Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Now why would I do that?’ the sapper asked. ‘You’re both just as bad as each other. Now Pella here…’

  ‘No thanks,’ Pella said.

  Strings sipped his tea. ‘Just make sure everybody sticks together. Captain wants us on the tip of the spear, as fast and as far in as we can get – the rest will just have to catch up. Cuttle?’

  ‘Once the wall’s blown I’ll pull our sappers together and we meet you inside the breach. Where’s Borduke right now?’

  ‘Went for a walk. Seems his squad got into some kind of sympathetic heaves. Borduke got disgusted and stormed off.’

  ‘So long as everybody’s belly is empty by the time we get the call,’ Cuttle said. ‘Especially Maybe.’

  ‘Especially maybe,’ Gesler said, with a low laugh. ‘That’s a good one. You’ve made my day, Cuttle.’

  ‘Believe me, it wasn’t intentional.’

  Seated nearby, hidden from the others in a brush-bordered hollow, Bottle smiled. So that’s how the veterans get ready for a fight. Same as everyone else. That did indeed comfort him. Mostly. Well, maybe not. Better had they been confident, brash and swaggering. This – what was coming – sounded all too uncertain.

  He had just returned from the mage gathering. Magical probes had revealed a muted presence in Y’Ghatan, the priestly kind, for the most part, and what there was of that was confused, panicked. Or strangely quiescent. For the sappers’ advance, Bottle would be drawing upon Meanas, rolling banks of mist, tumbling darkness on all sides. Easily dispelled, if a mage of any skill was on the wall, but there didn’t seem to be any. Most troubling of all, Bottle would need all his concentration to work Meanas, thus preventing him from using spirit magic. Leaving him as blind as those few enemy soldiers on the wall.

  He admitted to a bad run of nerves – he hadn’t been nearly so shaky at Raraku. And with Leoman’s ambush in the sandstorm, well, it was an ambush, wasn’t it – there’d been no time for terror. In any case, he didn’t like this feeling.

  Rising into a crouch, he moved away, up and out of the hollow, straightening and walking casually into the squad’s camp. It seemed Strings didn’t mind leaving his soldiers alone for a while before things heated up, letting them chew on their own thoughts, then – hopefully – reining everyone in at the last moment.

  Koryk was tying yet more fetishes onto the various rings and loops in his armour, strips of coloured cloth, bird bones and chain-links to add to the ubiquitous finger bones that now signified the Fourteenth Army. Smiles was flipping her throwing-knives, the blades slapping softly on the leather of her gloves. Tarr stood nearby, shield already strapped on his left arm, short sword in his gauntleted right hand, most of his face hidden by his helm’s cheek-guards.

  Turning, Bottle studied the distant city. Dark – there seemed not a single lantern glowing from that squat, squalid heap. He already hated Y’Ghatan.

  A low whistle in the night. Sudden stirring. Cuttle appeared. ‘Sappers, to me. It’s time.’

  Gods below, so it is.

  Leoman stood in the Falah’d’s throne room. Eleven warriors were arrayed before him, glassy-eyed, their leather armour webbed in harnesses with straps and loops dangling. Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas studied them – familiar faces one and all, yet now barely recognizable beneath the blood and strips of skin. Deliverers of the Apocalypse, sworn now to fanaticism, sworn not to see the coming dawn, bound to death this night. The very sight of them, with their drug-soaked eyes, chilled Corabb.

  ‘You know what is asked of you this night,’ Leoman said to his chosen warriors. ‘Leave now, my brothers and sisters, under the pure eyes of Dryjhna, and we shall meet again at Hood’s Gate.’

  They bowed and headed off.

  Corabb watched until the last of them vanished beyond the great doors, then faced Leoman. ‘Warleader, what is to happen? What have you planned? You spoke of Dryjhna, yet this night you have bargained with the Queen of Dreams. Speak to me, before I begin to lose faith.’

  ‘Poor Corabb,’ Dunsparrow murmured.

  Leoman shot her a glare, then said, ‘No time, Corabb, but I tell you this – I have had my fill of fanatics, through this lifetime and a dozen others, I have had my fill—’

  Boots sounded on the floor in the hallway beyond, and they turned as a tall, cloaked warrior strode in, drawing his hood back. Corabb’s eyes widened, and hope surged through him as he stepped forward. ‘High Mage L’oric! Truly, Dryjhna shines bright in the sky tonight!’

  The tall man was massaging one shoulder, wincing as he said, ‘Would that I could have arrived within the damned city walls – too many mages stirring in the Malazan camp. Leoman, I did not know you had the power to summon – I tell you, I was headed elsewhere—’

  ‘The Queen of Dreams, L’oric.’

  ‘Again? What does she want?’

  Leoman shrugged. ‘You were part of the deal, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What deal?’

  ‘I will explain later. In any case, we need you this night. Come, we climb to the South Tower.’

  Another surge of hope. Corabb knew he could trust Leoman. The Holy Warrior possessed a plan, a diabolical, brilliant plan. He had been a fool to doubt. He set off in the wake of Dunsparrow, High Mage L’oric and Leoman of the Flails.

  Loric. Now we can fight the Malazans on equal terms. And in such a contest, we can naught but win!

  In the dark, beyond the rough ground of the pickets, Bottle crouched a few paces away from the handful of sappers he had been assigned to protect. Cuttle, Maybe, Crump, Ramp and Widdershins. Nearby was a second group being covered by Balgrid: Taffo, Able, Gupp, Jump and Bowl. People he knew from the march, now revealed as sappers or would-be sappers. Insane. Never knew there were so many in our company. Strings was in neither group; he would be leading the rest of the squads into the breach before the smoke and dust settled.

  Y’Ghatan’s walls were a mess, tiered with older efforts, the last series Malazan-built in the classic sloping style, twenty paces thick at its base. As far as anyone knew, this would be the first time the sappers would challenge the engineering of imperial fortifications – he could see the gleam in their eyes.

  Someone approached from his right and Bottle squinted through the gloom as the man arrived to crouch down beside him. ‘Ebron, isn’t it?’

  ‘Aye, Ashok Regiment.’

  Bottle smiled. ‘They don’t exist no more, Ebron.’

  He tapped his chest, then said, ‘You got a squad-mate of mine in your group.’

  ‘The one named Crump.’

  ‘Aye. Just thought you should know – he’s dangerous.’

  ‘Aren’t they all?’

  ‘No, this one especially. He was tossed out of the Mott Irregulars back on Genabackis.’

  ‘Sorry, that don’t mean nothing to me, Ebron.’

  ‘Too bad. Anyway, consider yourself warned. Might think about mentioning it to Cuttle.’

  ‘All right, I will.’

  ‘Oponn’s pull on you this night, lad.’

  ‘And on you, Ebron.’

  The man vanished into the darkness once more.

  More waiting. No lights visible along the city’s wall, nor the flanking corner bastions. No movement among the battlements.

  A low whistle. Bottle met Cuttle’s eyes, and the sapper nodded.

  Meanas, the warren of shadows, illusion and deception. He fashioned a mental image of the warren, a swirling wall before him, then began focusing his will, watched as a wound formed, lurid red at first, then a hole burning through. Power poured into him. Enough! No more. Gods, why is it so strong? Faint sound, something like movement, a presence, there, on the other side of the warren’s wall…

  Then… nothing.

  Of course there was no wall. That had been simply a construct, a fashioning in Bottle’s mind to manifest an idea into something physical. Something that he could then breach.

  Simple, really. Just incredibly dangerous. We damned mages must be mad, to play with this, to persist in
the conceit that it can be managed, shaped, twisted by will alone.

  Power is blood.

  Blood is power.

  And this blood, it belongs to an Elder God…

  A hiss from Cuttle. He blinked, then nodded as he began shaping the sorcery of Meanas. Mists, shot through with inky gloom, spreading out across the rough ground, snaking among the rubble, and the sappers set out, plunged into it, and moved on, unseen.

  Bottle followed a few paces behind. The soldiers hiding in that magic could see. Nothing of the illusion confounded their senses. Illusions were usually one-or at best two-sided; seen from the other sides, well, there was nothing to see. True masters, of course, could cheat light in all directions, could fashion something that looked physically real, that moved as it should, casting its own shadow, even scuffing up illusional dust. Bottle’s level of skill was nowhere near that. Balgrid had managed it – barely, it was true, but still… impressive.

  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—