Memories of Ice

A new voice, rasping and cold, now spoke. 'Blacksword.'



They turned to see Mok facing them.



'That was centuries ago,' Lady Envy said.



'The memory of worthy opponents does not fade among the Seguleh, mistress.'



'Rake said the last swordsman he faced wore a mask with seven symbols.'



Mok tilted his head. 'That mask still awaits him. Blacksword holds the Seventh position. Mistress, we would have him claim it.'



She smiled. 'Perhaps soon you can extend to him the invitation in person.'



'It is not an invitation, mistress. It is a demand.'



Her laugh was sweet and full-throated. 'Dear servant, there is no-one whom the Lord of Darkness will not meet with a steady, unwavering eye. Consider that a warning.'



'Then shall our swords cross, mistress. He is the Seventh. I am the Third.'



She turned on him, arms folded. 'Oh, really! Do you know where that score of Seguleh souls ended up when he killed them … including the Seventh? Chained within the sword Dragnipur, that's where. For eternity. Do you truly wish to join them, Mok?'



There was another loud thud from the darkness beyond the firelight, then silence.



'Seguleh who die, fail,' Mok said. 'We spare no thoughts for the failed among us.'



'Does that,' Toc softly enquired, 'include your brother?'



Tool had reappeared, his flint sword in his left hand, dragging Thurule's body by the collar with his right. The Seguleh's head lolled. Dog and wolf trailed the two, tails wagging.



'Have you killed my servant, T'lan Imass?' Lady Envy asked.



'I have not,' Tool replied. 'Broken wrist, broken ribs, a half-dozen blows to the head. I believe he will recover. Eventually'



'Well, that won't do at all, I'm afraid. Bring him here, please. To me.'



'He is not to be healed magically,' Mok said.



The Lady's temper snapped then. She spun, a wave of argent power surging out from her. It struck Mok, threw him back through the air. He landed with a heavy thud. The coruscating glare vanished. 'Servants do not make demands of me! I remind you of your place, Mok. I trust once is enough.' She swung her attention back to Thurule. 'Heal him I shall. After all,' she continued in a milder tone, 'as any lady of culture knows, three is the absolute minimum when it comes to servants.' She laid a hand on the Seguleh's chest.



Thurule groaned.



Toc glanced at Tool. 'Hood's breath, you're all chopped up!'



'It has been a long time since I last faced such a worthy opponent,' Tool said. 'All the more challenging for using the flat of my blade.'



Mok was slowly climbing to his feet. At the T'lan Imass's last words, he went still, then slowly faced the undead warrior.



I'll be damned, Tool, you gave the Third pause.



'There will be no more duels this night,' Lady Envy said in a stern voice. 'I'll not constrain my wrath the next time.'



Mok casually slid his attention away from the T'lan Imass.



Straightening, Lady Envy sighed. Thurule is mended. I am almost weary! Senu, dear, get out the plates and utensils. And the Elin Red. A nice quiet meal is called for, I should say.' She flashed Toc a smile. 'And witty discourse, yes?'



It was now Toc's turn to groan.



The three horsemen drew rein to halt on the low hill's summit. Pulling his mount around to face the city of Pale, Whiskeyjack stared for a time, jaw muscles bunching.



Quick Ben said nothing, watching the grey-bearded commander, his old friend, with fullest understanding. Upon this hill, we came to retrieve Hairlock. Amidst piles of empty armour — gods, they're still here, rotting in the grasses — and the sorceress Tattersail, the last left standing of the cadre. We'd just crawled out of the collapsed tunnels, leaving hundreds of brothers and sisters buried behind us. We burned with rage. we burned with the knowledge of betrayal.



Here. on this sorcery-blasted hill, we were ready to commit murder. With cold, cold hands. The wizard glanced over at Mallet. The healer's small eyes were narrowed on Whiskeyjack, and Quick Ben knew that he too was reliving bitter memories.



There is no burying the history of our lives. Yellow nails and fingers of bone claw up from the ground at our feet, and hold us fast.



'Summarize,' Whiskeyjack growled, his grey eyes on the empty sky above the city.



Mallet cleared his throat. 'Who starts?'



The commander swung his head to the healer.



'Right,' Mallet said. 'Paran's … affliction. His mortal flesh has the taint of ascendant blood … and ascendant places … but as Quick will tell you, neither one should be manifesting as illness. No, that blood, and those places, are like shoves down a corridor.'