The Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  'Cuttle?'

  A cough, then, 'Gods below, that damned thing — it came down between my legs — just missed my... oh Hood take me, I feel sick—'

  'Never mind that! There's light, coming down. Sunlight!'

  'Call your rat back — I can't see... how far up. I think it narrows. Narrows bad, Bottle.'

  The rat was clambering over the children, and he could feel its racing heart.

  'I see it — your rat—'

  'Take her in your hands, help her into the shaft over you. Yes, there's daylight — oh, it's too narrow — I might make it, or Smiles maybe, but most of the others...'

  'You just dig when you're up there, make it wider, Bottle. We're too close, now.'

  'Can the children get back here? Past the block?'

  'Uh, I think so. Tight, but yes.'

  Bottle twisted round. 'Roll call! And listen, we're almost there! Dig your way free! We're almost there!'

  The rat climbed, closer and closer to that patch of daylight.

  Bottle scrambled free of the gravel. 'All right,' he gasped as he moved over Cuttle.

  'Watch where you step!' the sapper said. 'My face is ugly enough without a damned heel print on it.'

  Bottle pulled himself into the uneven shaft, then halted. 'I got to pull stuff away, Cuttle. Move from directly below…'

  'Aye.'

  Names were being called out... hard to tell how many... maybe most of them. Bottle could not afford to think about it now. He began tugging at outcrops, bricks and rocks, widening the shaft. 'Stuff coming down!'

  As each piece thumped down or bounced off the foun­dation stone, Cuttle collected it and passed it back.

  'Bottle!'

  'What?'

  'One of the urchins — she fell into the pit — she ain't mak­ing any sound — I think we lost her.'

  Shit. 'Pass that rope ahead — can Smiles get over to them?'

  'I'm not sure. Keep going, soldier — we'll see what we can do down here.'

  Bottle worked his way upward. A sudden widening, then narrowing once more — almost within reach of that tiny opening — too small, he realized, for even so much as his hand. He pulled a large chunk of stone from the wall, dragged himself as close as he could to the hole. On a slight ledge near his left shoulder crouched the rat. He wanted to kiss the damned thing.

  But not yet. Things looked badly jammed up around that hole. Big stones. Panic whispered through him.

  With the rock in his hand, Bottle struck at the stone. A spurt of blood from one fingertip, crushed by the impact — he barely felt it. Hammering, hammering away. Chips rain­ing down every now and then. His arm tiring — he was running out of reserves, he didn't have the strength, the endurance for this. Yet he kept swinging.

  Each impact weaker than the one before.

  No, damn you! No!

  He swung again.

  Blood spattered his eyes.

  ****

  Captain Faradan Sort reined in on the ridge, just north of the dead city. Normally, a city that had fallen to siege soon acquired its scavengers, old women and children scram­bling about, picking through the ruins. But not here, not yet, anyway. Maybe not for a long time.

  Like a cracked pot, the steep sides of Y'Ghatan's tel had bled out — melted lead, copper, silver and gold, veins and pools filled with accreted stone chips, dust and potsherds.

  Offering an arm, Sort helped Sinn slip down from the saddle behind her — she'd been squirming, whimpering and clutching at her, growing more agitated the closer the day's end came, the light failing. The Fourteenth Army had left the night before. The captain and her charge had walked their lone horse round the tel, not once, but twice, since the sun's rise.

  And the captain had begun to doubt her own reading of the child Sinn, her own sense that this half-mad, now seemingly mute creature had known something, sensed something — Sinn had tried and tried to get back into the ruins before her arrest. There had to be a reason for that.

  Or, perhaps not. Perhaps nothing more than an insane grief — for her lost brother.

  Scanning the rubble-strewn base below the tel's north wall one more time, she noted that one scavenger at least had arrived. A child, smeared in white dust, her hair a matted snarl, was wandering perhaps thirty paces from the rough wall.

  Sinn saw her as well, then began picking her way down the slope, making strange mewling sounds.

  The captain unstrapped her helm and lifted it clear to settle it on the saddle horn. She wiped grimy sweat from her brow. Desertion. Well, it wasn't the first time, now, was it? If not for Sinn's magic, the Wickans would have found them. And likely executed them. She'd take a few with her, of course, no matter what Sinn did. People learned that you had to pay to deal with her. Pay in every way. A lesson she never tired of teaching.

  She watched as Sinn ran to the city's cliff-side, ignoring the scavenger, and began climbing it.

  Now what?

  Replacing the helm, the sodden leather inside-rim momentarily cool against her brow, the strap feeling stretched as she fixed the clasp beneath her jaw, Faradan Sort collected the reins and guided her horse into a slow descent down the scree.

  The scavenger was crying, grubby hands pressed against her eyes. All that dust on her, the webs in her hair — this was the true face of war, the captain knew. That child's face would haunt her memories, joining the many other faces, for as long as she lived.

  Sinn was clinging to the rough wall, perhaps two man-heights up, motionless.

  Too much, Sort decided. The child was mad. She glanced again at the scavenger, who did not seem aware that they had arrived. Hands still pressed against eyes. Red scrapes through the dust, a trickle of blood down one shin. Had she fallen? From where?

  The captain rode up to halt her horse beneath Sinn. 'Come down now,' she said. 'We need to make camp, Sinn. Come down, it's no use — the sun's almost gone. We can try again tomorrow.'

  Sinn tightened her grip on the broken outcrops of stone and brick.

  Grimacing, the captain side-stepped the mount closer to the wall, then reached up to pull Sinn from her perch.

  Squealing, the girl lunged upward, one hand shooting into a hole—

  ****

  His strength, his will, was gone. A short rest, then he could begin again. A short rest, the voices below drifting away, it didn't matter. Sleep, now, the dark, warm embrace — draw­ing him down, ever deeper, then a blush of sweet golden light, wind rippling yellow grasses—

  —and he was free, all pain gone. This, he realized, was not sleep. It was death, the return to the most ancient memory buried in each human soul. Grasslands, the sun and wind, the warmth and click of insects, dark herds in the distance, the lone trees with their vast canopies and the cool shade beneath, where lions dozed, tongues lolling, flies dancing round indifferent, languid eyes...

  Death, and this long buried seed. We return. We return to the world...

  And she reached for him, then, her hand damp with sweat, small and soft, prying his fingers loose from the rock they gripped, blood sticking — she clutched at his hand, as if filled with fierce need, and he knew the child within her belly was calling out in its own silent language, its own needs, so demanding...

  Nails dug into the cuts on his hand—

  Bottle jolted awake, eyes blinking — daylight almost gone — and a small hand reaching through from outside, grasping and tugging at his own.

  Help. 'Help — you, outside — help us—'

  ****

  As she reached up yet further to tug the girl down, Sort saw Sinn's head snap around, saw something blazing in her eyes as she stared down at the captain.

  'What now—' And then there came a faint voice, seemingly from the very stones. Faradan Sort's eyes widened. 'Sinn?'

  The girl's hand, shoved into that crack — it was holding on to something.

  Someone.

  'Oh, gods below!'

  ****

  Crunching sounds outside, boots digging into stone, then glo
ved fingers slipped round one edge beside the child's forearm, and Bottle heard: 'You, inside — who? Can you hear me?'

  A woman. Accented Ehrlii... familiar? 'Fourteenth Army,' Bottle said. 'Malazans.' The child's grip tightened.

  'Oponn's pull, soldier,' the woman said in Malazan. 'Sinn, let go of him. I need room. Make the hole bigger. Let go of him — it's all right — you were right. We're going to get them out.'

  Sinn? The shouts from below were getting louder. Cuttle, calling up something about a way out. Bottle twisted to call back down. 'Cuttle! We've been found! They're going to dig us out! Let everyone know!'

  Sinn's hand released his, withdrew.

  The woman spoke again. 'Soldier, move away from the hole — I'm going to use my sword.'

  'Captain? Is that you?'

  'Aye. Now, move back and cover your eyes — what? Oh, where'd all those children come from? Is that one of Fiddler's squad with them? Get down there, Sinn. There's another way out. Help them.'

  The sword-point dug into the concreted brick and stone. Chips danced down.

  Cuttle was climbing up from below, grunting. 'We gotta widen this some more, Bottle. That runt who dropped down the hole. We sent Smiles after her. A tunnel, angling back up — and out. A looter's tunnel. The children're all out—'

  'Good. Cuttle, it's the captain. The Adjunct, she must have waited for us — sent searchers out to find us.'

  'That makes no sense—'

  'You're right,' Faradan Sort cut in. 'They've marched, soldiers. It's just me, and Sinn.'

  'They left you behind?'

  'No, we deserted. Sinn knew — she knew you were still alive, don't ask me how.'

  'Her brother's down here,' Cuttle said. 'Corporal Shard.'

  'Alive?'

  'We think so, Captain. How many days has it been?'

  'Three. Four nights if you count the breach. Now, no more questions, and cover your eyes.'

  She chopped away at the hole, tugged loose chunks of brick and stone. The dusk air swept in, cool and, despite all the dust, sweet in Bottle's lungs. Faradan Sort began work on one large chunk, and broke her sword. A stream of Korelri curses.

  'That your Stormwall sword, Captain? I'm sorry—'

  'Don't be an idiot.'

  'But your scabbard—'

  'Aye, my scabbard. The sword it belonged to got left behind... in somebody. Now, let me save my breath for this.' And she began chopping away with the broken sword. 'Hood-damned piece of Falari junk—' The huge stone groaned, then slid away, taking the captain with it.

  A heavy thump from the ground beyond and below, then more cursing.

  Bottle clawed his way into the gap, dragged himself through, then was suddenly tumbling down, landing hard, rolling, winded, onto his stomach.

  After a long moment he managed a gasp of air, and he lifted his head — to find himself staring at the captain's boots. Bottle arched, raised a hand and saluted — briefly.

  'You managed that better the last time, Bottle.'

  'Captain, I'm Smiles—'

  'You know, soldier, it was a good thing you assumed half the load I dumped on Smiles's back. If you hadn't done that, well, you likely wouldn't have lived this long—'

  He saw her turn, heard a grunted snarl, then one boot lifted, moved out slightly to the side, hovered—

  —above Bottle's rat—

  —then stamped down – as his hand shot out, knocked the foot aside at the last moment. The captain stumbled, then swore. 'Have you lost your mind—'

  Bottle rolled closer to the rat, collected her in both hands and held her against his chest as he settled down onto his back. 'Not this time, Captain. This is my rat. She saved our lives.'

  'Vile, disgusting creatures.'

  'Not her. Not Y'Ghatan.'

  Faradan Sort stared down at him. 'She is named Y'Ghatan?'

  'Aye. I just decided.'

  Cuttle was clambering down. 'Gods, Captain—'

  'Quiet, sapper. If you've got the strength left — and you'd better — you need to help the others out.'

  'Aye, Captain.' He turned about and began climbing back up.

  Still lying on his back, Bottle closed his eyes. He stroked Y'Ghatan's smooth-furred back. My darling. You're with me, now. Ah, you're hungry — we'll take care of that. Soon you'll be waddling fat again, I promise, and you and your kits will be... gods, there's more of you, isn't there? No problem. When it comes to your kind, there's never a shortage of food...

  He realized Smiles was standing over him. Staring down.

  He managed a faint, embarrassed smile, wondering how much she'd heard, how much she'd just put together.

  'All men are scum.'

  So much for wondering.

  ****

  Coughing, crying, babbling, the soldiers were lying or sitting all around Gesler, who stood, trying to make a count – the names, the faces, exhaustion blurred them all together. He saw Shard, with his sister, Sinn, wrapped all around him like a babe, fast asleep, and there was some­thing like shock in the corporal's staring, unseeing eyes. Tulip was nearby — his body was torn, shredded everywhere, but he'd dragged himself through without complaint and now sat on a stone, silent and bleeding.

  Crump crouched near the cliff-side, using rocks to pry loose a slab of melted gold and lead, a stupid grin on his ugly, overlong face. And Smiles, surrounded by children — she looked miserable with all the attention, and Gesler saw her staring up at the night sky again and again, and again, and that gesture he well understood.

  Bottle had pulled them through. With his rat. Y'Ghatan. The sergeant shook his head. Well, why not? We're all rat-worshippers right now. Oh, right, the roll call... Sergeant Cord, with Ebron, Limp and his broken leg. Sergeant Hellian, her jaw swollen in two places, one eye closed up, and blood matting her hair, just now coming round — under.the tender ministrations of her corporal, Urb. Tarr, Koryk, Smiles and Cuttle. Tavos Pond, Balgrid, Mayfly, Flashwit, Saltlick, Hanno, Shortnose and Masan Gilani. Bellig Harn, Maybe, Brethless and Touchy. Deadsmell, Gait, Sands and Lobe. The sergeants Thom Tissy and Balm. Widdershins, Uru Hela, Ramp, Scant and Reem. Throatslitter... Gesler's gaze swung back to Tarr, Koryk, Smiles and Cuttle.

  Hood's breath.

  'Captain! We've lost two!'

  Every head turned.

  Corporal Tarr shot to his feet, then staggered like a drunk, spinning to face the cliff-wall.

  Balm hissed, 'Fiddler... and that prisoner! The bastard's killed him and he's hiding back in there! Waiting for us to leave!'

  ****

  Corabb had dragged the dying man as far as he could, and now both he and the Malazan were done. Crammed tight in a narrowing of the tunnel, the darkness devouring them, and Corabb was not even sure he was going in the right direction. Had they been turned round? He could hear nothing... no-one. All that dragging, and pushing... they'd turned round, he was sure of it.

  No matter, they weren't going anywhere.

  Never again. Two skeletons buried beneath a dead city. No more fitting a barrow for a warrior of the Apocalypse and a Malazan soldier. That seemed just, poetic even. He would not complain, and when he stood at this sergeant's side at Hood's Gate, he would be proud for the company.

  So much had changed inside him. He was no believer in causes, not any more. Certainty was an illusion, a lie. Fanaticism was poison in the soul, and the first victim in its inexorable, ever-growing list was compassion. Who could speak of freedom, when one's own soul was bound in chains?

  He thought, now, finally, that he understood Toblakai.

  And it was all too late. This grand revelation. Thus, I die a wise man, not a fool. Is there any difference? I still die, after all.

  No, there is. I can feel it. That difference — I have cast off my chains. 1 have cast them off!

  A low cough, then, 'Corabb?'

  'I am here, Malazan.'

  'Where? Where is that?'

  'In our tomb, alas. I am sorry, all strength has fled. I am betrayed by my own body. I am so
rry.'

  Silence for a moment, then a soft laugh. 'No matter. I've been unconscious — you should have left me — where are the others?'

  'I don't know. I was dragging you. We were left behind. And now, we're lost, and that's that. I am sorry—'

  'Enough of that, Corabb. You dragged me? That explains all the bruises. For how long? How far?'

  'I do not know. A day, maybe. There was warm air, but then it was cool — it seemed to breathe in and out, past us, but which breath was in and which was out? I do not know. And now, there is no wind.'

  'A day? Are you mad? Why did you not leave me?'

  'Had I done so, Malazan, your friends would have killed me.'

  'Ah, there is that. But, you know, I don't believe you.'

  'You are right. It is simple. I could not.'

  'All right, that will do.'

  Corabb closed his eyes — the effort making no difference. He was probably blind by now. He had heard that prisoners left too long without light in their dungeon cells went blind. Blind before mad, but mad, too, eventually.

  And now he heard sounds, drawing nearer... from somewhere. He'd heard them before, a half-dozen times at least, and for a short while there had been faint shouting. Maybe that had been real. The demons of panic come to take the others, one by one. 'Sergeant, are you named Strings or Fiddler?'

  'Strings for when I'm lying, Fiddler for when I'm telling the truth.'

  'Ah, is that a Malazan trait, then? Strange—'

  'No, not a trait. Mine, maybe.'

  'And how should I name you?'

  'Fiddler.'

  'Very well.' A welcome gift. 'Fiddler. I was thinking. Here I am, trapped. And yet, it is only now, I think, that I have finally escaped my prison. Funny, isn't it?'

  'Damned hilarious, Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas. What is that sound?'

  'You hear it, too?' Corabb held his breath, listened. Drawing closer—

  Then something touched his forehead.

  Bellowing, Corabb tried to twist away.

  'Wait! Damn you, I said wait!'

  Fiddler called out, 'Gesler?'

  'Aye, calm down your damned friend here, will you?'

  Heart pounding, Corabb settled back. 'We were lost, Malazan. I am sorry—'

  'Be quiet! Listen to me. You're only about seventy paces from a tunnel, leading out — we're all out, you understand me? Bottle got us out. His rat brought us through. There was a rock fall blocking you up ahead — I've dug through—'