Memories of Ice

The Boar of Summer was the voice of war. Dark and grisly, as ancient as humanity itself. The song of battle — the screams of the dying and the vengeful, the discordant, hacking music of iron weapons, of shields resounding to blows, of hissing arrows and quarrels … And forgive us all, the voice grows to a roar. It is not the time to hide behind temple walls. Not the time for foolish politics. We serve Fener by striding the soaked, steaming earth, weapons bared in quicksilver promise. We are the clash and clangour, the bellows of rage, pain and terror …

Rath'Fener was not the only priest of the Boar in this city to have achieved a Sceptred Rank. The difference was this: while Rath'Fener possessed such an ambition — to kneel before the boar cloak and humbly assume the ancient title of Destriant, vacant for so long — Karnadas had already achieved it.

Karnadas could put Rath'Fener in his place with a simple unveiling of his own position in the mortal hierarchy. In his place? I could depose the bastard with a gesture. But Brukhalian had forbidden him that sweet revelation. Nor could the Mortal Sword be swayed. The time for such a move was not propitious, he'd said, its yield as yet of too low a currency. Patience, Karnadas, that time will come.

Not an easy thing to accept…

'Is this a welcome night, Destriant?'

'Ah, Itkovian, I did not see you there in the gloom. 'Tis the Boar's storm, this night. So, how long have you stood there, Shield Anvil?' How long, in your cold, closed-in fashion, have you stared upon your High Priest? Black-mannered Itkovian, will you ever unsheathe your true self?

There was no way to read the man's expression in the darkness. 'Moments only, Destriant.'

'Does sleep elude you, sir?'

'Not when I seek it.'

Looking upon the Shield Anvil's blue chain surcoat beneath the grey rain-cape, the wrist-length cuffed gauntlets now slick and black with rain, Karnadas slowly nodded. 'I had not realized it was so close to dawn. Do you anticipate being gone for long?'

Itkovian shrugged. 'No, assuming they have indeed crossed in strength. I am restricted to leading but two wings in any case. Should we come upon little more than scouting parties, however, then the first blows against the Domin shall be made.'

'At last,' the Destriant said, grimacing as yet another gust of wind roiled over the battlement.

There was silence for a while.

Then Karnadas cleared his throat. 'What then, may I ask, has brought you up here, Shield Anvil?'

'The Mortal Sword has returned from the latest gathering. He wishes to speak with you.'

'And he has sat patiently waiting whilst we chatted?'

'I would imagine so, Destriant.'

The two Grey Swords turned to the tower's spiral stairs. They descended the slick, limned steps amidst streams trickling down the stone walls to either side. By the third tier down they could see their breaths. Until the arrival of the company, these barracks had been left virtually uninhabited for close to a century. The chill that had seeped into the thick-walled old fortress keep defied every effort to dispel it. Among the major structures in Capustan, it predated the Daru Keep — now re-named the Thrall and home to the Mask Council — and every other building with the exception of Prince Jelarkan's Palace. And that palace was not raised by human hands, most certainly not. I'd swear that on Fener's bristly hump.

Reaching ground level, Itkovian pushed open the squealing door that led directly into the central Round Hall. Alone in the massive, barely furnished chamber stood the Mortal Sword Brukhalian, motionless before the hearth and almost spectral despite his formidable height and build. His back was to the two newcomers, his long, wavy black hair unbound and down to just above his belted hips.

'Rath'Trake believes,' the commander rumbled without turning, 'there are unwelcome intruders on the plains west of the city. Demonic apparitions.'

Karnadas unclasped his cloak and shook the water from it. 'Rath'Trake, you said. I admit I do not understand the Tiger's sudden claim to true godhood. That a cult of a First Hero should have succeeded in shouldering its way into a council of temples-'