Memories of Ice

Blend was the first to complete her scramble over the tower's wreckage. Immediately beyond was a shattered building — three walls and half of the roof remaining. Within lay dusty darkness, and what might be a doorway far to the left of the room's far wall.

Two steps behind Blend, Picker leapt clear of the tumbled stone blocks to land skidding on the room's floor — colliding with a cursing, backpedalling Blend.

Feet tangling, the two women fell.

'Damn it, Blend-'

'Guards-'

A third voice cut in. 'Picker! Lieutenant!'

As her Bridgeburners gathered behind her, Picker sat up to see Hedge, Bluepearl and seven additional Bridgeburners — the ones who had taken crossbows to the top of the wall and had survived the consequences — emerge from the shadows.

'We tried getting back to you-'

'Never mind, Hedge,' Picker said, clambering to her feet. 'You played it right, soldier, trust me-'

Hedge was holding a cusser in one hand, which he raised with a grin. 'Held one back-'

'Did a T'lan Imass come through here?'

'Aye, a beat-up bastard, looked neither left nor right — just walked right past us — deeper into the keep-'

A Bridgeburner to the rear shouted, 'We got that K'Chain Che'Malle coming up behind us!'

'Through the door back there!' Hedge squealed. 'Clear the way, idiots! I've been waiting for this-'

Picker began shoving her soldiers towards the back wall.

The sapper scrambled back towards the breach.

The following events were a tumble in Picker's mind-

Blend gripped her arm and bodily threw her towards the doorway, where her soldiers were plunging through into whatever lay beyond. Picker swore, but Blend's hands were suddenly on her back, pushing her face first through the portal. Picker twisted with a snarl, and saw over Blend's shoulder-The K'Chain Che'Malle seemed to flow as it raced over the rubble, blades lifting.

Hedge looked up — to find himself four paces away from the charging reptile.

Picker heard him grunt, a muted, momentary sound-

The sapper threw the cusser straight down.

The K'Chain Che'Malle was already swinging — two huge blades descending-

The explosion beat them clean.

Blend and Picker were thrown through the doorway. The lieutenant's head snapped back to the thudding, staccato impact of flying stones against her helm and the lowered visor and cheek-guards. Those that made it past lanced fire into her face, filled her nose and mouth with blood.

Deafened, she reeled back through clouds of dust and smoke.

Voices were screaming — issuing from what seemed very far away then swiftly closing to surround her.

Stones falling — a cross-beam of tarred wood, raging with flames, sweeping down, ending with a solid thud and crunch of bones — a death-groan amidst the chaos, so close to Picker that she wondered if it wasn't her own.

Hands gripped her once again, pulled her round, propelled her down what seemed to be a corridor.

A tunnel of smoke and dust — no air — the pounding of boots, blind collisions, curses — darkness — that suddenly dissipated.

Picker stumbled into the midst of her soldiers, spitting blood, coughing. Around them, a room littered with dead Beklites, another door, opposite, that looked to have been shattered with a single punch. A lone lantern swung wildly from a hook above them.

'Look!' someone grunted. 'A dog's been chewing on the lieutenant's chin!'

Not even a jest — simply the absurd madness of battle. Shaking her head to a spatter of blood, Picker spat again and surveyed her troops through stinging, streaming eyes.

'Blend?' The name came out mangled but understandable.

Silence.

'Bucklund — back into the corridor! Find her!'

The Twelfth Squad's sergeant was back a moment later, dragging a blood-drenched body through the doorway. 'She's breathing — Hood knows how! Her back's full of stones and shards!'

Picker dropped to her knees beside her friend. 'You damned idiot,' she mumbled.

'We should've had Mallet with us,' Bucklund grumbled beside her.

Aye, not the only mistake in this fouled-up game.

'Oh!' a woman's voice cried. 'You are not Pannions!'

Weapons swung to the doorway.

A woman in a blindingly white telaba stood there, her long black hair shimmering, impossibly clean, perfectly combed. Veiled, stunningly beautiful eyes studied them. 'Have you, by any chance, seen three masked warriors? They should have passed this way, looking for the throne room, assuming there is one, that is. You might have heard some fighting-'

'No,' Bucklund growled. 'I mean, yes, we've heard fighting. Everywhere, ma'am. That is-'

'Shut up,' Picker sighed. 'No,' she said to the woman, 'we ain't seen no three masked warriors-'

'What of a T'lan Imass?'

'As a matter of fact, yeah-'

'Excellent! Tell me, does she still have all those swords impaling her? I can't imagine she'd leave-'

'What swords?' Picker demanded. 'Besides, it was male. I think.'

'It was,' another soldier piped up, then reddened as her comrades swung to her with broad grins.