Temul stared, his mind battered by what he was seeing, what he now understood.
A third of the Fourteenth Army was in that city by now. A third.
And they were already as good as dead.
Fist Blistig stood beside the Adjunct on the road. He felt sick inside, the feeling rising up from a place and a time he had believed left behind him. Standing on the walls of Aren, watching the slaughter of Coltaine’s army. Hopeless, helpless—
‘Fist,’ the Adjunct snapped, ‘get more soldiers filling in that trench.’
He started, then half-turned and gestured towards one of his aides – the woman had heard the command, for she nodded and hurried off. Douse the trench, aye. But… what’s the point? The breach had found a new wall, this one of flames. And more had risen all round the city, beginning just within the tiered walls, buildings bursting, voicing terrible roars as fiery oil exploded out, flinging mud-bricks that were themselves deadly, burning missiles. And now, further in, at junctures and along the wider streets, more buildings were igniting. One, just beyond the palace, had moments earlier erupted, with geysers of burning oil shooting skyward, obliterating the darkness, revealing the sky filling with tumbling black clouds.
‘Nil, Nether,’ the Adjunct said in a brittle voice, ‘gather our mages – all of them – I want the flames smothered in the breach. I want—’
‘Adjunct,’ Nether cut in, ‘we have not the power.’
‘The old earth spirits,’ Nil added in a dull tone, ‘are dying, fleeing the flames, the baking agony, all dying or fleeing. Something is about to be born…’
Before them, the city of Y’Ghatan was brightening into day, yet a lurid, terrible day.
Coughing, staggering, wounded soldiers half-carried, half-dragged through the press – but there was nowhere to go. Keneb stared – the air burning his eyes – at the mass of his soldiers. Seven, eight hundred. Where were the others? But he knew.
Gone. Dead.
In the streets beyond, he could see naught but fire, leaping from building to building, filling the fierce, hot air, with a voice of glee, demonic, hungry and eager.
He needed to do something. Think of something, but this heat, this terrible heat – his lungs were heaving, desperate despite the searing pain that blossomed with each strained breath. Lungful after lungful, yet it was as if the air itself had died, all life sucked from it, and so could offer him nothing.
His own armour was cooking him alive. He was on his knees, now, with all the others. ‘Armour!’ he rasped, not knowing if anyone could hear him. ‘Get it off! Armour! Weapons!’ Gods below, my chest – the pain—
A blade-on-blade parry, holding contact, two edges rasping against each other, then, as the warrior pushed harder with his scimitar, Lostara Yil ducked low, disengaged her sword downward, slashing up and under, taking him in the throat. Blood poured out. Stepping past, she batted aside another weapon thrusting at her – a spear – hearing splinters from the shaft as she pushed it to one side. In her left hand was her kethra knife, which she punched into her foe’s belly, twisting as she yanked it back out again.
Lostara staggered free of the crumpling warrior, a flood of sorrow shooting through her as she heard him call out a woman’s name before he struck the cobbles.
The fight raged on all sides, her three squads now down to fewer than a dozen soldiers, whilst yet more of the berserk fanatics closed in from the flanking buildings – market shops, shuttered doors kicked down and now billowing smoke, carrying out into the street the reek of overheated oil, spitting, crackling sounds – something went thump and all at once there was fire—
Everywhere.
Lostara Yil cried out a warning, even as another warrior rushed her. Parrying with the knife, stop-thrusting with her sword, then kicking the impaled body from her blade, his sagging weight nearly tugging the weapon from her hand.
Terrible shrieks behind her. She whirled.
A flood of burning oil, roaring out from buildings to either side, sweeping among the fighters – their legs, then clothes – telaba, leathers, linens, the flames appearing all over them. Warrior and soldier, the fire held to no allegiance – it was devouring everyone.
She staggered away from that onrushing river of death, stumbled and fell, sprawling, onto a corpse, clambered onto it a moment before fiery oil poured around her, swept past her already burning island of torn flesh—
A building exploded, the fireball expanding outward, plunging towards her. She cried out, throwing up both arms, as the searing incandescence reached out to take her—
A hand from behind, snagging her harness—
Pain – the breath torn from her lungs – then… nothing.
‘Stay low!’ Balm shouted as he led his squad down the twisting alley. After his bellowed advice, the sergeant resumed his litany of curses. They were lost. Pushed back in their efforts to return to Keneb and the breach, they were now being herded. By flames. They had seen the palace a short while earlier, through a momentary break in the smoke, and as far as Balm could determine they were still heading in that direction – but the world beyond had vanished, in fire and smoke, and pursuing in their wake was the growing conflagration. Alive, and hunting them.
‘It’s building, Sergeant! We got to get out of this city!’
‘You think I don’t know that, Widdershins? What in Hood’s name do you think we’re trying to do here? Now be quiet—’
‘We’re gonna run out of air.’
‘We are already, you idiot! Now shut that mouth of yours!’
They reached an intersection and Balm halted his soldiers. Six alley-mouths beckoned, each leading into tracks as twisted and dark as the next. Smoke was tumbling from two of them, on their left. Head spinning, every breath growing more pained, less invigorating, the Dal Honese wiped hot sweat from his eyes and turned to study his soldiers. Deadsmell, Throatslitter, Widdershins, Galt and Lobe. Tough bastards one and all. This wasn’t the right way to die – there were right ones, and this wasn’t one of them. ‘Gods,’ he muttered, ‘I’ll never look at a hearth the same again.’
‘You got that right, Sergeant,’ said Throatslitter, punctuating his agreement with a hacking cough.
Balm pulled off his helm. ‘Strip down, you damned fools, before we bake ourselves. Hold on to your weapons, if you can. We ain’t dying here tonight. You understand me? All of you listen – do you understand me?’
‘Aye, Sergeant,’ Throatslitter said. ‘We hear you.’
‘Good. Now, Widdershins, got any magic to make us a path? Anything at all?’
The mage shook his head. ‘Wish I did. Maybe soon, though.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean a fire elemental’s being born here, I think. A fire spirit, a godling. We got a firestorm on the way, and that will announce its arrival – and that’s when we die if we ain’t dead already. But an elemental is alive. It’s got a will, a mind, damned hungry and eager to kill. But it knows fear, fear because it knows it won’t last long – too fierce, too hot – days at best. And it knows other kinds of fear, too, and that’s where maybe I can do something – illusions. Of water, but not just water. A water elemental.’ He stared round at the others, who were all staring back, then shrugged. ‘Maybe, maybe not. How smart is an elemental? Got to be smart to be fooled, you see. Dog-smart, at least, better if it was smarter. Problem is, not everybody agrees that elementals even exist. I mean, I’m convinced it’s a good theory—’
Balm cracked him across the head. ‘All this on a theory? You wasted all that air on that? Gods below, Widdershins, I’m minded to kill you right now.’ He rose. ‘Let’s get going, while we can. To Hood with the damned palace – let’s take the alley opposite and when the theoretical elemental arrives we can shake its hand and curse it to the nonexistent Abyss. Come on – and you, Widdershins, not another word, got it?’
The soldier returned, wreathed in flames. Running, running from the pain, but there was nowhere to go. Captain Faradan Sort aimed the
crossbow and loosed a quarrel. Watched the poor man fall, grow still as the flames leapt all over him, blackening the skin, cracking open the flesh. She turned away. ‘Last quarrel,’ she said, tossing the weapon to one side.
Her new lieutenant, with the mouthful name of Madan’Tul Rada, said nothing – a characteristic Faradan was already used to, and of which she was, most of the time, appreciative.
Except now, when they were about to roast. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘scratch that route – and I’m out of scouts. No back, no forward, and, from the looks of it, no left and no right. Any suggestions?’
Madan’Tul Rada’s expression soured, jaw edging down as tongue probed a likely rotted molar, then he spat, squinted in the smoke, and unslung his round shield to study its charred face. Looked up again, slowly tracking, then: ‘No.’
They could hear a wind above them, shrieking, whirling round and round over the city, drawing the flames up, spinning tails of fire that slashed like giant swords through the convulsing smoke. It was getting harder and harder to breathe.
The lieutenant’s head lifted suddenly, and he faced the wall of flame up the street, then rose.
Faradan Sort followed suit, for she could now see what he had seen – a strange black stain spreading out within the flames, the tongues of fire flickering back, dying, the stain deepening, circular, and out from its heart staggered a figure shedding charred leathers, clasps and buckles falling away to bounce on the street.
Stumbling towards them, flames dancing in the full head of hair – dancing, yet not burning. Closer, and Faradan Sort saw it was a girl, a face she then recognized. ‘She’s from Cord’s Ashok squad. That’s Sinn.’
‘How did she do that?’ Madan’Tul Rada asked.
‘I don’t know, but let’s hope she can do it again. Soldier! Over here!’
An upper level had simply sheared away, down, crashing in an explosion of dust and smoke onto the street. Where Bowl had been crouching. He had not even seen it coming, Hellian suspected. Lucky bastard. She looked back at her squad. Blistered, red as boiled lobsters. Armour shed, weapons flung away – too hot to hold. Marines and heavies. Herself the only sergeant. Two corporals – Urb and Reem – their expressions dulled. Red-eyed all of them, gasping in the dying air, damn near hairless. Not much longer, I think. Gods, what I would do for a drink right now. Something nice. Chilled, delicate, the drunk coming on slow and sly, peaceful sleep beckoning as sweet as the last trickle down my ravaged throat. Gods, I’m a poet when it comes to drink, oh yes. ‘Okay, that way’s blocked now. Let’s take this damned alley—’
‘Why?’ Touchy demanded.
‘Because I don’t see flames down there, that’s why. We keep moving until we can’t move no more, got it?’
‘Why don’t we just stay right here – another building’s bound to land on us sooner or later.’
‘Tell you what,’ Hellian snarled. ‘You do just that, but me, I ain’t waiting for nothing. You want to die alone, you go right ahead.’
She set off.
Everyone followed. There was nothing else to do.
Eighteen soldiers – Strings had carried them through. Three more skirmishes, bloody and without mercy, and now they crouched before the palace gates – which yawned wide, a huge mouth filled with fire. Smoke billowed above the fortification, glowing in the night. Bottle, on his knees, gasping, slowly looked round at his fellow soldiers. A few heavies, the whole of Strings’s squad, and most of Sergeant Cord’s, along with the few marines surviving from Borduke’s squad.
They had hoped, prayed, even, to arrive and find other squads – anyone, more survivors, defying this damned conflagration… this far. Just this far, that’s all. It would have been enough. But they were alone, with no sign anywhere that any other Malazans had made it.
If Leoman of the Flails was in the palace, he was naught but ashes, now.
‘Crump, Maybe, Cuttle, over to me,’ Strings ordered, crouching and setting down his satchel. ‘Any other sappers? No? Anyone carrying munitions? All right, I just checked mine – the wax is way too soft and getting softer – it’s all gonna go up, and that’s the plan. All of it, except the burners – toss those – the rest goes right into the mouth of that palace—’
‘What’s the point?’ Cord demanded. ‘I mean, fine by me if you’re thinking it’s a better way to go.’
‘I want to try and blow a hole in this growing firestorm – knock it back – and we’re heading through that hole, for as long as it survives – Hood knows where it’ll lead. But I don’t see any fire right behind the palace, and that’ll do for me. Problems with that, Cord?’
‘No. I love it. It’s brilliant. Genius. If only I hadn’t tossed my helm away.’
A few laughs. Good sign.
Then hacking coughs. Bad sign.
Someone shrieked, and Bottle turned to see a figure lumbering out from a nearby building, flasks and bottles hanging from him, another bottle in one hand, a torch in the other – heading straight for them. And they had discarded their crossbows.
A bellowing answer from a soldier in Cord’s squad, and the man, Bell, rushed forward to intercept the fanatic.
‘Get back!’ Cord screamed.
Sprinting, Bell flung himself at the man, colliding with him twenty paces away, and both went down.
Bottle dropped flat, rolled away, bumping up against other soldiers doing the same.
A whoosh, then more screams. Terrible screams. And a wave of heat, blistering, fierce as the breath of a forge.
Then Strings was swearing, scrambling with his collection of satchels. ‘Away from the palace! Everyone!’
‘Not me!’ Cuttle growled. ‘You need help.’
‘Fine. Everyone else! Sixty, seventy paces at least! More if you can! Go!’
Bottle climbed upright, watched as Strings and Cuttle ran crablike towards the palace gates. Then he looked round. Sixty paces? We ain’t got sixty paces – flames were devouring buildings in every direction he could see, now.
Still, as far away as possible. He began running.
And found himself colliding with someone – who gripped his left arm and spun him round.
Gesler. And behind him Thom Tissy, then a handful of soldiers. ‘What are those fools doing?’ Gesler demanded.
‘Blow – a hole – through the storm—’
‘Puckered gods of the Abyss. Sands – you still got your munitions?’
‘Aye, Sergeant—’
‘Damned fool. Give ’em to me—’
‘No,’ said Truth, stepping in between. ‘I’ll take them. We’ve gone through fire before, right, Sergeant?’ With that he snatched the satchel from Sands’s hands and ran towards the palace gates—
Where Strings and Cuttle had been forced back – the heat too fierce, the flames slashing bright arms out at them.
‘Damn him!’ Gesler hissed. ‘That was a different kind of fire—’
Bottle pulled loose from the sergeant’s grip. ‘We got to get going! Away!’
Moments later all were running – except Gesler, who was heading towards the sappers outside the gate. Bottle hesitated. He could not help it. He had to see—
Truth reached Cuttle and Strings, tugged their bags away, slung them over a shoulder, then shouted something and ran towards the palace gates.
Both sappers leapt to their feet, retreating, intercepting Gesler – who looked determined to follow his young recruit – Cuttle and Strings dragged the sergeant back. Gesler struggled, turning a ravaged face in Truth’s direction—
But the soldier had plunged into the flames.
Bottle ran back, joined with the two sappers to help drag a shrieking Gesler away.
Away.
They had managed thirty paces down the street, heading towards a huddled mass of soldiers shying from a wall of flames, when the palace blew up behind them.
And out, huge sections of stone flung skyward.
Batted into the air, tumbling in a savage wind, Bottle rolled in the midst of bou
ncing rubble, limbs and bodies, faces, mouths opened wide, everyone screaming – in silence. No sound – no… nothing.
Pain in his head, stabbing fierce in his ears, a pressure closing on his temples, his skull ready to implode—
The wind suddenly reversed, pulling sheets of flame after it, closing in from every street. The pressure loosed. And the flames drew back, writhing like tentacles.
Then the air was still.
Coughing, staggering upright, Bottle turned.
The palace’s heart was gone, split asunder, and naught but dust and smoke filled the vast swath of rubble.
‘Now!’ Strings shrieked, his voice sounding leagues away. ‘Go! Everyone! Go!’
The wind returned, sudden, a scream rising to a wail, pushing them onward – onto the battered road between jagged, sagging palace walls.
Dunsparrow had been first to the temple doors, shoving them wide even as explosions of fire lit up the horizon, all round the city… all within the city walls.
Gasping, heart pounding and something like a knife-blade twisting in his gut, Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas followed Leoman and the Malazan woman into the Temple of Scalissara, L’oric two paces behind him.
No, not Scalissara – the Queen of Dreams. Scalissara the matron goddess of olive oil would not have… no, she would not have allowed this. Not… this.
And things had begun to make sense. Terrible, awful sense, like chiselled stones fitting together, raising a wall between humanity… and what Leoman of the Flails had become.
The warriors – who had ridden with them, lived with them since the rebellion first began, who had fought at their side against the Malazans, who even now fought like fiends in the streets – they were all going to die. Y’Ghatan, this whole city, it’s going to die.
Hurrying down the central hallway, into the nave, from which gusted a cold, dusty wind, wind that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. Reeking of mould, rot and death.
Leoman spun to L’oric. ‘Open a gate, High Mage! Quickly!’
‘You must not do this,’ Corabb said to his commander. ‘We must die, this night. Fighting in the name of Dryjhna—’
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