But I hate this kind of sorcery. Sure, it’s fascinating. Fun to play with, on occasion, but not like tonight, not when it’s suddenly life and death.
They threw wagon-planks across the narrow moat Leoman’s soldiers had dug, then drew closer to the wall.
Lostara Yil came to Tene Baralta’s side. They were positioned at the picket line, behind them the massed ranks of soldiery. Her former commander’s face revealed surprise as he looked upon her.
‘I did not think to see you again, Captain.’
She shrugged. ‘I was getting fat and lazy, Commander.’
‘That Claw you were with is not a popular man. The decision was made that he was better off staying in his tent – indefinitely.’
‘I have no objection to that.’
Through the gloom they could see swirling clouds of deeper darkness, rolling ominously towards the city’s wall.
‘Are you prepared, Captain,’ Baralta asked, ‘to bloody your sword this night?’
‘More than you could imagine, Commander.’
Waves of vertigo rippled through Sergeant Hellian, nausea threatening as she watched the magics draw ever closer to Y’Ghatan. It was Y’Ghatan, wasn’t it? She turned to the sergeant standing beside her. ‘What city is that? Y’Ghatan. I know about that city. It’s where Malazans die. Who are you? Who’s undermining the walls? Where are the siege weapons? What kind of siege is this?’
‘I’m Strings, and you look to be drunk.’
‘So? I hate fighting. Strip me of my command, throw me in chains, find a dungeon – only, no spiders. And find that bastard, the one who disappeared, arrest him and chain him within reach. I want to rip out his throat.’
The sergeant was staring at her. She stared back – at least he wasn’t weaving back and forth. Not much, anyway.
‘You hate fighting, and you want to rip out someone’s throat?’
‘Stop trying to confuse me, Stirrings. I’m confused ’nough as it is.’
‘Where’s your squad, Sergeant?’
‘Somewhere.’
‘Where is your corporal? What is his name?’
‘Urb? I don’t know.’
‘Hood’s breath.’
Pella sat watching his sergeant, Gesler, talking with Borduke. The sergeant of the Sixth Squad had only three soldiers left under his command – Lutes, Ibb and Corporal Hubb – the others either magicking or sapping. Of course, there were only two left to Gesler’s Fifth Squad – Truth and Pella himself. The plan was to link up after the breach, and that had Pella nervous. They might have to grab anyone close by and to Hood with real squads.
Borduke was tugging at his beard as if he wanted to yank it off. Hubb stood close to his sergeant, a sickly expression on his face.
Gesler looked damn near bored.
Pella thought about his squad. Something odd about all three of them. Gesler, Stormy and Truth. Not just that strangely gold skin, either…Well, he’d stick close to Truth – that lad still seemed too wide-eyed for all of this, despite what he’d already gone through. That damned ship, Silanda, which had been commandeered by the Adjunct and was now likely north of them, somewhere in the Kansu Sea or west of it. Along with the transport fleet and a sizeable escort of dromons. The three had sailed it, sharing the deck with still-alive severed heads and a lot worse below-decks.
Pella checked his sword one more time. He’d tied new leather strapping round the grip’s tang – not as tight as he would have liked. He hadn’t soaked it yet, either, not wanting the grip still wet when he went into battle. He drew the crossbow from his shoulder, kept a quarrel in hand, ready for a quick load once the order came to advance.
Bloody marines. Should’ve volunteered for plain old infantry. Should’ve gotten a transfer. Should’ve never joined up at all. Skullcup was more than enough for me, dammit. Should’ve run, that’s what I should’ve done.
Night wind whistling about them, Corabb, Leoman, L’oric, Dunsparrow and a guard stood on the gently swaying platform atop the palace tower. The city spread out in all directions, frighteningly dark and seeming lifeless.
‘What are we here to see, Leoman?’ L’oric asked.
‘Wait, my friend – ah, there!’ He pointed to the rooftop of a distant building near the west wall. On its flat top flickered muted lantern-light. Then…gone.
‘And there!’
Another building, another flash of light.
‘Another! More, they are all in place! Fanatics! Damned fools! Dryjhna take us, this is going to work!’
Work? Corabb frowned, then scowled. He caught Dunsparrow’s gaze on him – she mouthed a kiss. Oh how he wanted to kill her.
Heaps of rubble, broken pots, a dead, bloated dog, and animal bones, there wasn’t a single stretch of even ground at the base of the wall. Bottle had followed on the heels of the sappers, up the first tier, brick fragments spilling away beneath their boots, then cries of pain and cursing as someone stumbled over a wasp nest – darkness alone had saved them from what could have been a fatal few moments – the wasps were sluggish – Bottle was astonished they had come out at all, until he saw what the soldier had managed. Knocking over one rock, then thumping his entire foot down the nest’s maw.
He’d momentarily relinquished Meanas, then, to slip into the swarming soul-sparks of the wasps, quelling their panic and anger. Devoid of disguising magic for the last two tiers, the sappers had scrambled like terrified beetles – the rock they had hidden under suddenly vanishing – and made the base of the wall well ahead of the others. Where they crouched, unlimbering their packs of munitions.
Bottle scampered up to crouch at Cuttle’s side. ‘The gloom’s back,’ he whispered. ‘Sorry about that – good thing they weren’t black wasps – Maybe’d be dead by now.’
‘Not to mention yours truly,’ Cuttle said. ‘It was me who stepped in the damned thing.’
‘How many stings?’
‘Two or three, right leg’s numb, but that’s better than it was fifteen heartbeats ago.’
‘Numb? Cuttle, that’s bad. Find Lutes fast as you can once we’re done here.’
‘Count on it. Now, shut up, I got to concentrate.’
Bottle watched him lift out from his pack a bundle of munitions – two cussers strapped together, looking like a pair of ample breasts. Affixed to them at the base were two spike-shaped explosives – crackers. Gingerly setting the assemblage on the ground beside him, Cuttle then turned his attention to the base of the wall. He cleared bricks and rocks to make an angled hole, large and deep enough to accommodate the wall-breaker.
That was the easy part, Bottle reminded himself as he watched Cuttle place the explosive into the hole. Now comes the acid on the wax plug. He glanced up and down the length of wall, saw other sappers doing the very same thing Cuttle had just done. ‘Don’t get ahead of the rest,’ Bottle said.
‘I know what needs knowing, mage. Stick to your spells and leave me alone.’
Miffed, Bottle looked away again. Then his eyes widened. ‘Hey, what’s he doing – Cuttle, what’s Crump doing?’
Cursing, the veteran glanced over. ‘Gods below—’
The sapper from Sergeant Cord’s squad had prepared not one wall-breaker, but three, the mass of cussers and crackers filling his entire pack. His huge teeth were gleaming, eyes glittering as he wrestled it loose and, lying on his back, head closest to the wall, settled it on his stomach and began crawling until there was the audible crunch of the back of his skull contacting the rearing stonework.
Cuttle scrambled over. ‘You!’ he hissed. ‘Are you mad? Take those damned things apart!’
The man’s grin collapsed. ‘But I made it myself!’
‘Keep your voice down, idiot!’
Crump rolled and shoved the mass of munitions up against the wall. A small glittering vial appeared in his right hand. ‘Wait till you see this!’ he whispered, smiling once more.
‘Wait! Not yet!’
A sizzle, threads of smoke rising—
Cuttle
was on his feet, and, dragging a leg, he began running. And he began screaming. ‘Everyone! Back! Run, you fools! Run!’
Figures pelting away on all sides, Bottle among them. Crump raced past as if the mage had been standing still, the man’s absurdly long legs pumping high and wild, knobby knees and huge boots scything the air. Munitions had been left against the wall but unset, others remained a pace or more back. Sacks of sharpers, smokers and burners left behind – gods below, this is going to be bad—
Shouts from atop the wall, now, voices raised in alarm. A ballista thumped as a missile was loosed at the fleeing sappers. Bottle heard the crack and skitter as it struck the ground.
Faster—He glanced over his shoulder, and saw Cuttle hobbling along in his wake. Hood take us! Bottle skidded to a halt, turned and ran back to the sapper’s side.
‘Fool!’ Cuttle grunted. ‘Just go!’
‘Lean on my shoulder—’
‘You’ve just killed yourself—’
Cuttle was no lightweight. Bottle sagged with his weight as they ran.
‘Twelve!’ the sapper gasped.
The mage scanned the ground ahead in growing panic. Some cover—
‘Eleven!’
A shelf of old foundation, solid limestone, there, ten, nine paces—
‘Ten!’
Five more paces – it was looking good – a hollow on the other side—
‘Nine!’
Two paces, then down, as Cuttle screamed: ‘Eight!’
The night vanished, flinging stark shadows forward as the two men tumbled down behind the shelf of limestone, into a heap of rotting vegetation. The ground lifted to meet them, a god’s uppercut, driving the air from Bottle’s lungs.
Sound, like a collapsing mountain, then a wall of stone, smoke, fire, and a rain filled with flames—
The concussion threw Lostara Yil from her feet moments after she’d stared, uncomprehending, at the squads of marines arrayed beyond the picket line – stared, as they were one and all flattened, rolling back before an onrushing wave – multiple explosions now, rapid-fire, marching along the wall to either side – then she was hammered in the chest, flung to the ground amidst other soldiers.
Rocks arrived in an almost-horizontal hail, fast as sling-stones, cracking off armour, thudding deep into exposed flesh – bones snapping, screams—
—the light dimmed, wavered, then contracted to a knot of flames, filling an enormous gap in Y’Ghatan’s wall, almost dead-centre, and as Lostara – propped on one elbow, braving the hail of stones – watched, she saw the flanks of that huge gap slowly crumble, and, beyond, two three-storey tenements folding inward, flames shooting up like fleeing souls—
Among the slowing rain, now, body-parts.
Atop the palace tower, Corabb and the others had been thrown down – the guard who had accompanied them cartwheeling over the platform’s low wall and vanishing with a dwindling scream, barely heard as the tower swayed, as the roar settled around them like the fury of a thousand demons, as huge stones slammed into the tower’s side, others ricocheting off to crash among the buildings below, and, now, a terrible cracking, popping sound that sent Corabb clawing across the pavestones towards the hatch.
‘It’s going down!’ he screamed.
Two figures reached the hatch before him – Leoman and Dunsparrow.
Cracking, sagging, the platform starting its inexorable pitch. Clouds of choking dust. Corabb reached the hatch and pulled himself into it headfirst, joining Leoman and the Malazan woman as they slithered like snakes down the winding steps. Corabb’s left heel connected with a jaw and he heard L’oric’s grunt of pain, then cursing in unknown languages.
That explosion – the breach of the wall – gods below, he had never seen anything like it. How could one challenge these Malazans? With their damned Moranth munitions, their gleeful disregard of the rules of honourable war.
Tumbling, rolling, sprawling out onto a scree of rubble on the main floor of the palace – chambers to their left had vanished beneath the section of tower that had broken off. Corabb saw a leg jutting from the collapsed ceiling, strangely unmarred, free even of blood or dust.
Coughing, Corabb clambered upright, eyes stinging, countless bruises upon his body, and stared at Leoman, who was already on his feet and brushing mortar dust from his clothes. Near him, L’oric and Dunsparrow were also pulling themselves free of bricks and shards of wood.
Glancing over, Leoman of the Flails said, ‘Maybe the tower wasn’t such a good idea after all. Come on, we need to saddle our horses – if they still live – and ride to the Temple!’
The Temple of Scalissara? But—what—why?
The rattle of gravel, the thump of larger chunks, and gusts of smoky, dusty heat. Bottle opened his eyes. Sebar husks, hairy and leathery, crowded his vision, his nose filling with the pungent overripe scent of sebar pulp. The fruit’s juice was considered a delicacy – the reek was nauseating – he knew he’d never be able to drink the stuff again. A groan from the rubbish somewhere to his left. ‘Cuttle? That you?’
‘The numb feeling’s gone. Amazing what a shot of terror can do to a body.’
‘You sure the leg’s still there?’
‘Reasonably.’
‘You counted down to eight!’
‘What?’
‘You said eight! Then – boom!’
‘Had to keep your hopes up, didn’t I? Where in Hood’s pit are we, anyway?’
Bottle began clawing his way free, amazed that he seemed uninjured – not even a scratch. ‘Among the living, sapper.’ His first view of the scene on the killing ground made no sense. Too much light – it had been dark, hadn’t it? Then he saw soldiers amidst the rubble, some writhing in pain, others picking themselves up, covered in dust, coughing in the foul air.
The breach on Y’Ghatan’s south wall ran a full third of its length, fifty paces in from the southwest bastion to well beyond the centre gate fortifications. Buildings had collapsed, whilst those that remained upright, flanking the raging flames of the gap, were themselves burning, although it seemed that most of that had come from the innumerable burners among the sapper-kits left behind. The fires danced on cracked stone as if seeking somewhere to go before the fuel vanished.
The light cast by the aftermath of the detonation was dimming, shrouded by descending dust. Cuttle appeared at his side, plucking scraps of rotted fruit from his armour. ‘We can head into that gap soon – gods, when I track down Crump—’
‘Get in line, Cuttle. Hey, I see Strings…and the squad…’
Horns sounded, soldiers scrambling to form up. Darkness was closing in once more, as the last of the fires dwindled in the breach. The rain of dust seemed unending as Fist Keneb moved to the rally position, his officers drawing round him and bellowing orders. He saw Tene Baralta and Captain Lostara Yil at the head of a narrow column that had already begun moving.
The sappers had messed up. That much was clear. And some of them had not made it back. Damned fools, and they weren’t even under fire.
He saw the fires guttering out in the gap, although webs of flame clung stubbornly to the still-upright buildings to either side. ‘First, second and third squads,’ Keneb said to Captain Faradan Sort. ‘The heavies lead the way into the breach.’
‘The marines are already through, Fist.’
‘I know, Captain, but I want backup close behind them if things get hairy. Get them moving.’
‘Aye, Fist.’
Keneb glanced back to the higher ground on the other side of the road and saw a row of figures watching. The Adjunct, T’amber, Nil and Nether. Fist Blistig and Warleader Gall. Fist Temul was likely out with his horse-warriors, ranging round the city on the other sides. There was always a chance Leoman would leave his followers to their grisly fate and attempt to escape on his own. Such things were not unknown.
‘Sergeant Cord!’
The soldier strolled up. Keneb noted the sigil of the Ashok Regiment on the man’s battered leather armour, but
elected to ignore it. For now. ‘Lead the mediums in, seventh through twelfth squads.’
‘Aye, Fist, we’re dogging the heavies’ heels.’
‘Good. This will be street and alley fighting, Sergeant, assuming the bastards don’t surrender outright.’
‘I’d be surprised if they did that, Fist.’
‘Me too. Get going, Sergeant.’
Finally, some motion among the troops of his company. The waiting was over. The Fourteenth was heading into battle. Hood look away from us this night. Just look away.
Bottle and Cuttle rejoined their squad. Sergeant Strings carried his lobber crossbow, a cusser quarrel slotted and locked.
‘There’s a way through the flames,’ Strings said, wiping sweat from his eyes, then spitting. ‘Koryk and Tarr up front. Cuttle to the rear and keep a sharper in your hand. Behind the front two, me and Smiles. You’re a step behind us, Bottle.’
‘You want more illusions, Sergeant?’
‘No, I want your other stuff. Ride the rats and pigeons and bats and spiders and whatever in Hood’s name else is in there. I need eyes you can look through into places we can’t see.’
‘Expecting a trap?’ Bottle asked.
‘There’s Borduke and his squad, dammit. First into the breach. Come on, on their heels!’
They sprinted forward across the uneven, rock-littered ground. Moonlight struggled through the dust haze. Bottle quested with his senses, seeking life somewhere ahead, but what he found was in pain, dying, trickling away beneath mounds of rubble, or stunned insensate by the concussions. ‘We have to get past the blast area,’ he said to Strings.
‘Right,’ the sergeant replied over a shoulder. ‘That’s the idea.’
They reached the edge of the vast, sculpted crater created by Crump’s munitions. Borduke and his squad were scrambling up the other side, and Bottle saw that the wall they climbed was tiered with once-buried city ruins, ceilings and floors compressed, cracked, collapsed, sections of wall that had slid out and down into the pit itself, taking with them older layers of floor tiles. He saw that both Balgrid and Maybe had survived the explosion, but wondered how many sappers and squad mages they had lost. Some gut instinct told him Crump had survived.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 489