A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

of his cloak then pranced onto dry land.
'Oh, wasn't that amusing?' he sang. 'Wretches, all of you.
What do you want? I'm busy. Do you understand? Busy.'
    Onrack pointed one skeletal arm out towards the lake.
'Cotillion would send us across this water, on a mission he
will not explain, to achieve goals he refuses to define, in a
place he cannot describe. We therefore call upon you,
formless one, to deliver what he will not.'
    Shadowthrone giggled.
    Cotillion glanced away, suspecting what was coming.
    'Delighted to, bony one. I respond in this manner. It is as
Cotillion believes. The rooster died of grief.'
    A curse from Quick Ben as Shadowthrone then swirled
into nothingness.
    Cotillion turned away. 'Supplies await you outside the
longhouse. When you return down here, a boat will have
been readied. Make your goodbyes to Minala and the
children as brief as possible. The way ahead is long and
arduous, and we are running out of time.'
    The Undying Gratitude heeled hard to starboard, the gale
bitter with the cold reek of ice. Pulling and half climbing
his way across the aft deck as the crew struggled against the
sudden onslaught, First Mate Skorgen Kaban reached
the pilot station where Shurq Elalle, held in place by a
leather harness, stood with legs planted wide.
    She seemed impervious to the plunging temperature,
with not even a hint of colour slapped to her cheeks by the
buffeting wind. An uncanny woman indeed. Uncanny,
insatiable, unearthly, she was like a sea goddess of old, a
glamoured succubus luring them all to their doom – but no,
that was not a good thought, not now, not ever. Or at least
for as long as he sailed with her.
    'Captain! It's going to be close – them mountains of ice
are closin' on the cut, maybe faster than we are! Where in
the Errant's name did they come from?'
    'We'll make it,' Shurq Elalle asserted. 'Come round into
the lee of the island – it's the northwest shore that's going
to get hammered. I'd be amazed if the citadel's walls on that
side survive what's coming. Look at the Reach, Pretty, it's
nothing but fangs of ice – wherever all this has come from,
it's devouring the entire coast.'
    'Damned cold, is what it is,' Skorgen said in a growl.
'Maybe we should turn round, Captain. That fleet never
came after us anyway – we could head for Lether Mouth—'
'And starve before we're halfway there. No, Pretty,
Second Maiden Fort's an independent state now, and I'm
finding that rather appealing. Besides, I'm curious. Aren't
you?'
    'Not enough to risk getting crushed by them white jaws,
Captain.'
    'We'll make it.'
    The foment that was the crest of the heaving bergs was the
colour of old leather, shredded by the churning fragments
of ice, tree roots, shattered trunks and huge broken rocks
that seemed to defy the pull to the deep – at least for long
enough to appear atop the water, like the leading edge of a
slide, rolling on across the surface of the tumult before
reluctantly vanishing into the depths.
    Tumbling out from this surge like rotted curtains was fog,
plucked and torn by the ferocious winds, and Shurq Elalle,
facing astern, watched as the maelstrom heaved in their
wake. It was gaining, but not fast enough; they were
moments from rounding the isle's rocky headland, which
looked to be formidable enough to shunt the ice aside,
down its length.
    At least, she hoped so. If not, then Second Maiden's
harbour was doomed. And so is my ship and crew. As for herself,
well, if she managed to avoid being crushed or frozen
in place, she could probably work her way clear, maybe
even clamber aboard for the long ride to the mainland's
coast.
    It won't come to that. Islands don't get pushed around. Buried, possibly, but then Fent Reach is where it's all piling up – what's chasing us here is just an outer arm, and before long it'll be fighting the tide. Errant fend, imagine what happened to the Edur homeland – that entire coast must have been chewed to pieces – or swallowed up entire. So what broke up the dam, that's what I want to know.
    Groaning, the Undying Gratitude rounded the point, the
wind quickly dropping off as the ship settled and began its
crawl into the high-walled harbour. A prison island indeed
– all the evidence remained: the massive fortifications, the
towers with lines of sight and fire arcs facing both to sea
and inland. Huge ballistae, mangonels and scorpions
mounted on every available space, and in the harbour itself
rock-pile islands held miniature forts festooned with