The Malazan Empire, page 396
His brother shrugged, ever reluctant to surrender his reserve, his mindful silence. ‘We remain alone,’ he finally said, ‘to preserve the sanctity of our past.’
Trull considered this, his gaze travelling over the tableau before him, those dark, murky lives that could not outrun their doom, then said, ‘Our cherished truths are vulnerable.’
‘To challenge, yes.’
‘And the salt gnaws at the ice beneath us, until our world grows perilously thin beneath our feet.’
‘Until what was frozen…thaws.’
Trull took a step closer to the one of the charging caribou. ‘What thaws in turn collapses and falls to the ground. And rots, Binadas. The past is covered in flies.’
His brother walked towards the altar, and said, ‘The ones who kneel before this shrine were here only a few days ago.’
‘They did not come the way we did.’
‘No doubt there are other paths into this underworld.’
Trull glanced over at Theradas, only now recalling his presence. The warrior stood at the threshold, his breath pluming in the air.
‘We should return to the others,’ Binadas said. ‘We have far to walk tomorrow.’
The night passed, damp, cold, the melt water ceaselessly whispering. Each Edur stood watch in turn, wrapped in furs and weapons at the ready. But there was nothing to see in the dull, faintly luminescent light. Ice, water and stone, death, hungry motion and impermeable bones, a blind triumvirate ruling a gelid realm.
Just before dawn the company rose, ate a quick meal, then Rhulad clambered up the ropes, trusting to the spikes driven into the ice far overhead, about two-thirds of the way, where the fissure narrowed in one place sufficient to permit a cross-over to the north wall. Beyond that point, Rhulad began hammering new spikes into the ice. Splinters and shards rained down on the waiters below for a time, then there came a distant shout from Rhulad. Midik went to the ropes and began climbing, while Trull and Fear bound the food packs to braided leather lines. The sleds would be pulled up last.
‘Today,’ Binadas said, ‘we will have to be careful. They will know we were here, that we found their shrine.’
Trull glanced over. ‘But we did not desecrate it.’
‘Perhaps our presence alone was sufficient outrage, brother.’
The sun was above the horizon by the time the Edur warriors were assembled on the other side of the crevasse, the sleds loaded and ready. The sky was clear and there was no wind, yet the air was bitter cold. The sun’s fiery ball was flanked on either side by smaller versions—sharper and brighter than last time, as if in the course of the night just past the world above them had completed its transformation from the one they knew to something strange and forbidding, inimical to life.
Theradas in the lead once more, they set out.
Ice crunching underfoot, the hiss and clatter of the antler-rimmed sled runners, and a hissing sound both close and distant, as if silence had itself grown audible, a sound that Trull finally understood was the rush of his own blood, woven in and around the rhythm of his breath, the drum of his heart. The glare burned his eyes. His lungs stung with every rush of air.
The Edur did not belong in this landscape. The Hold of Ice. Feared by the Letherii. Stealer of life—why has Hannan Mosag sent us here?
Theradas halted and turned about. ‘Wolf tracks,’ he said, ‘heavy enough to break through the crust of snow.’
They reached him, stopped the sleds. Trull drew the harness from his aching shoulders.
The tracks cut across their route, heading west. They were huge.
‘These belong to a creature such as the one we saw in the ice last night,’ Binadas said. ‘What do they hunt? We’ve seen nothing.’
Fear grunted, then said, ‘That does not mean much, brother. We are not quiet travellers, with these sleds.’
‘Even so,’ Binadas replied, ‘herds leave sign. We should have come upon something, by now.’
They resumed the journey.
Shortly past midday Fear called a halt for another meal. The plain of ice stretched out flat and featureless on all sides.
‘There’s nothing to worry about out here,’ Rhulad said, sitting on one of the sleds. ‘We can see anyone coming…or anything, for that matter. Tell us, Fear, how much farther will we go? Where is this gift that Hannan Mosag wants us to find?’
‘Another day to the north,’ Fear replied.
‘If it is indeed a gift,’ Trull asked, ‘who is offering it?’
‘I do not know.’
No-one spoke for a time.
Trull studied the hard-packed snow at his feet, his unease deepening. Something ominous hung in the still, frigid air. Their solitude suddenly seemed threatening, absence a promise of unknown danger. Yet he was among blood kin, among Hiroth warriors. Thus.
Still, why does this gift stink of death?
Another night. The tents were raised, a meal cooked, then the watches were set. Trull’s was first. He walked the perimeter of their camp, spear in hand, in a continuous circuit in order to keep awake. The food in his stomach made him drowsy, and the sheer emptiness of the ice wastes seemed to project a force that dulled concentration. Overhead the sky was alive with strange, shifting hues that rose and fell in disconnected patterns. He had seen such things before, in the deepest winter in Hiroth lands, but never as sharp, never as flush, voicing a strange hissing song as of broken glass crunching underfoot.
When it was time, he awoke Theradas. The warrior emerged from his tent and rose, adjusting his fur cloak until it wrapped him tightly, then drawing his sword. He glared at the lively night sky, but said nothing.
Trull crawled into the tent. The air within was damp. Ice had formed on the tent walls, etching maps of unknown worlds on the stretched, waxy fabric. From outside came the steady footsteps of Theradas as he walked his rounds. The sound followed Trull into sleep.
Disjointed dreams followed. He saw Mayen, naked in the forest, settling down atop a man, then writhing with hungry lust. He stumbled closer, ever seeking to see that man’s face, to discover who it was—and instead he found himself lost, the forest unreadable, unrecognizable, a sensation he had never experienced before, and it left him terrified. Trembling on his knees in the wet loam, while from somewhere beyond he could hear her cries of pleasure, bestial and rhythmic.
And desire rose within him. Not for Mayen, but for what she had found, in her wild release, closing down into the moment, into the present, future and past without meaning. A moment unmindful of consequences. His hunger became a pain within him, lodged like a broken knife-tip in his chest, cutting with each ragged breath, and in his dream he cried out, as if answering Mayen’s own voice, and he heard her laugh with recognition. A laugh inviting him to join her world.
Mayen, his brother’s betrothed. A detached part of his mind remained cool and objective, almost sardonic in its self-regard. Understanding the nature of this web, this sideways envy and his own burgeoning appetites.
Edur males were slow to such things. It was the reason betrothal and marriage followed at least a decade—often two—of full adulthood. Edur women arrived at their womanly hungers far earlier in their lives. It was whispered, among the men, that they often made use of the Letherii slaves, but Trull doubted the truth of that. It seemed…inconceivable.
The detached self was amused by that, as if derisive of Trull’s own naivety.
He awoke chilled, weak with doubts and confusion, and lay for a time in the pale half-light that preceded dawn, watching his breath plume in the close air of the tent.
Something gnawed at him, but it was a long time before he realized what it was. No footsteps.
Trull scrambled from the tent, stumbling on the snow and ice, and straightened.
It was Rhulad’s watch. Near the dead fire, the hunched, bundled form of his brother, seated with hooded head bowed.
Trull strode up to stand behind Rhulad. Sudden rage took him with the realization that his brother slept. He lifted his spear into both hands, then swung the butt end in a snapping motion that connected with the side of Rhulad’s head.
A muffled crack that sent his brother pitching to one side. Rhulad loosed a piercing shriek as he sprawled on the hard-packed snow, then rolled onto his back, scrabbling for his sword.
Trull’s spear-point was at his brother’s neck. ‘You slept on your watch!’ he hissed.
‘I did not!’
‘I saw you sleeping! I walked right up to you!’
‘I did not!’ Rhulad scrambled to his feet, one hand held against the side of his head.
The others were emerging now from their tents. Fear stared at Trull and Rhulad for a moment, then turned to the packs.
Trull was trembling, drawing deep, frigid breaths. For a moment, it struck him how disproportionate his anger was, then the magnitude of the risk flooded through him yet again.
‘We have had visitors,’ Fear announced, rising and scanning the frozen ground. ‘They left no tracks—’
‘How do you know, then?’ Rhulad demanded.
‘Because all our food is gone, Rhulad. It seems we shall grow hungry for a time.’
Theradas swore and began a wider circuit, seeking a trail.
They were among us. The Jheck. They could have killed us all where we slept. All because Rhulad will not grasp what it is to be a warrior. There was nothing more to be said, and all knew it.
Except for Rhulad. ‘I wasn’t sleeping! I swear it! Fear, you have to believe me! I simply sat down for a moment to rest my legs. I saw no-one!’
‘Behind closed lids,’ Theradas growled, ‘that’s not surprising.’
‘You think I’m lying, but I’m not! I’m telling the truth, I swear it!’
‘Never mind,’ Fear said. ‘It is done. From now on, we will double the watch.’
Rhulad walked towards Midik. ‘You believe me, don’t you?’
Midik Buhn turned away. ‘It was a battle just waking you for your watch, Rhulad,’ he said, his tone both sad and weary.
Rhulad stood as if in shock, the pain of what he saw as betrayal clear and deep-struck on his face. His lips thinned, jaw muscles bunching, and he slowly turned away.
The bastards were in our camp. Hannan Mosag’s faith in us…
‘Let us strike the tents,’ Fear said, ‘and be on our way.’
Trull found himself scanning the horizon in an endless sweep, his sense of vulnerability at times near overwhelming. They were being watched, tracked. The emptiness of the landscape was a lie, somehow. Possibly there was sorcery at work, although this did not—could not—excuse Rhulad’s failing.
Trust was gone, and Trull well knew that Rhulad’s future would now be dominated by the effort to regain it. A lapse, and the young man’s future path awaited him, deep-rutted and inevitable. A private journey beset by battle, each step resisted by a host of doubts, real and imagined—the distinction made no difference any more. Rhulad would see in his brothers and friends an unbroken succession of recriminations. Every gesture, every word, every glance. And, the tragedy was, he would not be far from the truth.
This would not be kept from the village. Sengar shame or not, the tale would come out, sung with quiet glee among rivals and the spiteful—and, given the opportunity, there were plenty of those to be found. A stain that claimed them all, the entire Sengar line.
They moved on. Northward, through the empty day.
Late in the afternoon, Theradas caught sight of something ahead, and moments later the others saw it as well. A glimmer of reflected sunlight, tall and narrow and angular, rising from the flat waste. Difficult to judge its size, but Trull sensed that the projection was substantial, and unnatural.
‘That is the place,’ Fear said. ‘Hannan Mosag’s dreams were true. We shall find the gift there.’
‘Then let us be about it,’ Theradas said, setting off.
The spar grew steadily before them. Cracks appeared in the snow and ice underfoot, the surface sloping upward the closer they approached. The shard had risen up from the deep, cataclysmically, a sudden upthrust that had sent wagon-sized chunks of ice into the air, to crash and tumble down the sides. Angular boulders of mud, now frozen and rimed, had rolled across the snow and ringed the area in a rough circle.
Prismatic planes caught and split the sunlight within the spar. The ice in that towering shard was pure and clear.
At the base of the fissured up-welling—still thirty or more paces from the spar—the group halted. Trull slipped out from the sled harness, Binadas following suit.
‘Theradas, Midik, stay here and guard the sleds,’ Fear said. ‘Trull, draw your spear from its sling. Binadas, Rhulad, to our flanks. Let’s go.’
They climbed the slope, winding their way between masses of ice and mud.
A foul smell filled the air, of old rot and brine.
Binadas hissed warningly, then said, ‘The spirit Hannan Mosag called up from the ocean deep has been here, beneath the ice. This is its handiwork, and the sorcery lingers.’
‘Emurlahn?’ Trull asked.
‘No.’
They came to the base of the spar. Its girth surpassed that of thousand-year-old Blackwood trees. Countless planes rose in twisted confusion, a mass of sharp, sheered surfaces in which the setting sun’s red light flowed thick as blood.
Fear pointed. ‘There. The gift.’
And now Trull saw it. Faint and murky, the smudged form of a two-handed sword, bell-hilted, its blade strangely fractured and mottled—although perhaps that effect was created by the intervening thickness of ice.
‘Binadas, weave Emurlahn into Trull’s spear. As much as you can—this will take many, many shadows.’
Their brother frowned. ‘Take? In what way?’
‘Shattering the ice will destroy them. Annihilation is demanded, to free the gift. And remember, do not close your unguarded hand about the grip, once the weapon comes free. And keep the wraiths from attempting the same, for attempt it they will. With desperate resolve.’
‘What manner of sword is this?’ Trull whispered.
Fear did not answer.
‘If we are to shatter this spar,’ Binadas said after a moment, ‘all of you should stand well clear of myself and Trull.’
‘We shall not be harmed,’ Fear said. ‘Hannan Mosag’s vision was clear on this.’
‘And how far did that vision go, brother?’ Trull asked. ‘Did he see our return journey?’
Fear shook his head. ‘To the shattering, to the fall of the last fragment of ice. No further.’
‘I wonder why?’
‘This is not a time for doubt, Trull,’ Fear said.
‘Isn’t it? It would seem that this is precisely the time for doubt.’
His brothers faced him.
Trull looked away. ‘This feels wrong.’
‘Have you lost your courage?’ Rhulad snapped. ‘We have walked all this way, and now you voice your doubts?’
‘What sort of weapon is this gift? Who fashioned it? We know nothing of what we are about to release.’
‘Our Warlock King has commanded us,’ Fear said, his expression darkening. ‘What would you have us do, Trull?’
‘I don’t know.’ He turned to Binadas. ‘Is there no means of prying the secrets loose?’
‘I will know more, I think, when we have freed the sword.’
Fear grunted. ‘Then begin, Binadas.’
They were interrupted by a shout from Theradas. ‘A wolf!’ he cried, pointing to the south.
The beast was barely visible, white-furred against the snow, standing motionless a thousand or more paces distant, watching them.
‘Waste no more time,’ Fear said to Binadas.
Shadows spun from where Binadas was standing, blue stains crawling out across the snow, coiling up the shaft of the Blackwood spear in Trull’s hands, where they seemed to sink into the glossy wood. The weapon felt no different through the thick fur of his gauntlets, but Trull thought he could hear something new, a keening sound that seemed to reverberate in his bones. It felt like terror.
‘No more,’ Binadas gasped.
Trull glanced at his brother, saw the pallor of his face, the glistening sweat on his brow. ‘They are resisting this?’
Binadas nodded. ‘They know they are about to die.’
‘How can wraiths die?’ Rhulad demanded. ‘Are they not already ghosts? The spirits of our ancestors?’
‘Not ours,’ Binadas replied, but did not elaborate, gesturing instead towards Trull. ‘Strike at the ice, brother.’
Trull hesitated. He looked round over his left shoulder, searched until he found the distant wolf. It had lowered its head, legs gathering under it. ‘Daughter Dusk,’ he whispered, ‘it’s about to charge.’ Below, Theradas and Midik were readying their spears.
‘Now, Trull!’
Fear’s bellow startled him, so that he almost dropped the spear. Jaw clenching, he faced the spar once more, then slashed the iron spear-head against the ice.
Even as the weapon whipped forward, Trull’s peripheral vision caught motion on all sides, as figures seemed to rise from the very snow itself.
Then the spar exploded into blinding, white mist.
Sudden shouts.
Trull felt a savage wrench on the spear in his hands, the Blackwood ringing like iron as countless wraiths were torn free. Their death-cries filled his skull. Stumbling, he tightened his grip, striving to see through the cloud.
Weapons clashed.
An antler clawed for his face, each tine carved into a barbed point tipped with quartzite. Trull reeled back, flinging the spear shaft into the antler’s path. Trapping it. He twisted the spear round, reversing grip, and succeeded in forcing the attacker into releasing the antler. It spun away to one side. An upward slash with the spear, and Trull felt the iron blade tear through hide and flesh, clattering along ribs before momentarily springing free, to connect hard against the underside of a jaw.
The scene around him was becoming more visible. They were beset by savages, small and bestial, wearing white-skinned hides, faces hidden behind flat white masks. Wielding claw-like antler weapons and short stabbing spears with glittering stone points, the Jheck swarmed on all sides.
