The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (602 page)

‘How many hands you think each of us has got?' Hellian demanded.

Laughter.

Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas stared at them all as if they'd lost their minds.

A reverberating
crack
shuddered through the temple, and dust drifted down. Bottle looked up with all the others to see tongues of fire reaching down through a fissure in the dome, which had begun sagging. ‘Cuttle—'

‘I see it. Pray this cracker don't bring it all down on us.'

He set the spike. ‘Bottle, which way you want it pointing?'

‘Towards the altar side. There's a space, two maybe three arm-lengths down.'

‘Three? Gods below. Well, we'll see.'

The outer walls were oven-hot, sharp cracking sounds filling the air as the massive temple began settling. They could hear the grate of foundation stones sliding beneath shifting pressures. The heat was building.

‘Six and counting!' Cuttle shouted, scrambling away.

Five…four…three…

The cracker detonated in a deadly hail of stone-chips and tile shards. People cried out in pain, children screamed, dust and smoke filling the air – and then, from the floor, the sounds of rubble falling, striking things far below, bouncing, tumbling down, down…

‘Bottle.'

At Strings's voice, he crawled forward, towards the gaping hole. He needed to find another rat. Somewhere down below.
A rat my soul can ride. A rat to lead us out.

He said nothing to the others of what else he had sensed, flitting among life-sparks in the seeming innumerable layers of dead, buried city below – that it went down, and down, and down – the air rising up stinking of decay, the pressing darkness, the cramped, tortured routes.
Down. All those rats, fleeing, downward. None, none within my reach clambering free, into the night air. None.

Rats will flee. Even when there's nowhere to go.

 

Wounded, burned soldiers were being carried past Blistig. Pain and shock, flesh cracked open and lurid red, like cooked meat – which, he realized numbly, was what it was. The white ash of hair – on limbs, where eyebrows had once been, on blistered pates. Blackened remnants of clothing, hands melted onto weapon grips – he wanted to turn away, so desperately wanted to turn away, but he could not.

He stood fifteen hundred paces away, now, from the road and its fringes of burning grass, and he could still feel the heat. Beyond, a fire god devoured the sky above Y'Ghatan – Y'Ghatan, crumbling inward, melting into slag – the city's death was as horrible to his eyes as the file of Keneb and Baralta's surviving soldiers.

How could he do this? Leoman of the Flails, you have made of your name a curse that will never die. Never
.

Someone came to his side and, after a long moment, Blistig looked over. And scowled. The Claw, Pearl. The man's eyes were red – durhang, it could be nothing else, for he had remained in his tent, at the far end of the encampment, as if indifferent to this brutal night.

‘Where is the Adjunct?' Pearl asked in a low, rough voice.

‘Helping with the wounded.'

‘Has she broken? Is she on her hands and knees in the blood-soaked mud?'

Blistig studied the man. Those eyes – had he been weeping? No. Durhang. ‘Say that again, Claw, and you won't stay alive for much longer.'

The tall man shrugged. ‘Look at these burned soldiers, Fist. There are worse things than dying.'

‘The healers are among them. Warlocks, witches, from my company—'

‘Some scars cannot be healed.'

‘What are you doing here? Go back to your tent.'

‘I have lost a friend this night, Fist. I will go wherever I choose.'

Blistig looked away. Lost a friend. What of over two thousand Malazan soldiers?
Keneb has lost most of his marines and among them, invaluable veterans. The Adjunct has lost her first battle – oh, the imperial records will note a great victory, the annihilation of the last vestiges of the Sha'ik rebellion. But we, we who are here this night, we will know the truth for the rest of our lives.

And this Adjunct Tavore, she is far from finished. I have seen.
‘Go back to the Empress,' Blistig said. ‘Tell her the truth of this night—'

‘And what would be the point of that, Fist?'

He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

Pearl said, ‘Word will be sent to Dujek Onearm, and he in turn will report to the Empress. For now, however, it is more important that Dujek know. And understand, as I am sure he will.'

‘Understand what?'

‘That the Fourteenth Army can no longer be counted on as a fighting force on Seven Cities.'

Is that true?
‘That remains to be seen,' he said. ‘In any case, the rebellion is crushed—'

‘Leoman escaped.'

‘What?'

‘He has escaped. Into the Warren of D'riss, under the protection of the Queen of Dreams – only she knows, I suppose, what use he will be to her. I admit, that part worries me – gods are by nature unfathomable, most of the time, and she is more so than most. I find this detail…troubling.'

‘Stand here, then, and fret.' Blistig turned away, made for the hastily erected hospital tents. Hood take that damned Claw. The sooner the better. How could he know such things? Leoman…alive. Well, perhaps that could be made to work in their favour, perhaps his name would become a curse among the people of Seven Cities as well. The Betrayer. The commander who murdered his own army.

But it is how we are. Look at High Fist Pormqual, after all. Yet, his crime was stupidity. Leoman's was…pure evil. If such a thing truly exists.

The storm raged on, unleashing waves of heat that blackened the surrounding countryside. The city's walls had vanished – for no human-built wall could withstand this demon's fury. A distant, pale reflection was visible to the east. The sun, rising to meet its child.

 

His soul rode the back of a small, insignificant creature, fed on a tiny, racing heart, and looked through eyes that cut into the darkness. Like some remote ghost, tethered by the thinnest of chains, Bottle could feel his own body, somewhere far above, slithering through detritus, cut and scraped raw, face gone slack, eyes straining. Battered hands pulled him along – his own, he was certain – and he could hear soldiers moving behind him, the crying of children, the scrape and catch of buckles, leather straps snagging, rubble being pushed aside, clawed at, clambered over.

He had no idea how far they had gone. The rat sought out the widest, highest passages, following the howling, whistling wind. If people remained in the temple, awaiting their turn to enter this tortured tunnel, that turn would never come, for the air itself would have burst aflame by now, and soon the temple would collapse, burying their blackened corpses in melting stone.

Strings would have been among those victims, for the sergeant had insisted on going last, just behind Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas. Bottle thought back to those frantic moments, before the dust-clouds had even cleared, as chunks of the domed ceiling rained down…

 

‘
Bottle!
'

‘I'm looking!' Questing down, through cracks and fissures, hunting life. Warm-blooded life. Brushing then closing in on the muted awareness of a rat, sleek, healthy – but overheating with terror. Overwhelming its meagre defences, clasping hard an iron control about its soul – that faint, flickering force, yet strong enough to reach beyond the flesh and bones that sheltered it. Cunning, strangely proud, warmed by the presence of kin, the rule of the swarm's master, but now all was in chaos, the drive of survival overpowering all else. Racing down, following spoor, following the rich scents in the air—

And then it turned about, began climbing upwards once more, and Bottle could feel its soul in his grasp. Perfectly still, unresisting now that it had been captured. Observing, curious, calm. There was more, he had always known – so much more to creatures. And so few who understood them the way he did, so few who could reach out and grasp such souls, and so find the strange web of trust all tangled with suspicion, fear with curiosity, need with loyalty.

He was not leading this morsel of a creature to its death. He would not do that, could not, and somehow it seemed to understand, to sense, now, a greater purpose to its life, its existence.

‘I have her,' Bottle heard himself saying.

‘Get down there, then!'

‘Not yet. She needs to find a way up – to lead us back down—'

‘Gods below!'

Gesler spoke: ‘Start adopting children, soldiers. I want one between everyone behind Cuttle, since Cuttle will be right behind Bottle—'

‘Leave me to the last,' Strings said.

‘Your leg—'

‘That's exactly right, Gesler.'

‘We got other injured – got someone guiding or dragging each of 'em. Fid—'

‘No. I go last. Whoever's right ahead of me, we're going to need to close up this tunnel, else the fire'll follow us down—'

‘There are copper doors. They covered the pool.' That was Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas. ‘I will stay with you. Together, we shall use those panels to seal our retreat.'

‘Second to last?' someone snarled. ‘You'll just kill Fid and—'

‘And what, Malazan? No, would I be allowed, I would go last. I stood at Leoman's side—'

‘I'm satisfied with that,' Strings said. ‘Corabb, you and I, that will do.'

‘Hold on,' said Hellian, leaning close to Bottle. ‘I ain't going down there. Someone better kill me right now—'

‘Sergeant—'

‘No way, there's spiders down there—'

The sound of a fist cracking into a jaw, then a collapsing body.

‘Urb, you just knocked out your own sergeant.'

‘Aye. I known her a long time, you see. She's a good sergeant, no matter what all of you think.'

‘Huh. Right.'

‘It's the spiders. No way she'd go down there – now I got to gag her and tie her arms and feet – I'll drag her myself—'

‘If she's a good sergeant, Urb, how do you treat bad ones?'

‘Ain't had any other sergeant, and I mean to keep it that way.'

Below, the broad crevasse that Bottle had sensed earlier, his rat scrambling free, now seeking to follow that wide but shallow crack – too shallow? No, they could scrape through, and there, beneath it, a tilted chamber of some kind, most of the ceiling intact, and the lower half of a doorway – he sent the rat that way, and beyond the doorway…‘I have it! There's a street! Part of a street – not sure how far—'

‘Never mind! Lead us down, damn you! I'm starting to blister everywhere! Hurry!'

All right. Why not? At the very least, it'll purchase us a few more moments.
He slithered down into the pit. Behind him, voices, the scrabble of boots, the hissing of pain as flesh touched hot stone.

Faintly: ‘How hot is that water in that pool? Boiling yet? No? Good, those with canteens and skins, fill 'em now—'

Into the crevasse…while the rat scurried down the canted, littered street, beneath a ceiling of packed rubble…

 

Bottle felt his body push through a fissure, then plunge downward, onto the low-ceilinged section of street. Rocks, mortar and potsherds under his hands, cutting, scraping as he scrabbled forward. Once walked, this avenue, in an age long past. Wagons had rattled here, horse-hoofs clumping, and there had been rich smells. Cooking from nearby homes, livestock being driven to the market squares. Kings and paupers, great mages and ambitious priests.
All gone. Gone to dust
.

The street sloped sharply, where cobbles had buckled, sagging down to fill a subterranean chamber – no, an old sewer, brick-lined, and it was into this channel his rat had crawled.

Pushing aside broken pieces of cobble, he pulled himself down into the shaft. Desiccated faeces in a thin, shallow bed beneath him, the husks of dead insects, carapaces crunching as he slithered along. A pale lizard, long as his forearm, fled in a whisper into a side crack. His forehead caught strands of spider's web, tough enough to halt him momentarily before audibly snapping. He felt something alight on his shoulder, race across his back, then leap off.

Behind him Bottle heard Cuttle coughing in the dust in his wake, as it swept over the sapper on the gusting wind. A child had been crying somewhere back there, but was now silent, only the sound of movement, gasps of effort. Just ahead, a section of the tunnel had fallen in. The rat had found a way through, so he knew the barrier was not impassable. Reaching it, he began pulling away the rubble.

 

Smiles nudged the child ahead of her. ‘Go on,' she murmured, ‘keep going. Not far now.' She could still hear the girl's sniffles – not crying, not yet, anyway, just the dust, so much dust now, with those people crawling ahead. Behind her, small hands touched her blistered feet again and again, lancing vicious stabs of pain up her legs, but she bit back on it, making no outcry.
Damned brat don't know any better, does he? And why they got such big eyes, looking up like that? Like starving puppies.
‘Keep crawling, little one. Not much farther…'

The child behind her, a boy, was helping Tavos Pond, whose face was wrapped in bloody bandages. Koryk was right behind them. Smiles could hear the half-Seti, going on and on with some kind of chant. Probably the only thing keeping the fool from deadly panic. He liked his open savannah, didn't he. Not cramped, twisting tunnels.

None of this bothered her. She'd known worse. Times, long ago, she'd
lived
in worse. You learned to only count on what's in reach, and so long as the way ahead stayed clear, there was still hope, still a chance.

If only this brat of a girl wouldn't keep stopping. Another nudge. ‘Go on, lass. Not much more, you'll see…'