Memories of Ice

'I'm a caravan guard captain, and damned good at it. When I'm sober, that is.'

'You are the master of war in the name of the Lord of Summer-'

'We'll call that a hobby.'

'A — a what!?'

They heard laughter. Captain Paran, still crouching beside Itkovian, was looking their way, and had clearly heard the conversation. The Malazan grinned at Rath'Trake. 'It never goes how you think it should, does it, priest? That's the glory of us humans, and your new god had best make peace with that, and soon. Gruntle, keep playing by your own rules.'

'I hadn't planned otherwise, Captain,' Gruntle replied. 'How fares the Shield Anvil?'

Itkovian glanced over. 'I am well, sir.'

'Now that's a lie,' Stonny said.

'None the less,' the Shield Anvil said, accepting Mallet's shoulder as he slowly straightened.

Gruntle looked down at the two white cutlasses in his hands. 'Hood take me,' he muttered, 'but these have turned damned ugly.' He forced the blades into their scarred, tattered sheaths.

'They are not to leave your hands until this war is done,' Rath'Trake snapped.

'Another word from you, priest,' Gruntle said, 'and you'll be done.'

No-one else had ventured onto the plaza. Corporal Picker stood with the other Bridgeburners at the alley mouth, trying to determine what was going on. Conversations surrounded her, as the soldiers conjectured in time-honoured fashion, guessing at the meaning of the gestures and muted exchanges they witnessed among the dignitaries.

Picker glared about. 'Blend, where are you?'

'Here,' she replied at the corporal's shoulder.

'Why don't you sidle out there and find out what's happening?'

She shrugged. 'I'd get noticed.'

'Really?'

'Besides, I don't need to. It's plain to me what's happened.'

'Really?'

Blend made a wry face. 'You lose your brain when you gave up those torcs, Corporal? Never seen you so consistently wide-eyed before.'

'Really,' Picker repeated, this time in a dangerous drawl. 'Keep it up and you'll regret it, soldier.'

'An explanation? All right. Here's what I think I've been seeing. The Grey Swords had some personal business to clear up, which they've done, only it damn near ripped that commander to pieces. But Mallet, drawing on Hood-knows whose powers, has lent some strength — though I think it was the captain's hand that brought the man back from the dead — and no, I never knew Paran had it in him, and if we've been thinking lately that he was more than just a willow-spined noble-born officer, we've just seen proof of our suspicions. But I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing for us — he won't stick a sword in our backs, Corporal. He might step in front of one heading our way, in fact. As for Gruntle, well, I think he's just shaken himself awake — and that masked priest of Trake's ain't happy about it — but no-one else gives a damn, because sometimes a smile is precisely what we all need.'

Picker's reply was a grunt.

'And finally, after watching all that,' Blend continued, 'it's time for Humbrall Taur and his Barghast…'

Humbrall Taur had raised his axe high, and had begun walking towards the Thrall's gate. Warchiefs and shouldermen and women emerged from the gathered tribes, crossing the plaza in the giant warrior's wake.

Trotts pushed his way through the knot of Bridgeburners and joined them.

Staring at his back, Picker snorted.

'He goes to meet his gods,' Blend murmured. 'Give him that, Corporal.'

'Let's hope he stays with them,' she replied. 'Hood knows, he don't know how to command-'

'But Captain Paran does,' Blend said.

She glanced at her companion, then shrugged. 'I suppose he does at that.'

'Might be worth cornering Antsy,' Blend continued in a low tone, 'and anyone else who's been talking through their cracks of late …'

'Cornering, aye. Then beating them senseless. Sound plan, Blend. Find us Detoran. Seems we got personal business, too, to clear up.'

'Well. Guess your brain's working after all.'

Picker's only reply was another grunt.

Blend slipped back into the crowd.

Personal business. I like the sound of that. We'll straighten 'em up for ya, Captain. Hood knows, it's the least I can do.

Circling high overhead, the sparrowhawk's sharp eyes missed nothing. The day was drawing to a close, shadows lengthening. Banks of dust on the plain to the west revealed the retreating Pannions — still being driven ever westward by elements of Humbrall Taur's Barahn clan.