Memories of Ice

Itkovian finally looked down on the undead shaman. 'Is that a hint of pleasure in your voice, Pran Chole?'

'Yes. And sorrow.'

'Why sorrow? From the looks of it, these T'lan Ay took not a single loss against these K'Chain Che'Malle. Four, five hundred. against five. Swift destruction.'

The Bonecaster nodded. 'Their kind are skilled at defeating large beasts. My sorrow arises from a flawed mercy, mortal. At the First Gathering, our misplaced love for the ay — these few that remained — led us onto a cruel path. We chose to include them in the Ritual. Our selfish needs were a curse. All that made the flesh and blood ay honourable, proud creatures was taken away. Now, like us, they are husks, plagued by dead memories.'

'Even undead, they have majesty,' Itkovian acknowledged. 'As with you.'

'Majesty in the T'lan Ay, yes. Among the T'lan Imass? No, mortal. None.'

'We differ in opinion, then, Pran Chole.' Itkovian turned to address his soldiers. 'Check the fallen.'

The Shield Anvil rode down to the two chain-clad men, who now stood together beside the remnants of the larger of the two carriages. Their ringed armour was in tatters. Blood leaked from them, forming sodden pools at their feet. Something about the two men made Itkovian uneasy, but he pushed the emotion away.

The bearded one swung to face the Shield Anvil as he reined in before them. 'I bid you welcome, warrior,' he said, his accent strange to Itkovian's ears. 'Extraordinary events, just past.'

Despite his inner discipline, his unease deepened. None the less, he managed an even tone as he said, 'Indeed, sir. I am astonished, given the attention the K'ell Hunters evidently showed you two, that you are still standing.'

'We are resilient individuals, in truth.' His flat gaze scanned the ground beyond the Shield Anvil. 'Alas, our companions were found lacking in such resources.'

Farakalian, having conferred with the soldiers crouched among the fallen, now rode towards Itkovian.

'Shield Anvil. Of the three Barghast on the hill, one lies dead. The other two are injured, but will survive with proper ministration. Of the rest, only one breathes no more. An array of injuries to attend to. Two may yet die, sir. None of the survivors has yet regained consciousness. Indeed, each seems in unusually deep sleep.'

Itkovian glanced at the bearded man. 'Do you know more of this unnatural sleep, sir?'

'I am afraid not.' He faced Farakalian. 'Sir, among the survivors, can you include a tall, lean, somewhat elderly man, and a shorter, much older one?'

'I can. The former, however, hovers at the gates.'

'We'd not lose him, if at all possible.'

Itkovian spoke, 'Soldiers of the Grey Swords are skilled in the art of healing, sir. They shall endeavour to the best of their abilities, and no more can be asked of them.'

'Of course. I am … distraught.'

'Understood.' The Shield Anvil addressed Farakalian: 'Draw on the Destriant's power if necessary.'

'Yes, sir.'

He watched the man ride off.

'Warrior,' the bearded man said, 'I am named Bauchelain, and my companion here is Korbal Broach. I must ask, these undead servants of yours — four-footed and otherwise-'

'Not servants, Bauchelain. Allies. These are T'lan Imass. The wolves, T'lan Ay.'

'T'lan Imass,' the one named Korbal Broach whispered in a reedy thin voice, his eyes suddenly bright as he stared at the figures on the ridge. 'Undead, born of the greatest necromantic ritual there has ever been! I would speak with them!' He swung to Bauchelain. 'May I? Please?'

'As you wish,' Bauchelain replied with an indifferent shrug.

'A moment,' Itkovian said. 'You both bear wounds that require attending to.'

'No need, Shield Anvil, though I thank you for your concern. We heal. swiftly. Please, concentrate on our companions. Now, that is odd — our beasts of burden and sundry horses are untouched — do you see? Fortunate indeed, once I complete my repairs to our carriage.'

Itkovian studied the wreckage to which Bauchelain now swung his attention.

Repairs? 'Sir, we return to Capustan immediately. There will be no time to spare effecting … repairs … to your carriage.'

'I shall not be long, I assure you.'

A shout from the ridge pulled the Shield Anvil round, in time to see Korbal Broach flying backwards from a backhanded blow — delivered by the Bonecaster Pran Chole. The man struck the slope, rolled down to its base.

Bauchelain sighed. 'He lacks manners, alas,' he said, eyes on his companion, who was slowly regaining his feet. 'The price of a sheltered, nay, isolated childhood. I hope the T'lan Imass are not too offended. Tell me, Shield Anvil, do these undead warriors hold grudges?'

Itkovian allowed himself a private smile. You can ask that of the next Jaghut we happen across. 'I wouldn't know, sir.'