‘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.
Borduke and his squad were having a hard time of it.
‘To the right,’ Strings said. ‘We can skirt it and get through before them!’
Borduke heard and twisted round from where he clung to the wall, three quarters of the way up. ‘Bastards! Balgrid, get that fat butt of yours moving, damn you!’
Koryk found a way round the crater, clambering over the rubble, and Bottle and the others followed. Too distracted for the moment by the effort of staying on his feet, Bottle did not attempt to sense the myriad, minuscule life beyond the blast area, in the city itself. Time for that later, he hoped.
The halfblood Seti’s progress halted suddenly, and the mage looked up to see that Koryk had encountered an obstacle, a broad crack in a sharply angled, subterranean floor, a man’s height below ground-level. Dust-smeared tiles revealed the painted images of yellow birds in flight, all seeming to be heading deep underground with the slanting pitch of the floor.
Koryk glanced back at Strings. ‘Saw the whole slab move, Sergeant. Not sure how solid our footing will be.’
‘Hood take us! All right, get the ropes out, Smiles—’
‘I tossed ’em,’ she said, scowling. ‘On the run in here. Too damned heavy—’
‘And I picked them up,’ Cuttle interjected, tugging the coils from his left shoulder and flinging them forward.
Strings reached out and rapped a knuckle against Smiles’s chin – her head snapped back, eyes widening in shock, then fury. ‘You carry what I tell you to carry, soldier,’ the sergeant said.
Koyrk collected one end of the rope, backed up a few paces, then bolted forward and leapt over the fissure. He landed clean, although with very little room to spare. There was no way Tarr or Cuttle could manage such a long jump.
Strings cursed, then said, ‘Those who can do what Koryk just did, go to it. And nobody leave gear behind, either.’
Moments later both Bottle and Smiles crouched at Koryk’s side, helping anchor the rope as the sergeant, twin sacks of munitions dangling from him, crossed hand over hand, the bags swinging wild but positioned so that they never collided with one another. Bottle released the rope and moved forward to help, once Strings found footing on the edge.
Cuttle followed. Then Tarr, with the rope wrapped about himself, made his way down onto the slanted floor and was dragged quickly across as it shifted then slid away beneath his weight. Armour and weapons clanking, the rest of the squad pulled the corporal onto level ground.
‘Gods,’ Cuttle gasped. ‘The man weighs as much as a damned bhederin!’
Koryk recoiled the rope and handed it, grinning, to Smiles.
They set off once more, up over a ridge of wreckage from some kind of stall or lean-to that had abutted the inner wall, then more rubble, beyond which was a street.
And Borduke and his squad were just entering it, spread out, crossbows at the ready. The bearded sergeant was in the lead, Corporal Hubb on his right and two steps behind. Ibb was opposite the corporal, and two paces behind the pair were Tavos Pond and Balgrid, followed by Lutes, with the rear drawn up by the sapper Maybe. Classic marine advance formation.
The buildings to the sides were dark, silent. Something odd about them, Bottle thought, trying to work out what it might be… no shutters on the windows – they’re all open. So are the doors… every door, in fact— ‘Sergeant—’
The arrows that suddenly sped down from flanking windows, high up, were loosed at the precise moment that a score of figures rushed out from nearby buildings, screaming, spears, scimitars and shields at the ready. Those arrows had been fired without regard to the charging warriors, and two cried out as iron-barbed points tore into them.
Bottle saw Borduke spin round, saw the arrow jutting from his left eye socket, saw a second arrow transfixing his neck. Blood was spraying as he staggered, clawing and clutching at his throat and face. Behind him, Corporal Hubb curled up round an arrow in his gut, then sank to the cobbles. Ibb had taken an arrow in the left shoulder, and he was plucking at it, swearing, when a warrior rushed in on him, scimitar swinging to strike him across the side of his head. Bone and helm caved in, a gush of blood, and the soldier fell.
Strings’s squad arrived, intercepting a half-dozen warriors. Bottle found himself in the midst of a vicious exchange, Koryk on his left, the half-Seti’s longsword batting away a scimitar, then driving point first into the man’s throat. A screaming visage seemed to lunge at Bottle, as if the warrior was seeking to tear into his neck with bared teeth, and Bottle recoiled at the madness in the man’s eyes, then reached in with his mind, into the warrior’s fierce maelstrom of thoughts – little more than fractured images and black rage – and found the most primitive part of his brain; a burst of power and the man’s coordination vanished. He crumpled, limbs twitching.
Cold with sweat, Bottle backed away another step, wishing he had a weapon to draw, beyond the bush-knife in his right hand.
Fighting on all sides. Screams, the clash of metal, snapping of chain links, grunts and gasps.
And still arrows rained down.
One cracked into the back of Strings’s helm, pitching him down to his knees. He twisted round, lifting his crossbow, glaring at the building opposite – its upper windows crowded with archers.
Bottle reached out and grasped Koryk’s baldric. ‘Back! Fid’s cusser! Everyone! Back!’
The sergeant raised the crossbow to his shoulder, aimed towards an upper window—
There were heavy infantry among them now, and Bottle saw Taffo, from Mosel’s squad, wading into a crowd of warriors, now ten paces from the building – from Strings’s target—
—as the crossbow thunked, the misshapen quarrel flying out, up, into the maw of the window.
Bottle threw himself flat, arms covering his head—
The upper floor of the building exploded, huge sections of wall bulging, then crashing down into the street. The cobbles jumped beneath Bottle.
Someone rolled up against him and he felt something flop heavy and slimy onto his forearm, twitching and hot. A sudden reek of bile and faeces.
The patter of stones, piteous moans, the lick of flames. Then another massive crash, as what remained of the upper poor collapsed into the level below. The groan of the nearest wall preceded its sagging dissolution. Then, beyond the few groans, silence.
Bottle lifted his head. To find Corporal Harbyn lying beside him. The lower half of the soldier’s body was gone, entrails spilled out. Beneath the helm’s ridge, eyes stared sightlessly. Pulling away, Bottle leaned back on his hands and crabbed across the rock-strewn street. Where Taffo had been fighting a mob of warriors, there was now nothing but a heap of rubble and a few dust-sheathed limbs jutting from beneath it, all motionless.
Koryk moved past him, stabbing down at stunned figures with his sword. Bottle saw Smiles cross the half-Seti’s path, her two knives already slick with blood.
Bodies in the street. Figures slowly rising, shaking their heads, spitting blood. Bottle twisted round onto his knees, dipped his head, and vomited onto the cobbles.
‘Fiddler – you bastard!’
Coughing, but stomach quiescent for the moment, Bottle looked over to see Sergeant Mosel advancing on Strings.
‘We had them! We were rushing the damned building!’
‘Then rush that one!’ Strings snapped, pointing at the tenement on the other side of the street. ‘They just been knocked back, that’s all – any moment now and another rain of arrows—’
Cursing, Mosel gestured at the three heavies left – Mayfly, Flashwit and Uru Hela – and they lumbered into the building’s doorway.
Strings was fitting another quarrel into his crossbow, this one loaded with a sharper. ‘Balgrid! Who’s left in your squad?’
The portly mage staggered over. ‘What?’ he shouted. ‘I can’t hear you! What?’
‘Tavos Pond!’
‘Here, Sergeant. We got Maybe, uhm, Balgrid – but he’s bleeding out from his ears. Lutes is down, but he should live – with some healing. We’re out of this—’
‘To Hood you are. Pull Lutes clear – there’s a squad coming up – the rest of you are with me—’
‘Balgrid’s deaf!’
‘Better he was mute – we got hand signals, remember? Now remind the bastard of that! Bottle, help Tarr out. Cuttle, take Koryk to that corner up ahead and wait there for us. Smiles, load up on quarrels – I want that weapon of yours cocked and your eyes sharp on everything from rooftops on down.’
Bottle climbed to his feet and made his way to where Tarr was struggling to clamber free of rubble – a part of the wall had fallen on him, but it seemed his armour and shield had withstood the impact. Lots of swearing, but nothing voiced in pain. ‘Here,’ Bottle said, ‘give me your arm—’
‘I’m fine,’ the corporal said, grunting as he kicked his feet clear. He still gripped his shortsword, and snagged on its tip was a hairy piece of scalp, coated in dust and dripping from the underside. ‘Look at that,’ he said, gesturing up the street with his sword, ‘even Cuttle’s shut up now.’
‘Fid had no choice,’ Bottle said. ‘Too many arrows coming down—’
‘I ain’t complaining, Bottle. Not one bit. See Borduke go down? And Hubb? That could’ve been us, if we’d reached here first.’
Bonehunters Page 33