Memories of Ice

One. He can no longer walk, and his breath seems so laboured within that malformed chest.'

'He'. crippled. crumpled ribs like skeleton hands closing tighter on lungs, ever tighter. Seerdomin. This is me you describe.

But who am I?

I'd felt power once, Long ago.

There is a wolf.

A wolf. Trapped in this cage — my chest, these bones, yes, he cannot breathe. It hurts so to breathe.

The howls are gone. Silenced. The wolf cannot call. call.

To whom?

I'd rested my hand, once, on her furred shoulder. Near the neck. We'd not yet awakened, she and I. So close, travelling in step, yet not awakened. such tragic ignorance. Yet she'd gifted me her mortal visions, her only history — such as she knew it to be, whilst deep in her heart slept.

. slept my beloved.

'Holy One, your mother's embrace will kill him, should he be returned to it-'

'You dare order me?' the Seer hissed, and there was trembling in his voice.

'I do not command, Holy One. I state a fact.'

'Ultentha! Dearest Septarch, come forward! Yes, look upon this man at your Seerdomin's feet. What think you?'

'Holy One,' a new voice, softer, 'my most trusted servant speaks true. This man's bones are so mangled-'

'I can see!' the Seer screamed.

'Holy One,' the Septarch continued, 'relieve him from his horror.'

'No! I will not! He is mine! He is Mother's! She needs him — someone to hold — she needs him!'

'Her love is proving fatal,' the Seerdomin said.

'You both defy me? Shall I gather my Winged Ones? To send you to oblivion? To fight and squabble over what's left? Yes? Shall I?'

'As the Holy One wills.'

'Yes, Ultentha! Precisely! As I will!'

The Seerdomin spoke. 'Shall I return him to the Matron, then, Holy One?'

'Not yet. Leave him there. I am amused by the sight of him. Now, Ultentha, your report.'

'The trenches are completed, Holy One. The enemy will come across the flats to face the city wall. They'll not send scouts to the forested ridge on their right — I will stake my soul on that.'

'You have, Ultentha, you have. And what of those damned Great Ravens? If but one has seen 'Your Winged Ones have driven them off, Holy One. The skies have been cleared, and so the enemy's intelligence is thus thwarted. We shall permit them to establish their camps on the flats, then we shall rise from our hidden positions and descend upon their flank. This, in time with the assault of the Mage Cadres from the walls and the Winged Ones from the sky, as well as Septarch Inal's sortie from the gates — Holy One, victory will be ours.'

'I want Caladan Brood. I want his hammer, delivered into my hands. I want the Malazans annihilated. I want the Barghast gods grovelling at my feet. But most of all, I want the Grey Swords! Is that understood? I want that man, Itkovian — then I will have a replacement for my mother. Thus, hear me well, if you seek mercy for Toc the Younger, bring to me Itkovian. Alive.'

'It will be as you will, Holy One,' Septarch Ultentha said.

It will be as he wills. He is my god. What he wills, all that he wills. The wolf cannot breathe. The wolf is dying.

He — we are dying.

'And where is the enemy now, Ultentha?'

'They have indeed divided, two days past, since they crossed the river.'

'Yet are they not aware that the cities they march towards are dead?'

'So their Great Ravens must have reported, Holy One.'

'Then what are they up to?'

'We are unsure. Your Winged Ones dare not draw too close — their presence is yet to be noted, I believe, and best we keep it that way.'

'Agreed. Well, perhaps they imagine we have set traps — hidden troops, or some such thing — and fear a surprise attack from behind should they simply ignore the cities.'

'We are granted more time by their caution, Holy One.'

'They are fools, swollen with the victory at Capustan.'

'Indeed, Holy One. For which they will dearly pay.'

Everyone pays. No-one escapes. I thought I was safe. The wolf was a power unto himself, stretching awake. He was where I fled to.

But the wolf chose the wrong man, the wrong body. When he came down to take my eye — that flash of grey, burning, that I'd thought a stone — I'd been whole, young, sound.

But the Matron has me now. Old skin sloughing from her massive arms, the smell of abandoned snakepits. The twitch of her embrace — and bones break, break and break again. There has been so much pain, its thunder endless of late. I have felt her panic, as the Seer has said. This is what has taken my mind. This is what has destroyed me.

Better I had stayed destroyed. Better my memories never returned. Knowledge is no gift.

Cursed aware. Lying here on this cold floor, the softly surging waves of pain receding — I can no longer feel my legs. I smell salt. Dust and mould. There is weight on my left hand. It is pinned beneath me, and now grows numb.

I wish I could move.

'… salt the bodies. There's no shortage. Scurvy's taken so many of the Tenescowri, it's all our troops can do to gather the corpses, Holy One.'

'Mundane diseases will not take the soldiers, Ultentha. I have seen this in a dream. The mistress walked among the Tenescowri, and lo, their flesh swelled, their fingers and toes rotted and turned black, their teeth fell out in streams of red spit. But when she came upon my chosen warriors, I saw her smile. And she turned away.'

'Holy One,' the Seerdomin said, 'why would Poleil bless our cause?'

'I know not, nor do I care. Perhaps she has had her own vision, of the glory of our triumph, or perhaps she simply begs favour. Our soldiers will be hale. And once the invaders are destroyed, we can begin our march once more, to new cities, new lands, and there grow fat on the spoils.'

The invaders. among them, my kin. I was Toc the Younger, a Malazan. And the Malazans are coming.

The laugh that came from his throat began softly, a liquid sound, then grew louder as it continued.

The conversation fell silent. The sound he made was the only one in the chamber.

The Seer's voice spoke from directly above him. 'And what amuses you so, Toc the Younger? Can you speak? Ah, haven't I asked that once before?'

Breath wheezing, Toc answered, 'I speak. But you do not hear me. You never hear me.'

'Indeed?'

'Onearm's Host, Seer. The deadliest army the Malazan Empire has ever produced. It's coming for you.'

'And I should quake?'

Toc laughed again. 'Do as you like. But your mother knows.'

'You think she fears your stupid soldiers? I forgive your ignorance, Toc the Younger. Dear Mother, it must be explained, has ancient … terrors. Moon's Spawn. But let me be more precise, so as to prevent your further misunderstanding. Moon's Spawn is now home to the Tiste Andii and their dreaded Lord, but they are as lizards in an abandoned temple. They dwell unaware of the magnificence surrounding them. Dear Mother cannot be reached by such details, alas. She is little more than instinct these days, the poor, mindless thing.

'The Jaghut remember Moon's Spawn. I alone am in possession of the relevant scrolls from Gothos's Folly that whisper of the K'Chain Nah'rhuk — the Short-Tails, misbegotten children of the Matrons — who fashioned