Memories of Ice

A huge, dark-skinned figure emerged from the gloom, her weapons and armour softly clinking. Seeing both Whiskeyjack and Paran, the woman hesitated, then, fixing her gaze on the commander, she said, 'The watch is being turned over, sir. We're all coming in, as ordered.'

'Why are you telling me, soldier?' Whiskeyjack rumbled. 'You talk to your immediate superior.'

The woman scowled, pivoted to face Paran. 'The watch-'

'I heard, Detoran. Have the Bridgeburners get their gear and assemble in the compound.'

'It's still a bell and a half before we leave-'

'I'm aware of that, soldier.'

'Yes, sir. At once, sir.'

The woman ambled off.

Whiskeyjack sighed. 'About that offer-'

'My tutor was Napan,' Paran said. 'I've yet to meet a Napan who knows the meaning of respect, and Detoran's no exception. I'm also aware,' he continued, 'that she's no exception as far as Bridgeburners go, either.'

'It seems your tutor taught you well,' Whiskeyjack muttered.

Paran frowned. 'What do you mean?'

'His disrespect for authority's rubbed off, Captain. You just interrupted your commander.'

'Uh, my apologies. I keep forgetting you're not a sergeant any more.'

'So do I, which is why I need people like you to get it right.' The veteran turned to Mallet. 'Remember what I said, Healer.'

'Aye, sir.'

Whiskeyjack glanced once more at Paran. 'The hurry up and wait was a good touch, Captain. Soldiers love to stew.'

Paran watched the man head off towards the gatehouse, then said to Mallet, 'Your private discussion with the commander, Healer. Anything I should know?'

Mallet's blink was sleepy. 'No, sir.'

'Very well. You may rejoin your squad.'

'Yes, sir.'

When he was alone, Paran sighed. Thirty-eight bitter, resentful veterans, already twice betrayed. I wasn't part of the treachery at the siege of Pale, and Laseen's proclamation of outlawry embraced me as much as it did them. Neither event can be laid at my feet, yet they're doing it anyway.

He rubbed at his eyes. Sleep had become an … unwelcome thing. Night after night, ever since their flight from Darujhistan … pain — and dreams, no, nightmares. Gods below. He spent the dark hours twisted beneath his blankets, his blood racing through him, acids bubbling in his stomach, and when consciousness finally slipped from him, his sleep was fitful, racked with dreams of running. Running on all fours. Then drowning.

It's the blood of the Hound, coursing undiminished within me. It must be.

He had tried to tell himself more than once that the Shadow Hound's blood was also the source of his paranoia. The thought elicited a sour grin. Untrue. What I fear is all too real. Worse, this vast sense of loss. without the ability to trust — anyone. Without that, what do I see in the life awaiting me? Naught but solitude, and thus, nothing of value. And now, all these voices. whispering of escape. Escape.

He shook himself, spat to clear the sour phlegm in his throat. Think of that other thing, that other scene. Solitary. Baffling. Remember, Paran, the voice you heard. It was Tattersail's — you did not doubt it then, why do so now? She lives. Somehow, some way, the sorceress lives.

Ahh, the pain! A child screaming in darkness, a Hound howling lost in sorrow. A soul nailed to the heart of a wound. and I think myself alone! Gods, I wish I were!

Whiskeyjack entered the gatehouse, closed the door behind him and strode over to the scribe's table. He leaned against it, stretched out his aching leg. His sigh was like the easing of endless knots, and when it was done he was trembling.

After a moment the door opened.

Straightening, Whiskeyjack scowled at Mallet. 'I thought your captain'd called for an assembly, Healer-'

'Paran's in worse shape than even you, sir.'

'We've covered this. Guard the lad's back — you having second thoughts, Mallet?'

'You misunderstand. I just quested in his direction — my Denul warren recoiled, Commander.'

Whiskeyjack only now noted the pallid cast of the healer's round face. 'Recoiled?'