Memories of Ice

true rendition of betrayal, but of that day, Ormulogun's portrayal is the closest to what was true that any mortal could hope to achieve …

N'aruhl's Commentary on Ormulogun's

Slaying of Whiskeyjack

Footsteps in the hallway announced yet another guest — Coll had no idea if invited or not — and he pulled his gaze away from the two ancient Rath' councillors kneeling before the burial pit, to see a robed figure appear in the doorway. Unmasked, face strangely indistinct.

The Knight of Death swung in a crackle of armour to face the newcomer. 'K'rul,' he grated, 'my Lord welcomes you to his sacred abode.'

K'rul? Isn't there an old temple in Darujhistan — the one with the belfry — K'rul's Belfry. Some kind of elder. Coll glanced over, met Murillio's eyes, saw the same slow realization writ plain on his friend's features. An Elder God has entered this chamber. Stands a half-dozen paces away. Beru fend us all! Another blood-hungry bastard from antiquity-K'rul strode towards the Mhybe.

Coll, hand settling on the grip of his sword, fear rising to lodge in his throat, stepped into the Elder God's path. 'Hold,' he growled. His heart pounded as he locked gazes with K'rul, seeing in those eyes … nothing. Nothing at all. 'If you're planning on opening her throat on that altar, well, Elder God or not, I won't make it easy for you,'

Rath'Togg's toothless mouth dropped open in a gasp on the other side of the pit.

The Knight of Death made a sound that might have been laughter, then said in a voice that was no longer his own, 'Mortals are nothing if not audacious.'

Murillio moved up to stand at Coll's side, raising a trembling hand to close on the hilt of his rapier.

K'rul glanced at the undead champion and smiled. 'Their most admirable gift, Hood.'

'Until it turns belligerent, perhaps. Then, it is best answered by annihilation.'

'Your answer, yes.' The Elder God faced Coll. 'I have no desire to harm the Mhybe. Indeed, I am here for her … salvation.'

'Well then,' snapped Murillio, 'maybe you can explain why there's a burial pit in here!'

'That shall become clear in time … I hope. Know this: something has happened. Far to the south. Something … unexpected. The consequences are unknown — to us all. None the less, the time has come for the Mhybe-'

'And what does that mean, precisely?' Coll demanded.

'Now,' the Elder God replied, moving past him to kneel before the Mhybe, 'she must dream for real.'

They were gone. Gone from her soul, and with their departure — with what Itkovian had done, was doing — all that she had hoped to achieve had been torn down, left in ruins.

Silverfox stood motionless, cold with shock.

Kallor's brutal attack had revealed yet another truth — the T'lan Ay had abandoned her. A loss that twisted a knife blade into her soul.

Once more, betrayal, the dark-hearted slayer of faith. Nightchill's ancient legacy. Tattersail and Bellurdan Skullcrusher both — killed by the machinations of Tayschrenn, the hand of the Empress. And now. Whiskeyjack. The two marines, my twin shadows for so long. Murdered.

Beyond the kneeling T'lan Imass waited the K'Chain Che'Malle undead. The huge creatures made no move towards the T'lan Imass — yet. They need only wade into the ranks, blades chopping down, and begin destroying. My children are beyond resistance. Beyond caring. Oh, ltkovian, you noble fool.

And this mortal army — she saw the Grey Swords down below, readying lassos, lances and shields — preparing to charge the K'Chain Che'Malle. Dujek's army was being destroyed within the city — the north gate had to be breached. She saw Gruntle, Trake's Mortal Sword, leading his motley legion down to join the Grey Swords. She saw officers riding before the wavering line of Malazans, rallying the heartbroken soldiers. She saw Artanthos — Tayschrenn — preparing to unleash his warren. Caladan Brood knelt beside Korlat, High Denul sorcery enwreathing the Tiste Andii woman. Orfantal stood behind the warlord — she felt the dragon in his blood, icy hunger, eager to return.

All for naught. The Seer and his demonic condors. and the K'Chain Che'Malle. will kill them all.

She had no choice. She would have to begin. Defy the despair, begin all that she had set in motion so long ago. Without hope, she would take the first step on the path.

Silverfox opened the Warren of Tellann.

Vanished within.

A mother's love abides.

But I was never meant to be a mother. I wasn't ready. I was unprepared to give so much of myself. A self I had only begun to unveil.

The Mhybe could have turned away. At the very beginning. She could have defied Kruppe, defied the Elder God, the Imass — what were these lost souls to her? Malazans, one and all. The enemy. Dire in the ways of magic. All with the blood of Rhivi staining their hands.

Children were meant to be gifts. The physical manifestation of love between a man and a woman. And for that love, all manner of sacrifice could be borne.

Is it enough that the child issued from my flesh? Arrived in this world in the way of all children? Is the simple pain of birth the wellspring of love? Everyone else believed so. They took the bond of mother and child as given, a natural consequence of the birth itself.

They should not have done that.

My child was not innocent.

Conceived out of pity, not love; conceived with dread purpose — to take command of the T'lan Imass, to draw them into yet another war — to betray them.

And now, the Mhybe was trapped. Lost in a dreamworld too vast to comprehend, where forces were colliding, demanding that she act, that she do … something.

Ancient gods, bestial spirits, a man imprisoned in pain, in a broken, twisted body. This cage of ribs before me — is it his? The one I spoke with, so long ago? The one writhing so in a mother's embrace? Are we as kin, he and I? Both trapped in ravaged bodies, both doomed to slide ever deeper into this torment of pain?

The beast waits for me — the man waits for me. We must reach out to each other. To touch, to give proof to both of us that we are not alone.

Is this what awaits us?

The cage of ribs, the prison, must be broken from the outside.

Daughter, you may have forsaken me. But this man, this brother of mine, him I shall not forsake.

She could not be entirely sure, but she believed that she started crawling once more.

The beast howled in her mind, a voice raw with agony.

She would have to free it, if she could. Such was pity's demand.

Not love.

Ah, now I see.

Thus.

He would embrace them. He would take their pain. In this world, where all had been taken from him, where he walked without purpose, burdened with the lives and deaths of tens of thousands of mortal souls — unable to grant them peace, unable — unwilling — to simply cast them off, he was not yet done.

He would embrace them. These T'lan Imass, who had twisted all the powers of the Warren of Tellann into a ritual that devoured their souls. A ritual that had left them — in the eyes of all others — as little more than husks, animated by a purpose they had set outside themselves, yet were chained to — for eternity.

Husks, yet… anything but.

And that was a truth Itkovian had not expected, had no way to prepare for.

Insharak Ulan, who was born third to Inal Thoom and Sultha A'rad of the Nashar Clan that would come to be Kron's own, in the spring of the Year of Blighted Moss, below the Land of Raw Copper, and I