The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (603 page)

 

Gesler pulled himself along in pitch darkness, hearing Tulip's heavy grunts ahead of him, Crump's maddening singing behind him. The huge soldier whose bare feet Gesler's outstretched hands kept touching was having a hard time, and the sergeant could feel the smears of blood Tulip left behind as he squeezed and pulled himself through the narrow, twisting passage. Thick gasps, coughing – no, not coughing—

‘Abyss take us, Tulip,' Gesler hissed, ‘what's so funny?'

‘Tickling,' the man called back. ‘You. Keep. Tickling. My. Feet.'

‘Just keep moving, you damned fool!'

Behind him, Crump's idiotic song continued.

Gesler wanted to scream, like someone up ahead was doing. Scream, but he couldn't summon the breath – it was all too close, too fetid, the once cool sliding air rank with sweat, urine and Hood knew what else. Truth's face kept coming back to him, rising in his mind like dread accusation. Gesler and Stormy, they'd pulled the recruit through so much since the damned rebellion. Kept him alive, showed him the ways of
staying
alive in this Hood-cursed world.

And what does he do? He runs into a burning palace. With a half-dozen cussers on his back. Gods, he was right on one thing, though, the fire couldn't take him – he went way in, and that's what's saved us…so far. Blew that storm back. Saved us
…

Soldiers all round him were blistered, burned. They coughed with every breath drawn into scorched lungs.
But not me.
He could sense that godling, within that firestorm. Could sense it, a child raging with the knowledge that it was going to die all too soon.
Good, you don't deserve nothing more
. Fire couldn't hurt him, but that didn't mean he had to kneel before it in prayer, did it? He didn't ask for any of this. Him and Stormy and Truth – only, Truth was dead, now. He'd never expected…

When he got out of here, he was going to wring Crump's scrawny neck. High Marshal? Gods below—

Corporal Tarr pulled on Balgrid's arms, ignoring the man's squeals. How the mage had managed to stay fat through that endless march was baffling. And now, all too likely to prove deadly. Mind you, fat could be squeezed, when muscled bulk couldn't. That was something, at least.

Balgrid shrieked as Tarr dragged him through the crevasse. ‘You're tearing my arms off!'

‘You plug up here, Balgrid,' Tarr said, ‘and Urb behind you's gonna take out his knife—'

A muted voice from the huge man behind Balgrid: ‘Damn right. I'll joint you like a pig, mage. I swear it.'

The darkness was the worst of all – never mind the spiders, the scorpions and centipedes, it was the darkness that clawed and chewed on Tarr's sanity. At least Bottle had a rat's eyes to look through. Rats could see in the dark, couldn't they? Then again, maybe they couldn't. Maybe they just used their noses, their whiskers, their ears. Maybe they were too stupid to go insane.

Or they're already insane. We're being led by an insane rat—

‘I'm stuck again, oh gods! I can't move!'

‘Stop yelling,' Tarr said, halting and twisting round yet again. Reaching out for the man's arms. ‘Hear that, Balgrid?'

‘What?
What?
'

‘Not sure. Thought I heard Urb's knives coming outa their sheaths.'

The mage heaved himself forward, kicking, clawing.

 

‘You stop moving again,' Balm snarled to the child in front of him, ‘and the lizards will get you. Eat you alive. Eat us all alive. Those are crypt lizards, you damned whelp. You know what crypt lizards do? I'll tell you what they do. They eat human flesh. That's why they're called crypt lizards, only they don't mind if it's living flesh—'

‘For Hood's sake!' Deadsmell growled behind him. ‘Sergeant – that ain't the way—'

‘Shut your mouth! He's still moving, ain't he? Oh yes, ain't he just. Crypt lizards, runt! Oh yes!'

‘Hope you ain't nobody's uncle, Sergeant.'

‘You're getting as bad as Widdershins, Corporal, with that babbling mouth of yours. I want a new squad—'

‘Nobody'll have you, not after this—'

‘You don't know nothing, Deadsmell.'

‘I know if I was that child ahead of you, I'd shit right in your face.'

‘Quiet! You give him ideas, damn you! Do it, boy, and I'll tie you up, oh yes, and leave you for the crypt lizards—'

‘Listen to me, little one!' Deadsmell called out, his voice echoing. ‘Them crypt lizards, they're about as long as your thumb! Balm's just being a—'

‘I'm going to skewer you, Deadsmell. I swear it!'

Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas dragged himself forward. The Malazan in his wake was gasping – the only indication that the man still followed. They had managed to drop one of the copper panels over the pit, burning their hands – bad burns, the pain wouldn't go away – Corabb's palms felt like soft wax, pushed out of shape by the stones they gripped, the ledges they grasped.

He had never felt such excruciating pain before. He was sheathed in sweat, his limbs trembling, his heart hammering like a trapped beast in his chest.

Pulling himself through a narrow space, he sank down onto what seemed to be the surface of a street, although his head scraped stone rubble above. He slithered forward, gasping, and heard the sergeant slip down after him.

Then the ground shook, dust pouring down thick as sand. Thunder, one concussion after another, pounding down from above. A rush of searing hot air swept over them from behind. Smoke, dust—

‘Forward!' Strings screamed. ‘Before the ceiling goes—'

Corabb reached back, groping, until he clasped one of the Malazan's hands – the man was half-buried under rubble, his breath straining beneath the settling weight. Corabb pulled, then pulled harder.

A savage grunt from the Malazan, then, amidst clattering, thumping bricks and stones, Corabb tugged the man clear.

‘Come on!' he hissed. ‘There's a pit ahead, a sewer – the rest went down there – grab my ankles, Sergeant—'

The wind was beating back the roiling heat.

Corabb pitched headfirst into the pit, dragging Strings with him.

 

The rat had reached a vertical shaft, rough-walled enough so that she could climb down. The wind howled up it, filled with rotted leaves, dust and insect fragments. The creature was still descending when Bottle pulled himself up to the ledge. The detritus bit at his eyes as he peered down.

Seeing nothing. He pulled free a piece of rubble and tossed it downward, out from the wall. His soul, riding the rat's own, sensed its passage. Rodent ears pricked forward, waiting. Four human heartbeats later there was a dull, muted crack of stone on stone, a few more, then nothing.
Oh gods
…

Cuttle spoke behind him. ‘What's wrong?'

‘A shaft, goes straight down – a long away down.'

‘Can we climb it?'

‘My rat can.'

‘How wide is it?'

‘Not very, and gets narrower.'

‘We got wounded people back here, and Hellian's still unconscious.'

Bottle nodded. ‘Do a roll call – I want to know how many made it. We also need straps, rope, anything and everything. Was it just me or did you hear the temple come down?'

Cuttle turned about and started the roll call and the request for straps and rope, then twisted round once more. ‘Yeah, it went down all right. When the wind dropped off. Thank Hood it's back, or we'd be cooking or suffocating or both.'

Well, we're not through this yet…

‘I know what you're thinking, Bottle.'

‘You do?'

‘Think there's a rat god? I hope so, and I hope you're praying good and hard.'

A rat god. Maybe.
Hard to know with creatures that don't think in words.
‘I think one of us, one of the bigger, stronger ones, could wedge himself across. And help people down.'

‘If we get enough straps and stuff to climb down, aye. Tulip, maybe, or that other corporal, Urb. But there ain't room to get past anyone.'

I know.
‘I'm going to try and climb down.'

‘Where's the rat?'

‘Down below. It's reached the bottom. It's waiting there. Anyway, here goes.' Drawing on the Thyr Warren to pierce the darkness, he moved out to the very edge. The wall opposite looked to be part of some monumental structure, the stones skilfully cut and fitted. Patches of crumbling plaster covered parts of it, as did sections of the frieze fronting that plaster. It seemed almost perfectly vertical – the narrowing of the gap was caused by the wall on his side – a much rougher facing, with projections remaining from some kind of elaborate ornamentation. A strange clash of styles, for two buildings standing so close together. Still, both walls had withstood the ravages of being buried, seemingly unaffected by the pressures of sand and rubble. ‘All right,' he said to Cuttle, who had drawn up closer, ‘this might not be so bad.'

‘You're what, twenty years old? No wounds, thin as a spear…'

‘Fine, you've made your point.' Bottle pushed himself further out, then drew his right leg round. Stretching it outward, he slowly edged over, onto his stomach. ‘Damn, I don't think my leg's long—'

The ledge he leaned on splintered – it was, he suddenly realized, nothing but rotted wood – and he began sliding, falling.

He spun over, kicking out with both legs as he plummeted, throwing both arms out behind and to the sides. Those rough stones tore into his back, one outcrop cracking into the base of his skull and throwing his head forward. Then both feet contacted the stone of the wall opposite.

Flinging him over, headfirst—

Oh Hood—

Sudden tugs, snapping sounds, then more, pulling at him, resisting, slowing his descent.

Gods, webs—

His left shoulder was tugged back, turning him over. He kicked out again and felt the plastered wall under his foot. Reached out with his right arm, and his hand closed on a projection that seemed to sink like sponge beneath his clutching fingers. His other foot contacted the wall, and he pushed with both legs until his back was against rough stone.

And there were spiders, each as big as an outstretched hand, crawling all over him.

Bottle went perfectly still, struggling to slow his breathing.

Hairless, short-legged, pale amber – but there was no light – and he realized that the creatures were glowing, somehow lit from within, like lantern-flame behind thick, gold-tinted glass. They had swarmed him, now. From far above, he heard Cuttle calling down in desperate, frightened tones.

Bottle reached out with his mind, and immediately recoiled at the blind rage building in the spiders. And flashes of memory – the rat – their favoured prey – somehow evading all their snares, climbing down right past them, unseeing, unaware of the hundreds of eyes tracking its passing. And now…
this
.

Heart thundering in his chest, Bottle quested once more. A hive mind, of sorts – no, an extended family – they would mass together, exchange nutrients – when one fed, they all fed. They had never known light beyond what lived within them, and, until recently, never known wind.
Terrified…but not starving, thank Hood
. He sought to calm them, flinched once more as all motion ceased, all attention fixed now on him. Legs that had been scrambling over his body went still, tiny claws clasping hard in his skin.