Memories of Ice

The Beklites struggled upward, died by the score.



Then, at almost point-blank range, sorcery lashed the Malazan line. Bodies exploded within the grey fire.



As the miasmic magic dwindled, Paran could see naught but mangled corpses on the bank. The Beklites swarmed upward. Overhead, a condor trailing grey flames climbed laboriously back into the sky.



A flight of thirty Black Moranth darted to meet it. A score loosed crossbow quarrels towards the huge bird. Grey lightning lashed out from the condor, incinerating the missiles. A writhing wave blighted the sky, swept through the Black Moranth. Armour and flesh exploded.



Quick Ben stumbled to Paran's side, frantically cleared the mulch away in front of the captain, until a patch of bare earth was revealed.



'What are you-'



'Draw that damned bird, Captain! With your finger — draw a card! '



'But I can't-'



'Draw!'



Paran dragged his gloved index finger through the damp earth, beginning with a rectangular outline. His hand shook as he attempted to sketch the basic lines of the condor. 'This is madness — it won't work — gods, I can't even draw!'



'Are you done? Is that it?'



'What in Hood's name do you want?'



'Fine!' the wizard snapped. He made a fist and thumped the image.



Overhead, the demonic condor had begun another dive.



Suddenly, its wings flapped wildly, as if it could find no air beneath them. The creature plummeted straight down.



Quick Ben leapt to his feet, dragging Paran upright with him. 'Come on! Pull out your damned sword, Captain!'



They sprinted along the bank, the wizard leading them to where the condor had landed just beyond the overrun trench.



Moments later, they were running through steaming shards of armour and smouldering flesh — all that was left of the company of Malazans. The first wave of Beklites had fought their way to the second trench and were locked in fierce battle with Dujek's heavy infantry. To Paran and Quick Ben's right, downslope, the second wave was less than thirty paces away.



'Another Seerdomin!' Quick Ben screamed, dragging Paran to the ground.



Sorcery leapt from the second line of Beklites, ripped straight for the two men.



Quick Ben twisted onto his side, cursing. 'Hold on, Captain!'



A warren opened around them.



And they were suddenly under water, armour pulling them down into darkness.



Grey light streaked wild and savage directly above, a thundering concussion visibly descending towards the two men.



Water exploded on all sides, hard roots cracking against Paran's ribs. Coughing, gasping, he clawed at mud.



A hand closed round a strap of his harness, began dragging him across the sodden forest floor. 'Where's your damned sword?'



Paran managed to pull his legs under him, stumbled upright. 'Sword? You bastard! I was drowning!'



'Damn!' the wizard swore. 'You'd better hope that bird's still stunned.'



A murderous glance revealed Quick Ben's sorry state — blood streamed from the man's ears, nose and mouth. His leather armour had split along every seam. Paran looked down to see that his own banded armour was similarly mangled. He wiped at his mouth — his gauntlet came away smeared red.



'I've still got my pig-sticker.'



'Pull it out, I think we're close …'



Ahead, between the trees, broken branches littered the floor. Smoke drifted from the ground.



Then Paran saw it — Quick Ben's warning grip on the captain's arm indicated that the wizard, too, had detected the black mass in the shadows off to one side, a mass that glistened as it moved.



The flash of a pale grey neck, the glimmer of a hooked beak. Tendrils of sorcery, dancing, building.



Paran hesitated no longer, rushing past the wizard, knife sliding from its scabbard.



The creature was huge, its body the size of a female bhed-erin, the neck rising from hunched shoulders like a snake. Black, slimy head with nightmare eyes swinging towards him.



Something whipped past Paran from behind — a wraith, clawed hands reaching for the condor.



The creature hissed, recoiling, then the head snapped out.



Sorcery flashed.



The wraith was gone.



Paran twisted away from the condor's head. Drove the sticker's long blade down, deep into its back. He felt the blade deflect from the spine and cursed.



A shrill scream, a flash of black motion, and Paran found himself engulfed in black, oily, smothering feathers. Hooked beak scored lashing pain along his temple, ripping down to take his ear — he felt the grisly snip, the spray of hot blood down onto his neck.