Memories Of Ice by Erikson Steven

Author:Erikson, Steven [Erikson, Steven]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Science Fiction, Epic
ISBN: 9780553813128
Publisher: Bantam
Published: 2001-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Malazan Book of The Fallen 3 - Memories of Ice

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The First Child of the Dead Seed

dreams of a father's dying breath

and hears in eternal refrain

the scream trapped in his lungs –

Dare you step behind his eyes

even for a moment?

The First Child of the Dead Seed

leads an army of sorrow

down hunger's bone-picked road

where a mother dances and sings –

Dare you walk in his steps

and dearly hold her hand?

The First Child of the Dead Seed

is sheathed in the clutter of failed armour

defending him from the moment of birth

through years of dire schooling –

Do not dare judge him hard

lest you wear his skin.

Silba of the Shattered Heart

K'alass

The Tenescowri rose like an inexorable flood against every wall of the city. Rose, then swept over, a mass of humanity driven mad by hunger. Gate barricades buckled to the pressure, then gave way.

And Capustan drowned.

Four hundred paces from the barracks, Itkovian wheeled his blood-spattered mount. Figures reached up from below, clawed along the horse's armoured limbs. The beast, in cold fury, stamped down repeatedly, crushing bones, caving in chests and heads.

Three Manes of Grey Swords surrounded the Shield Anvil where they had been cut off from the barracks atop the gentle hill that was the cemetery of pillars. Most of those upright coffins had been toppled, shattering to spill their mouldy, cloth-wrapped contents, now jumbled among their cousins in death.

Itkovian could see the barracks gate, against which bodies were piled high – high enough to climb, which is what scores of Tenescowri were doing, clambering up towards the flanking revetments only to be met by the serrated blades of long-handled pikes. Pikes that killed, that wounded peasants who made no effort to defend themselves, that whipped back and forth trailing banners of blood and gore.

Itkovian had never witnessed such a horrifying sight. For all his battles, for all the terrors of combat and all that a soldier could not help but see, the vision before him swept all else from his mind.

As peasants fell back, tumbled their way down the slope of corpses, women leapt at the men among them, tore at their clothing, pinned them in place with straddled legs and, amidst blood, amidst shrieks and clawing fingers, they raped them.

Along the edges of the dead and dying, others fed on their kin.

Twin nightmares. The Shield Anvil was unable to decide which of the two shook him the most. His blood flowed glacial cold in his veins, and he knew, with dread verging on panic, that the assault had but just begun.

Another wave surged to close with the hapless band of Grey Swords in the cemetery. To all sides, the wide avenues and streets were packed solid with frenzied Tenescowri. All eyes were fixed on Itkovian and his soldiers. Hands reached out towards them, no matter what the distance, and hungrily clawed the air.

Locking shields, the Grey Swords reformed their tattered square surrounding the Shield Anvil. It would be swallowed, Itkovian well knew, as it had been only moments earlier, yet, if his silent

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