The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (600 page)

‘So that
we
can live, Corabb! There is no other way – do you think that the Malazans would ever leave us be? No matter where or how far we fled? I thank Hood's dusty feet the Claw hasn't struck already, but I do not intend to live the rest of my life looking over my shoulder! I was a bodyguard, damn you – it was
her
cause, not mine!'

‘Your warriors – they expected you to fight at their sides—'

‘They expected nothing of the sort. The fools wanted to die. In Dryjhna's name.' He bared his teeth in contempt. ‘Well, let them! Let them die! And best of all, they are going to take half the Adjunct's army with them. There's your glory, Corabb!' He advanced on him, pointing towards the temple doors. ‘You want to join the fools? You want to feel your lungs searing with the heat, your eyes bursting, skin cracking? You want your blood to boil in your veins?'

‘An honourable death, Leoman of the Flails, compared to this.'

He voiced something like a snarl, spun back to L'oric. ‘Open the way – and fear not, I made no promises to her regarding you, beyond bringing you here.'

‘The fire grows into life outside this temple, Leoman,' L'oric said. ‘I may not succeed.'

‘Your chances diminish with each moment that passes,' Leoman said in a growl.

There was panic in the man's eyes. Corabb studied it, the way it seemed so…out of place. There, in the features he thought he knew so well. Knew every expression possible. Anger, cold amusement, disdain, the stupor and lidded eyes within the fumes of durhang. Every expression…except this one. Panic.

Everything was crumbling inside, and Corabb could feel himself drowning. Sinking ever deeper, reaching up towards a light that grew ever more distant, dimmer.

With a hissed curse, L'oric faced the altar. Its stones seemed to glow in the gloom, so new, the marble unfamiliar – from some other continent, Corabb suspected – traced through with purple veins and capillaries that seemed to pulse. There was a circular pool beyond the altar, the water steaming – it had been covered the last time they had visited; he could see the copper panels that had sealed it lying against a side-wall.

The air swirled above the altar.

She was waiting on the other side. A flicker, as if reflected from the pool of water, then the portal opened, engulfing the altar, edges spreading, curling black, then wavering fitfully. L'oric gasped, straining beneath some invisible burden. ‘I cannot hold this long! I see you, Queen!'

From the portal came a languid, cool voice, ‘L'oric, son of Osserc. I seek no geas from you.'

‘Then what do you want?'

A moment, during which the portal wavered, then: ‘Sha'ik is dead. The Whirlwind Goddess is no more. Leoman of the Flails, a question.' A new tone to her voice, something like irony. ‘Is Y'Ghatan – what you have done here – is this your Apocalypse?'

The desert warrior scowled, then said, ‘Well, yes.' He shrugged. ‘Not as big as we'd hoped…'

‘But, perhaps, enough. L'oric. The role of Sha'ik, the Seer of Dryjhna, is…vacant. It needs to be filled—'

‘Why?' L'oric demanded.

‘Lest something else, something less desirable, assume the mantle.'

‘And the likelihood of that?'

‘Imminent.'

Corabb watched the High Mage, sensed a rush of thoughts behind the man's eyes, as mysterious implications fell into place following the goddess's words. Then, ‘You have chosen someone.'

‘Yes.'

‘Someone who needs…protecting.'

‘Yes.'

‘Is that someone in danger?'

‘Very much so, L'oric. Indeed, my desires have been anticipated, and we may well have run out of time.'

‘Very well. I accept.'

‘Come forward, then. You, and the others. Do not delay – I too am sorely tried maintaining this path.'

His soul nothing but ashes, Corabb watched the High Mage stride into the portal, and vanish within the swirling, liquid stain.

Leoman faced him one more time, his voice almost pleading as he said, ‘My friend…'

Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas shook his head.

‘Did you not hear? Another Sha'ik – a new Sha'ik—'

‘And will you find her a new army as well, Leoman? More fools to lead to their deaths? No, I am done with you, Leoman of the Flails. Take your Malazan wench and be gone from my sight. I choose to die here, with my fellow warriors.'

Dunsparrow reached out and grasped Leoman's arm. ‘The portal's crumbling, Leoman.'

The warrior, last commander of Dryjhna, turned away, and, the woman at his side, strode into the gate. Moments later it dissolved, and there was nothing.

Nothing but the strange, swirling wind, skirling dust-devils tracking the inlaid tile floor.

Corabb blinked, looked round. Outside the temple, it seemed the world was ending, voicing a death-cry ever rising in timbre.
No…not a death-cry. Something else
…

Hearing a closer sound – from a side passage – a scuffle – Corabb drew his scimitar. Approached the curtain barring the corridor. With the tip of his blade, he swung the cloth aside.

To see children. Crouching, huddled. Ten, fifteen – sixteen in all. Smudged faces, wide eyes, all looking up at him. ‘Oh gods,' he murmured. ‘They have forgotten you.'

They all have. Every single one of them.

He sheathed his weapon and stepped forward. ‘It's all right,' he said. ‘We shall find us a room, yes? And wait this out.'

Something else
…Thunder, the death of buildings, the burgeoning wails of fire, howling winds.
This is what is outside, the world beyond, this…spirits below, Dryjhna
—

Outside, the birth-cries of the Apocalypse rose still higher.

 

‘There!' Throatslitter said, pointing.

Sergeant Balm blinked, the smoke and heat like broken glass in his eyes, and could just make out a half-score figures crossing the street before them. ‘Who?'

‘Malazans,' Throatslitter said.

From behind Balm: ‘Great, more for the clam-bake, what a night we're going to have—'

‘When I said be quiet, Widdershins, I meant it. All right, let's go meet them. Maybe they ain't as lost as us.'

‘Oh yeah? Look who's leading them! That drunk, what's her name? They're probably trying to find a bar!'

‘I ain't lying, Widdershins! One more word and I'll skewer you!'

 

Urb's huge hand landed on her arm, gripping hard, turning her round, and Hellian saw a squad stumbling towards them. ‘Thank the gods,' she said in a ravaged voice, ‘they got to know where they're going—'

A sergeant approached in a half-crouch. Dal Honese, his face patchy with dried mud. ‘I'm Balm,' he said. ‘Wherever you're headed, we're with you!'

Hellian scowled. ‘Fine,' she said. ‘Just fall in and we'll all be rosy in no time.'

‘Got us a way out?'

‘Yeah, down that alley.'

‘Great. What's down there?'

‘The only place not yet burning, you Dal Honese monk-rat!' She waved at her troop and they continued on. Something was visible ahead. A huge, smudgy dome of some kind. They were passing temples now, the doors swinging wide, banging in the gusting, furnace-hot wind. What little clothes she was still wearing had begun smoking, thready wisps stretching out from the rough weave. She could smell her own burning hair.

A soldier came up alongside her. He was holding twin long-knives in gloved hands. ‘You ain't got no cause to curse Sergeant Balm, woman. He brought us through this far.'

‘What's your name?' Hellian demanded.

‘Throatslitter—'

‘Nice. Now go and slit your own throat. Nobody's gotten through nowhere, you damned idiot. Now, unless you got a bottle of chilled wine under that shirt, go find someone else to annoy.'

‘You was nicer drunk,' he said, falling back.

Yeah, everyone's nicer drunk.

At the far edge of the collapsed palace, Limp's left leg was trapped by a sliding piece of stonework, his screams loud enough to challenge the fiery wind. Cord, Shard and a few others from the Ashok squad pulled him free, but it was clear the soldier's leg was broken.

Ahead was a plaza of some sort, once the site of a market of some kind, and beyond it rose a huge domed temple behind a high wall. Remnants of gold leaf trickled down the dome's flanks like rainwater. A heavy layer of smoke roiled across the scene, making the dome seem to float in the air, firelit and smeared. Strings gestured for everyone to close in.

‘We're heading for that temple,' he said. ‘It likely won't help – there's a damned firestorm coming. Never seen one myself, and I'm wishing that was still the case. Anyway,' he paused to cough, then spit, ‘I can't think of anything else.'

‘Sergeant,' Bottle said, frowning, ‘I sense…something. Life. In that temple.'

‘All right, maybe we'll have to fight to find a place to die. Fine. Maybe there's enough of 'em to kill us all and that ain't so bad.'

No, Sergeant. Nowhere close. But never mind.

‘All right, let's try and get across this plaza.'

It looked easy, but they were running out of air, and the winds racing across the concourse were blistering hot – no cover provided by building walls. Bottle knew they might not make it. Rasping heat tore at his eyes, poured like sand into his throat with every gasping breath. Through blurred pain, he saw figures appear off to his right, racing out of the smoke. Ten, fifteen, then scores, spilling onto the concourse, some of them on fire, others with spears—‘Sergeant!'

‘Gods below!'

The warriors were attacking. Here, in this square, this…furnace. Burning figures fell away, stumbling, clawing at their faces, but the others came on.

‘Form up!' Strings bellowed. ‘Fighting retreat – to that temple wall!'

Bottle stared at the closing mass. Form up? Fighting retreat?
With what?

One of Cord's soldiers appeared beside him, and the man reached out, gesturing. ‘You! A mage, right?'

Bottle nodded.

‘I'm Ebron – we got to take these bastards on – with magic – no other weapons left—'

‘All right. Whatever you got, I'll add to it.'

Three heavy infantry, the women Flashwit, Mayfly and Uru Hela, had drawn knives and were forming up a front line. A heartbeat later, Shortnose joined them, huge hands closed into fists.

The lead score of attackers closed to within fifteen paces, and launched their spears as if they were javelins. In the momentary flash of the shafts crossing the short distance, Bottle saw that the wood had ignited, spinning wreaths of smoke.

Shouted warnings, then the solid impact of the heavy weapons. Uru Hela was spun round, a spear transfixing her left shoulder, the shaft scything into Mayfly's neck with a cracking sound. As Uru Hela stumbled to her knees, Mayfly staggered, then straightened. Sergeant Strings sprawled, a spear impaling his right leg. Swearing, he pulled at it, his other leg kicking like a thing gone mad. Tavos Pond staggered into Bottle, knocking him down as the soldier, one side of his face slashed away, the eye dangling, stumbled on, screaming.

Moments before the frenzied attackers reached them, a wave of sorcery rose in a wall of billowing, argent smoke, sweeping out to engulf the warriors. Shrieks, bodies falling, skin and flesh blackening, curling away from bones. Sudden horror.

Bottle had no idea what kind of magic Ebron was using, but he unleashed Meanas, redoubling the smoke's thickness and breadth – illusional, but panic tore into the warriors. Falling, tumbling out of the smoke, hands at their eyes, writhing, vomit gushing onto the cobbles. The attack shattered against the sorcery, and as the wind whipped the poisonous cloud away, they could see nothing but fleeing figures, already well beyond the heap of bodies.

Bodies smouldering, catching fire.

Koryk had reached Strings, who had pulled the spear from his leg, and began stuffing knots of cloth into the puncture wounds. Bottle went to them – no spurting blood from the holes, he saw. Still, lots of blood had smeared the cobbles. ‘Wrap that leg!' he ordered the half-Seti. ‘We've got to get off this plaza!'

Cord and Corporal Tulip were attending to Uru Hela, whilst Scant and Balgrid had chased down and tackled Tavos Pond to the ground. Bottle watched as Scant pushed the dangling eye back into its socket, then fumbled with a cloth to wrap round the soldier's head.

‘Drag the wounded!' Sergeant Gesler yelled. ‘Come on, you damned fools! To that wall! We need to find us a way in!'

Numbed, Bottle reached down to help Koryk lift Strings.

He saw that his fingers had turned blue. He was deafened by a roaring in his head, and everything was spinning round him.

Air. We need air.

The wall rose before them, and then they were skirting it. Seeking a way in.