The Bonehunters

The Bonehunters Page 36

by Steven Erikson

And now other figures were swarming past Blistig. Khundryl. Warlocks, witches. Keening voices, jabbering undercurrents, a force building, rising from the battered earth. Fist Blistig twisted round — a ritual, magic, what were they doing? He shot a glance back at the chaos of the encampment, saw officers amidst scrambling figures — they weren't fools. They were already pulling back—

  Nil's voice, loud from the road. 'We can feel her! Someone! Spirits below, such power!'

  'Help her, damn you!'

  A witch shrieked, bursting into flames on the road. Moments later, two warlocks huddled near Blistig seemed to melt before his eyes, crumbling into white ash. He stared in horror. Help her? Help who? What is happening? He pulled himself onto the road's edge once more.

  And could see, in the heart of the breach, a darkening within the flames.

  Fire flickered round another witch, then snapped out as something rolled over everyone on the road — cool, sweet power — like a merciful god's breath. Even Blistig, despiser of all things magic, could feel this emanation, this terrible, beautiful will.

  Driving the flames in the breach back, opening a swirling dark tunnel.

  From which figures staggered.

  Nether was on her knees near the Adjunct — the only person on the road still standing — and Blistig saw the Wickan girl turn to Tavore, heard her say, 'It's Sinn. Adjunct, that child's a High Mage. And she doesn't even know it—'

  The Adjunct turned, saw Blistig.

  'Fist! On your feet. Squads and healers forward. Now! They're coming through — Fist Blistig, do you understand me? They need help!'

  He clambered to his knees, but got no further. He stared at the woman. She was no more than a silhouette, the world behind her nothing but flames, a firestorm growing, ever growing. Something cold, riven through with terror, filled his chest.

  A vision.

  He could only stare.

  Tavore snarled, then turned to the scrawny boy standing nearby. 'Grub! Find some officers down in our camp! We need—'

  'Yes, Adjunct! Seven hundred and ninety-one, Adjunct. Fist Keneb. Fist Tene Baralta. Alive. I'm going to get help now.'

  And then he was running past Blistig, down the slope, the dogs padding along in his wake.

  A vision. An omen, yes. 1 know now, what awaits us. At the far end. At the far end of this long, long road. Oh gods...

  She had turned about, now, her back to him. She was staring at the burning city, at the pathetic, weaving line of survivors stumbling through the tunnel. Seven hundred and ninety-one. Out of three thousand.

  But she is blind. Blind to what I see.

  The Adjunct Tavore. And a burning world.

  ****

  The doors slammed open, pulling in an undercurrent of smoke and heat that swept across Corabb's ankles, then up and round, the smoke massing in the dome, pulled and tugged by wayward currents. The warrior stepped in front of the huddled children and drew out his scimitar.

  He heard voices — Malazan — then saw figures appearing from the hallway's gloom. Soldiers, a woman in the lead. Seeing Corabb, they halted.

  A man stepped past the woman. His blistered face bore the mangled traces of tattooing. 'I am Iutharal Galt,' he said in a ragged voice. 'Pardu—'

  'Traitor,' Corabb snapped. 'I am Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas, Second to Leoman of the Flails. You, Pardu, are a traitor.'

  'Does that matter any more? We're all dead now, anyway.'

  'Enough of this,' a midnight-skinned soldier said in badly accented Ehrlii. 'Throatslitter, go and kill the fool—'

  'Wait!' the Pardu said, then ducked his head and added: 'Sergeant. Please. There ain't no point to this—'

  'It was these bastards that led us into this trap, Galt,' the sergeant said.

  'No,' Corabb said, drawing their attention once more. 'Leoman of the Flails has brought us to this. He and he alone. We — we were all betrayed—'

  'And where's he hiding?' the one named Throatslitter asked, hefting his long-knives, a murderous look in his pale eyes.

  'Fled.'

  'Temul will have him, then,' Iutharal Galt said, turning to the sergeant. 'They've surrounded the city—'

  'No use,' Corabb cut in. 'He did not leave that way.' He gestured behind him, towards the altar. 'A sorcerous gate. The Queen of Dreams — she took him from here. Him and High Mage L'oric and a Malazan woman named Dunsparrow—'

  The doors opened once again and the Malazans whirled, then, as voices approached — cries of pain, coughing, cursing — they relaxed. More brethren, Corabb realized. More of the damned enemy. But the Pardu had been right. The only enemy now was fire. He swung back to look upon the children, flinched at their terror-filled eyes, and turned round once more, for he had nothing to say to them. Nothing worth hearing.

  ****

  As he stumbled into the hallway, Bottle gasped. Cold, dusty air, rushing past him — where? how? — and then Cuttle pushed the doors shut once more, swearing as he burned his hands.

  Ahead, at the threshold leading into the altar chamber, stood more Malazans. Balm and his squad. The Kartoolian drunk, Hellian. Corporal Reem and a few others from Sobelone's heavies. And, beyond them in the nave itself, a lone rebel warrior, and behind him, children.

  But the air — the air... ,

  Koryk and Tarr dragged Strings past him. Mayfly and Flashwit had drawn their meat-knives again, even as the rebel flung his scimitar to one side, the weapon clanging hollowly on the tiled floor. Gods below, one of them has actually surrendered.

  Heat was radiating from the stone walls — the firestorm outside would not spare this temple for much longer. The last twenty paces round the temple corner to the front facade had nearly killed them — no wind, the air filled with the crack of exploding bricks, buckling cobblestones, the flames seeming to feed upon the very air itself, roaring down the streets, spiralling upward, flaring like huge hooded snakes above the city. And the sound — he could hear it still, beyond the walls, closing in — the sound... is terrible. Terrible.

  Gesler and Cord strode over to Balm and Hellian, and Bottle moved closer to listen in on their conversation.

  'Anybody here worship the Queen of Dreams?' Gesler asked.

  Hellian shrugged. 'I figure it's a little late to start. Anyway, Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas — our prisoner over there — he said Leoman's already done that deal with her. Of course, maybe she ain't into playing favourites—

  A sudden loud crack startled everyone — the altar had just shattered — and Bottle saw that Crump, the insane saboteur, had just finished pissing on it.

  Hellian laughed. 'Well, scratch that idea.'

  'Hood's balls,' Gesler hissed. 'Someone go kill that bastard, please.'

  Crump had noticed the sudden attention. He looked round innocently. 'What?'

  'Want a word or two with you,' Cuttle said, rising. "Bout the wall—'

  'It weren't my fault! I ain't never used cussers afore!'

  'Crump—'

  'And that ain't my name neither, Sergeant Cord. It's Jamber Bole, and I was High Marshall in the Mott Irregulars—'

  'Well, you ain't in Mott any more, Crump. And you ain't Jamber Bole either. You're Crump, and you better get used to it.'

  A voice from behind Bottle: 'Did he say Mott Irregulars?'

  Bottle turned, nodded at Strings. 'Aye, Sergeant.'

  'Gods below, who recruited him?'

  Shrugging, Bottle studied Strings for a moment. Koryk and Tarr had carried him to just within the nave's entrance, and the sergeant was leaning against a flanking pillar, the wounded leg stretched out in front of him, his face pale. 'I better get to that—'

  'No point, Bottle — the walls are going to explode — you can feel the heat, even from this damned pillar. It's amaz­ing there's air in here...' His voice fell away, and Bottle saw his sergeant frown, then lay both hands palm-down on the tiles. 'Huh.'

  'What is it?'

  'Cool air, coming up from between the tiles.'

  Crypts? Cellars? But that would be de
ad air down there.. 'I'll be back in a moment, Sergeant,' he said, turning and heading towards the cracked altar. A pool of water steamed just beyond. He could feel that wind, now, the currents ris­ing up from the floor. Halting, he settled down onto his hands and knees.

  And sent his senses downward, seeking life-sparks.

  Down, through layers of tight-packed rubble, then, movement in the darkness, the flicker of life. Panicked, clambering down, ever down, the rush of air sweeping past slick fur — rats. Fleeing rats.

  Fleeing. Where? His senses danced out, through the rubble beneath, brushing creature after creature. Darkness, sighing streams of air. Smells, echoes, damp stone...

  'Everyone!' Bottle shouted, rising. 'We need to break through this floor! Whatever you can find — we need to bash through!'

  They looked at him as if he'd gone mad.

  'We dig down! This city — it's built on ruins! We need to find a way down — through them — damn you all — that air is coming from somewhereV

  'And what are we?' Cord demanded. 'Ants?'

  'There's rats, below — I looked through their eyes — I saw! Caverns, caves — passages!'

  'You did what?' Cord advanced on him.

  'Hold it, Cord!' Strings said, twisting round where he sat. 'Listen to him. Bottle — can you follow one of those rats? Can you control one?'

  Bottle nodded. 'But there are foundation stones, under this temple — we need to get through—'

  'How?' Cuttle demanded. 'We just got rid of all our munitions!'

  Hellian cuffed one of her soldiers. 'You, Brethless! Still got that cracker?'

  Every sapper in the chamber suddenly closed in on the soldier named Brethless. He stared about in panic, then pulled out a wedge-shaped copper-sheathed spike.

  'Back off him!' Strings shouted. 'Everyone. Everyone but Cuttle. Cuttle, you can do this, right? No mistakes.'

  'None at all,' Cuttle said, gingerly taking the spike from Brethless's hand. 'Who's still got a sword? Anything hard and big enough to break these tiles—'

  'I do.' The man who spoke was the rebel warrior. 'Or, I did — it's over there.' He pointed.

  The scimitar went into the hands of Tulip, who battered the tiles in a frenzy that had inset precious stones flying everywhere, until a rough angular hole had been chopped into the floor.

  'Good enough, back off, Tulip. Everybody, get as close to the outer walls as you can and cover your faces, your eyes, your ears—'

  'How many hands you think each of us has got?' Hellian demanded.

  Laughter.

  Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas stared at them all as if they'd lost their minds.

  A reverberating crack shuddered through the temple, and dust drifted down. Bottle looked up with all the others to see tongues of fire reaching down through a fissure in the dome, which had begun sagging. 'Cuttle—'

  'I see it. Pray this cracker don't bring it all down on us.'

  He set the spike. 'Bottle, which way you want it pointing?'

  'Towards the altar side. There's a space, two maybe three arm-lengths down.'

  'Three? Gods below. Well, we'll see.'

  The outer walls were oven-hot, sharp cracking sounds fill­ing the air as the massive temple began settling. They could hear the grate of foundation stones sliding beneath shifting pressures. The heat was building.

  'Six and counting!' Cuttle shouted, scrambling away.

  Five... four... three...

  The cracker detonated in a deadly hail of stone-chips and tile shards. People cried out in pain, children screamed, dust and smoke filling the air — and then, from the floor, the sounds of rubble falling, striking things far below, bouncing, tumbling down, down...

  'Bottle.'

  At Strings's voice, he crawled forward, towards the gap­ing hole. He needed to find another rat. Somewhere down below. A rat my soul can ride. A rat to lead us out.

  He said nothing to the others of what else he had sensed, flitting among life-sparks in the seeming innumerable layers of dead, buried city below — that it went down, and down, and down — the air rising up stinking of decay, the pressing darkness, the cramped, tortured routes. Down. All those rats, fleeing, downward. None, none within my reach clambering free, into the night air. None.

  Rats will flee. Even when there's nowhere to go.

  ****

  Wounded, burned soldiers were being carried past Blistig. Pain and shock, flesh cracked open and lurid red, like cooked meat — which, he realized numbly, was what it was. The white ash of hair — on limbs, where eyebrows had once ; been, on blistered pates. Blackened remnants of clothing, hands melted onto weapon grips — he wanted to turn away, so desperately wanted to turn away, but he could not.

  He stood fifteen hundred paces away, now, from the road and its fringes of burning grass, and he could still feel the heat. Beyond, a fire god devoured the sky above Y'Ghatan — Y'Ghatan, crumbling inward, melting into slag — the city's death was as horrible to his eyes as the file of Keneb and Baralta's surviving soldiers.

  How could he do this? Leoman of the Flails, you have made of your name a curse that will never die. Never.

  Someone came to his side and, after a long moment, Blistig looked over. And scowled. The Claw, Pearl. The man's eyes were red — durhang, it could be nothing else, for he had remained in his tent, at the far end of the encamp­ment, as if indifferent to this brutal night.

  'Where is the Adjunct?' Pearl asked in a low, rough voice.

  'Helping with the wounded.'

  'Has she broken? Is she on her hands and knees in the blood-soaked mud?'

  Blistig studied the man. Those eyes — had he been weep­ing? No. Durhang. 'Say that again, Claw, and you won't stay alive for much longer.'

  The tall man shrugged. 'Look at these burned soldiers, Fist. There are worse things than dying.'

  'The healers are among them. Warlocks, witches, from my company—'

  'Some scars cannot be healed.'

  'What are you doing here? Go back to your tent.'

  'I have lost a friend this night, Fist. I will go wherever I choose.'

  Blistig looked away. Lost a friend. What of over two thousand Malazan soldiers? Keneb has lost most of his marines and among them, invaluable veterans. The Adjunct has lost her first battle — oh, the imperial records will note a great victory, the annihilation of the last vestiges of the Sha'ik rebellion. But we, we who are here this night, we will know the truth for the rest of our lives.

  And this Adjunct Tavore, she is far from finished. I have seen. 'Go back to the Empress,' Blistig said. 'Tell her the truth of this night—'

  'And what would be the point of that, Fist?'

  He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

  Pearl said, 'Word will be sent to Dujek Onearm, and he in turn will report to the Empress. For now, however, it is more important that Dujek know. And understand, as I am sure he will.'

  'Understand what?'

  'That the Fourteenth Army can no longer be counted on as a fighting force on Seven Cities.'

  Is that true? 'That remains to be seen,' he said. 'In any case, the rebellion is crushed—'

  'Leoman escaped.'

  'What?'

  'He has escaped. Into the Warren of D'riss, under the protection of the Queen of Dreams — only she knows, I suppose, what use he will be to her. I admit, that part worries me — gods are by nature unfathomable, most of the time, and she is more so than most. I find this detail... troubling.'

  'Stand here, then, and fret.' Blistig turned away, made for the hastily erected hospital tents. Hood take that damned Claw. The sooner the better. How could he know such things? Leoman... alive. Well, perhaps that could be made to work in their favour, perhaps his name would become a curse among the people of Seven Cities as well. The Betrayer. The commander who murdered his own army.

  But it is how we are. Look at High Fist Pormqual, after all. Yet, his crime was stupidity. Leoman's was... pure evil. If such a thing truly exists.

  The storm r
aged on, unleashing waves of heat that blackened the surrounding countryside. The city's walls had vanished — for no human-built wall could withstand this demon's fury. A distant, pale reflection was visible to the east. The sun, rising to meet its child.

  ****

  His soul rode the back of a small, insignificant creature, fed on a tiny, racing heart, and looked through eyes that cut into the darkness. Like some remote ghost, tethered by the thinnest of chains, Bottle could feel his own body, some­where far above, slithering through detritus, cut and scraped raw, face gone slack, eyes straining. Battered hands pulled him along — his own, he was certain — and he could hear soldiers moving behind him, the crying of children, the scrape and catch of buckles, leather straps snagging, rubble being pushed aside, clawed at, clambered over.

  He had no idea how far they had gone. The rat sought out the widest, highest passages, following the howling, whistling wind. If people remained in the temple, awaiting sheir turn to enter this tortured tunnel, that turn would never come, for the air itself would have burst aflame by now, and soon the temple would collapse, burying their blackened corpses in melting stone.

  Strings would have been among those victims, for the sergeant had insisted on going last, just behind Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas. Bottle thought back to those frantic moments, before the dust-clouds had even cleared, as chunks of the domed ceiling rained down...

  ****

  'Bottle!'

  'I'm looking!' Questing down, through cracks and fissures, hunting life. Warm-blooded life. Brushing then closing in on the muted awareness of a rat, sleek, healthy — but overheating with terror. Overwhelming its meagre defences, clasping hard an iron control about its soul — that faint, flickering force, yet strong enough to reach beyond the flesh and bones that sheltered it. Cunning, strangely proud, warmed by the presence of kin, the rule of the swarm's master, but now all was in chaos, the drive of survival overpowering all else. Racing down, following spoor, following the rich scents in the air—

  And then it turned about, began climbing upwards once more, and Bottle could feel its soul in his grasp. Perfectly still,, unresisting now that it had been captured. Observing, curious, calm. There was more, he had always known — so much more to creatures. And so few who understood them the way he did, so few who could reach out and grasp such souls, and so find the strange web of trust all tangled with suspicion, fear with curiosity, need with loyalty.

 

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