The T’lan Imass before them was shorter, squatter than Tool. Three black-iron broadswords of unfamiliar style impaled this undead warrior’s broad, massive chest, two of them driven in from behind, the other from the T’lan Imass’s left. Broken ribs jutted through black, salt-rimed skin. The leather strapping of all three sword handles hung in rotted, unravelled strips from the grips’ wooden under-plates. Wispy remnants of old sorcery flowed fitfully along the pitted blades.

The warrior’s features were extraordinarily heavy, the brow ridge a skinless shelf of bone, stained dark brown, the cheek bones swept out and high to frame flattened oval-shaped eye sockets. Cold-hammered copper fangs capped the undead’s upper canines. The T’lan Imass did not wear a helm. Long hair, bleached white, dangled to either side of the broad, chinless face, weighted at the ends with shark teeth.

A most dreadful, appalling apparition, Lady Envy reflected. ‘Have you a name, T’lan Imass?’ she asked.

‘I have heard the summons,’ the warrior said in a voice that was distinctly feminine. ‘It came from a place to match the direction I had already chosen. North. Not far, now. I shall attend the Second Gathering, and I shall address my Kin of the Ritual, and so tell them that I am Lanas Tog. Sent to bring word of the fates of the Ifayle T’lan Imass and of my own Kerluhm T’lan Imass.’

‘How fascinating,’ Lady Envy said. ‘And their fates are?’

‘I am the last of the Kerluhm. The Ifayle, who heeded our first summons, are all but destroyed. Those few that remain cannot extricate themselves from the conflict. I myself did not expect to survive the attempt. Yet I have.’

‘A horrific conflict indeed,’ Lady Envy quietly observed. ‘Where does it occur?’

‘The continent of Assail. Our losses: twenty-nine thousand eight hundred and fourteen Kerluhm. Twenty-two thousand two hundred Ifayle. Eight months of battle. We have lost this war.’

Lady Envy was silent for a long moment, then she said, ‘It seems you’ve finally found a Jaghut Tyrant who is more than your match, Lanas Tog.’

The T’lan Imass cocked her head. ‘Not Jaghut. Human.’

BOOK FOUR - MEMORIES OF ICE

BOOK FOUR - MEMORIES OF ICE

First in, last out.

Motto of the Bridgeburners

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Your friend’s face might prove the mask

the daub found in subtle shift

to alter the once familiar visage.

Or the child who formed unseen

in private darkness as you whiled oblivious

to reveal cruel shock as a stone

through a temple’s pane.

To these there is no armour on the soul.

And upon the mask is writ the bold word,

echoed in the child’s eyes,

a sudden stranger to all you have known.

Such is betrayal.

Death Vigil of Sorulan

Minir Othal