden for those of us still able to heave, on these chains. Do you understand? Dragnipur needs to feed. We require … fresh legs. Tell Rake — he must draw the sword. He must take souls. Powerful ones, preferably. And he must do so soon-'