Memories of Ice

Striding at her side, Quick Ben voiced a soft grunt, and the corporal turned in time to see a score of dirt-smeared hands closing around the wizard's legs. The earth seemed to foam beneath Quick Ben's boots, then he was being dragged down, stained, bony fingers clutching, tugging, gnarled forearms reaching upward to wrap themselves about the wizard's struggling form.

'Quick!' Picker bellowed, flinging herself towards him. He reached for her, a look a dumb amazement on his face as the soil heaved around his waist. Pounding footsteps and shouts closed in. Picker's hand clamped on the wizard's wrist.

The earth surged to his chest. The hands reappeared to grasp Quick Ben's right arm and drag it down.

Her eyes met his, then he shook his head. 'Let me go, Corporal-'

'Are you mad-'

'Now, before you get my arm torn off-' His right shoulder was yanked beneath the soil.

Spindle appeared, flinging himself forward to wrap an arm around Quick Ben's neck.

'Let him go!' Picker yelled, releasing the wizard's wrist.

Spindle stared up at her. 'What?'

'Let him go, damn you!'

The squad mage unlocked his arm and rolled away, cursing.

Antsy burst among them, his short-handled shovel already in his hands as Quick Ben's head vanished beneath the earth. Dirt began flying.

'Ease off there, Sergeant,' Picker snapped. 'You'll end up taking off the top of his damned head!'

The sergeant stared at her, then leapt back as if standing on coals. 'Hood!' He raised his shovel and squinted at the blade. 'I don't see no blood! Anybody see any blood? Or — gods! — hair! Is that hair? Oh, Queen of Dreams-'

'That ain't hair,' Spindle growled, pulling the shovel from Antsy's hands. 'That's roots, you idiot! They got 'im. They got Quick Ben.'

'Who has?' Picker demanded.

'Barghast spirits. A whole horde of 'em! We was ambushed!'

'What about you, then?' the corporal asked.

'I ain't dangerous enough, I guess. At least' — his head snapped as he looked around — 'I hope not. I gotta get off this damned barrow, that's what I gotta do!'

Picker watched him scamper away. 'Hedge, keep an eye on him, will you?'

The swollen-faced sapper nodded, trudged off after Spindle.

'What do we do now?' Antsy hissed, his moustache twitching.

'We wait a bell or two, then if the wizard ain't managed to claw his way back out, we go on.'

The sergeant's blue eyes widened. 'We leave him?' he whispered.

'It's either that or we level this damned hill. And we wouldn't find him anyway — he's been pulled into their warren. It's here but it ain't here, if you know what I mean. Maybe when Spindle finds his nerve he can do some probing.'

'I knew that Quick Ben wasn't nothing but trouble,' Antsy muttered. 'Can't count on mages for nothing. You're right, what's the point of waiting around? They're damned useless anyway. Let's pack up and get going.'

'It won't hurt to wait a little while,' Picker said.

'Yeah, probably a good idea.'

She shot him a glance, then looked away with a sigh. 'Could do with something to eat. Might want to fix us something special, Sergeant.'

'I got dried dates and breadfruit, and some smoked leeches from that market south side in Pale.'

She winced. 'Sounds good.'

'I'll get right on it.'

He hurried off.

Gods, Antsy, you're losing it fast. And what about me? Mention dates and leeches and my mouth's salivating.

The high-prowed canoes lay rotting in the swamp, the ropes strung between them and nearby cedar boles bearded in moss. Dozens of the craft were visible. Humped bundles of supplies lay on low rises, swathed in thick mould, sprouting toadstools and mushrooms. The light was pallid, faintly yellow. Quick Ben, dripping with slime, dragged himself upright, spitting foul water from his mouth as he slowly straightened to look around.

His attackers were nowhere in sight. Insects flitted through the air in a desultory absence of haste. Frogs croaked and the sound of dripping water was constant. A faint smell of salt was in the air. I'm in a long-dead warren, decayed by the loss of mortal memory. The living Barghast know nothing of this place, yet it is where their dead go — assuming they make it this far. 'All right,' he said, his voice strangely muted by the turgid, heavy air, 'I'm here. What do you want?'