Memories of Ice
By the two warriors … and all that sheathed their hidden souls.
Freed, writhing, dancing, spider-bitten — mad, frantic in answer…
In answer.
Somewhere within him — as the battle continued on, the masked warrior driving the T'lan Imass back, back — the wolf stirred.
Trapped. In this bent but unbroken mechanism, this torturing cage of bone … He saw, close, the shattered frame of … something. A beam, massive, its end capped in black, bruised bronze. Where bits were smeared — flesh, flesh and hair.
Cage.
Toc the Younger drew his mangled legs under him, planted a pustuled, malformed elbow on the flagstones, felt flesh tear as he twisted round, pivoted, dragged his legs up to kneel — then, hands, frozen into fists, pushing down on the stone. Lifting, tilting back to settle weight on hips that ground and seemed to crumble beneath tendon and thin muscle.
He set his hands down once more, drew the knobbed things that had once been his feet under him, knees lifting.
Balance. now. And will.
Trembling, slick with sweat beneath the tattered remnants of his shapeless tunic, Toc slowly rose upright. His head spun, blackness threatening, but he held on.
Kruppe gasped, lifting her, pulling at her arm. 'You must touch, lass. This world — it was made for you — do you understand? A gift — there are things that must be freed.'
Freed.
Yes, she understood that word. She longed for it, worshipped it, knelt, head bowed, before its altar. Freed. Yes, that made sense.
Like these memories of ice, raining, raining down upon us.
Freed. to feed the earth -
— deliverance, of meaning, of emotion, history's gift — the land underfoot, the layers, so many layers -
To feed the earth.
What place is this?
'Reach, dearest Mhybe, Kruppe begs you! Touch -'
She raised a trembling hand -
Upright.
To see Tool reeling beneath blows, the flint sword fending slower with each flashing blade that reached for him.
Upright. A step. One step. Will do.
The cage, the wolf stirring, the wolf seeking to draw breath — unable -
He lurched towards the beam and its upthrust, bronze-capped end.
One step, then toppling.
Forward, lifting his arms high — clear — the beam's end seeming to rise to meet him. Meet his chest — the ribs — bones shattering in an explosion of pain-
To touch -
The cage!
Broken!
Freed!
The wolf drew breath.
And howled.
The hammer held high in Brood's hands, trembling, iron shaking-
As a god's howl ripped the air, a howl climbing, a call-
Answered.
On the killing field, T'lan Ay rising from the ground, the beasts blurring forward in a silent, grey wave, cutting through K'Chain Che'Malle — tearing the undead reptiles down, rending — the giant, armoured reptiles buckling before the onslaught.
Other K'ell Hunters wheeling, racing for the gate — wolves pursuing.
Far overhead, condors breaking away from their deadly dance with two black dragons, speeding back towards the keep, Korlat and Orfantal following, and behind them, tens of thousands of Great Ravens-and above the keep, something was happening-
Holding the Mhybe, now unconscious, in his arms, Kruppe staggered back as Togg tore itself free of the shattered cage, the god's howl blistering the air.
The deluge of hail ceased. Abrupt. The sky darkened.
A pressure, a force, ancient and bestial. Growing.
Togg, huge, one-eyed, white, silver-tipped fur — howling -
The wolf-god, emerging with the force of heaving stone, his cry seeming to span the sky.
A cry that was answered.
On all sides.
Paran ducked even lower to a sudden descent of gloom, cold, a weight overwhelming the captain.
Beside him, Quick Ben groaned, then hissed. 'This is it, friend. Kurald Galain. I can use this — get us over this wall — we have to see-'
See what? Gods, I'm being crushed!
The pressure dimmed suddenly. Hands gripped his harness, dragged him up, metal scraping, leather catching, up and over the low wall to thump down on the other side.
The darkness continued its preternatural fall, dulling the sun to a grey, fitfully wavering disc.
Condors overhead, screaming-
— and in those screams, raw terror-
Paran twisted round, looked upon the scene on the parapet. Thirty paces away, on the far edge, crouching, was a figure the captain knew instinctively to be the Seer. Human flesh and skin had sloughed away, revealing a Jaghut, naked, surrounded in misty clouds of ice crystals. Clutched in the Seer's hands, an egg the size of a cusser. At his side, huge and misshapen, a K'Chain Che'Malle — no. The Matron. What flowed from her left Paran horrified and filled with pity. She was mindless, her soul stripped, filled with a pain he knew she could not even feel — the only mercy that remained.