Memories of Ice

'A score of 'em up there, Mallet! Trotts is holding them off-'

'The damned idiot!' The healer finished loading his crossbow and scrambled to the stairs, pausing briefly to examine Antsy. 'Find yourself a new helm, Spin, then follow!'

'What about Antsy?'

'He'll live a while longer. Hurry, damn you!'

The staircase was crowded with fresh bodies, all the way up to the next landing.

Mallet arrived in time to find himself caught in a descending rush — Seerdomin and, in their midst, a snarling Trotts, tumbling in a thrashing wall of flesh straight down onto the healer. A blade — the Barghast's — plunged through Mallet's shoulder, then whipped back out as they one and all fell onto the hard stone steps. Axe-blades, daggers, gauntlets, helms and greaves made the human avalanche a vicious shock of pain that did not end even when they were brought to a flailing halt at the bend in the stairwell.

Trotts was the first one to extricate himself, stabbing down with his shortsword, kicking and stamping with his boots. Cursing, Mallet dragged himself clear of the Barghast's frenzy, fire lancing from the wound in his shoulder.

Moments later, there was only the sound of gasping breaths in the stairwell.

The healer twisted round, found a wall at his back, and slowly pushed himself upright — to glare up at Trotts. 'You stabbed me, you bastard!'

Even as he said it, his words fell away as he looked at the Barghast. The huge warrior had taken more wounds than Mallet had thought possible. He had been chopped to pieces. Yet he did not even so much as waver as he grinned down at the healer. 'Stabbed you, did I? Good.'

Mallet grimaced. 'I see your point, you blue-toothed cattle-dog. Why should you get all the fun?'

'Aye. Where's Antsy and Det and Spin?'

'Landing below. Det's dead. We'll have to carry Antsy. From the sound, Spin's still looking for a new helm.'

'They'll all be too big,' Trotts growled. 'We need to find the kitchen — a cup.'

Mallet pushed himself from the wall. 'Good idea. Let's get going, then.'

'I'll take point, now — cooks are dangerous.'

The Barghast, streaming blood, moved past the healer.

'Trotts.'

He paused. 'Aye?'

'Spin said a score.'

'Aye.'

'All dead?'

'Maybe half. The rest ran away.'

'You scared them off, did you?'

'Spin's hairshirt, is my guess. Come on, Healer.'

Toc's head lolled, the scene rising and falling as the T'lan Imass carried him down the torchlit corridor. Occasionally, Tool stepped over a body or two.

My brother. He called me that.

I have no brother.

Only a mother.

And a god. Seer, where are you? Will you not come for me, now? The wolf dies. You have won. Free me, Lord of All. Free me to walk through Hood's Gate.

They reached an arched doorway, the door lying shattered on this side. Wood still nailed to bronze bands shifted unsteadily underfoot as Tool crossed it. A large, domed chamber, twenty paces across, was before them. It had once been filled with strange mechanisms — machines used by torturers — but these had all been smashed into ruin, flung to the sides to lean like broken-boned beasts against the walls.

Victims of rage. was this Tool's work? This undead, emotionless. thing?

A sudden clang of blades from the arched doorway opposite.

The T'lan Imass stopped. 'I shall have to set you down, now.'

Down. Yes. It's time.

Toc twisted his head as Tool slowly lowered him to the flagstones. A figure stood in the doorway on the other side of the chamber. Masked, white enamel, twin-scarred. A sword in each hand. Oh, I know you, do I not?

The figure said nothing and simply waited until Tool had stepped away from Toc. The battered T'lan Imass drew the two-handed flint sword from his shoulder sling, then spoke, 'Mok, Third among the Seguleh, when you are done with me, would you take Toc the Younger from this place?'

Lying on his side, Toc watched as the masked warrior tilted his head in acknowledgement. Mok, you damned fool. You are about to kill my friend. my brother.

Blurred motion, two warriors closing too fast for Toc's lone eye to follow. Iron sang with stone. Sparks shooting through the gloom to light the broken instruments of torture surrounding them, in racing flashes of revelation — shadows dancing in the wood and metal tangle, and, to Toc, it was as if all the accumulated pain that these mechanisms had absorbed in their lifetimes was suddenly freed.

By the sparks.