Memories of Ice

Emotions suddenly assailed her — feelings that were not her own, but came from whatever lay within the cage. Anguish. Overwhelming pain.

She wanted to flee.

Yet it sensed her. It demanded that she stay.

That she come closer.

Close enough to reach out.

To touch.

The Mhybe screamed. She was in a cloud of dust that clawed her eyes blind, on her knees suddenly, feeling as if she was being torn apart — her spirit, her every instinct for survival rearing up one last time. To resist the summons. To flee.

But she could not move.

And then the force reached out. It began to pull.

And the land beneath her shifted, tilted. The dust slicked. The dust became as glass.

On her hands and knees, she looked up through streaming eyes, the scene dancing before her.

The ribs were ribs no longer. They were legs.

And skin was not skin. It had become a web.

And she was sliding.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Were the Black Moranth a loquacious people, the history of Achievant Twist would be known. And were it known, from what preceded first mention of him following the alliance with the Malazan Empire; his sojourn during the Genabackan Campaigns of that same empire; and of his life within the Moranth Hegemony itself — one cannot but suspect that the tale would be worthy of more than one legend.

Lost Heroes

Badark of Nathii

The vision mountains loomed dark and massive, blotting the stars to the west. Her back to the vertical root wall of a toppled tree, Corporal Picker drew her rain cloak tighter against the chill. On her left, the distant walls of Setta formed a ragged black line on the other side of the starlit river. The city had proved closer to the mountains and to the river than the maps had indicated, which had been a good thing.

Her gaze remained fixed on the path below, straining in search of the first smudge of motion. At least the rain had passed, though mist had begun to gather. She listened to the drip of water from the pine boughs on all sides.

A boot squelched in mossy mud, then grated on granite. Picker glanced over, nodded, then returned her attention to the trail.

'Expect a while yet,' Captain Paran murmured. 'They've considerable ground to cover.'

'Aye,' Picker agreed. 'Only Blend runs a fast point, sir. She has eyes like a cat.'

'Let's hope she doesn't leave the others behind, then.'

'She won't.' She'd better not.

Paran slowly crouched at her side. 'I suppose we could have flown directly over the city and saved ourselves the trouble of checking it out on foot.'

'And if there'd been watchers they'd have seen us. No need to second guess yourself, Captain. We don't know what the Pannion Seer's got for eyes in this land, but we'd be fools to think we were entirely alone. We're already risking big with thinking we can travel at night and not be detected.'

'Quick Ben says it's the condors and nothing else, Lieutenant, and they only take to the sky during the day. So long as we keep under cover when the sun's out, we should be able to pull this off.'

Picker slowly nodded in the darkness. 'Spindle agrees. So do Bluepearl and Shank and Toes. Captain, with us and just us Bridgeburners frog-hopping with the Black Moranth, I'd have little concern. But since we're flying point on-'

'Shh — there, down below. Saw something.'

Blend was her usual admirable self, moving like a shadow, vanishing entirely for one, two, three heartbeats, then reappearing ten paces closer, zigzagging her way to where Picker and Paran waited.

Though neither officer had moved nor made a sound, Blend had somehow found them. Her teeth flashed white as she squatted down in front of them.

'Very impressive,' Paran muttered. 'Are you here to report or will you leave that to the man who's supposed to be doing that? Unless, of course, you've left Antsy and the rest stumbling lost half a league in your wake.'

The smile disappeared. 'Uh, no sir, they're about thirty paces back — can't you hear 'em? There, that was Spindle — his hairshirt snagging on a branch. And those steps out front — that's Antsy, he's bandy-legged, walks like an ape. Those clunks? Hedge. The quietest one of the lot is Detoran, oddly enough.'