A muted voice from the huge man behind Balgrid: ‘Damn right. I’ll joint you like a pig, mage. I swear it.’
The darkness was the worst of all – never mind the spiders, the scorpions and centipedes, it was the darkness that clawed and chewed on Tarr’s sanity. At least Bottle had a rat’s eyes to look through. Rats could see in the dark, couldn’t they? Then again, maybe they couldn’t. Maybe they just used their noses, their whiskers, their ears. Maybe they were too stupid to go insane.
Or they’re already insane. We’re being led by an insane rat—
‘I’m stuck again, oh gods! I can’t move!’
‘Stop yelling,’ Tarr said, halting and twisting round yet again. Reaching out for the man’s arms. ‘Hear that, Balgrid?’
‘What? What?’
‘Not sure. Thought I heard Urb’s knives coming outa their sheaths.’
The mage heaved himself forward, kicking, clawing.
‘You stop moving again,’ Balm snarled to the child in front of him, ‘and the lizards will get you. Eat you alive. Eat us all alive. Those are crypt lizards, you damned whelp. You know what crypt lizards do? I’ll tell you what they do. They eat human flesh. That’s why they’re called crypt lizards, only they don’t mind if it’s living flesh—’
‘For Hood’s sake!’ Deadsmell growled behind him. ‘Sergeant – that ain’t the way—’
‘Shut your mouth! He’s still moving, ain’t he? Oh yes, ain’t he just. Crypt lizards, runt! Oh yes!’
‘Hope you ain’t nobody’s uncle, Sergeant.’
‘You’re getting as bad as Widdershins, Corporal, with that babbling mouth of yours. I want a new squad—’
‘Nobody’ll have you, not after this—’
‘You don’t know nothing, Deadsmell.’
‘I know if I was that child ahead of you, I’d shit right in your face.’
‘Quiet! You give him ideas, damn you! Do it, boy, and I’ll tie you up, oh yes, and leave you for the crypt lizards—’
‘Listen to me, little one!’ Deadsmell called out, his voice echoing. ‘Them crypt lizards, they’re about as long as your thumb! Balm’s just being a—’
‘I’m going to skewer you, Deadsmell. I swear it!’
Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas dragged himself forward. The Malazan in his wake was gasping – the only indication that the man still followed. They had managed to drop one of the copper panels over the pit, burning their hands – bad burns, the pain wouldn’t go away – Corabb’s palms felt like soft wax, pushed out of shape by the stones they gripped, the ledges they grasped.
He had never felt such excruciating pain before. He was sheathed in sweat, his limbs trembling, his heart hammering like a trapped beast in his chest.
Pulling himself through a narrow space, he sank down onto what seemed to be the surface of a street, although his head scraped stone rubble above. He slithered forward, gasping, and heard the sergeant slip down after him.
Then the ground shook, dust pouring down thick as sand. Thunder, one concussion after another, pounding down from above. A rush of searing hot air swept over them from behind. Smoke, dust—
‘Forward!’ Strings screamed. ‘Before the ceiling goes—’
Corabb reached back, groping, until he clasped one of the Malazan’s hands – the man was half-buried under rubble, his breath straining beneath the settling weight. Corabb pulled, then pulled harder.
A savage grunt from the Malazan, then, amidst clattering, thumping bricks and stones, Corabb tugged the man clear.
‘Come on!’ he hissed. ‘There’s a pit ahead, a sewer – the rest went down there – grab my ankles, Sergeant—’
The wind was beating back the roiling heat.
Corabb pitched headfirst into the pit, dragging Strings with him.
The rat had reached a vertical shaft, rough-walled enough so that she could climb down. The wind howled up it, filled with rotted leaves, dust and insect fragments. The creature was still descending when Bottle pulled himself up to the ledge. The detritus bit at his eyes as he peered down.
Seeing nothing. He pulled free a piece of rubble and tossed it downward, out from the wall. His soul, riding the rat’s own, sensed its passage. Rodent ears pricked forward, waiting. Four human heartbeats later there was a dull, muted crack of stone on stone, a few more, then nothing. Oh gods…
Cuttle spoke behind him. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘A shaft, goes straight down – a long away down.’
‘Can we climb it?’
‘My rat can.’
‘How wide is it?’
‘Not very, and gets narrower.’
‘We got wounded people back here, and Hellian’s still unconscious.’
Bottle nodded. ‘Do a roll call – I want to know how many made it. We also need straps, rope, anything and everything. Was it just me or did you hear the temple come down?’
Cuttle turned about and started the roll call and the request for straps and rope, then twisted round once more. ‘Yeah, it went down all right. When the wind dropped off. Thank Hood it’s back, or we’d be cooking or suffocating or both.’
Well, we’re not through this yet…
‘I know what you’re thinking, Bottle.’
‘You do?’
‘Think there’s a rat god? I hope so, and I hope you’re praying good and hard.’
A rat god. Maybe. Hard to know with creatures that don’t think in words. ‘I think one of us, one of the bigger, stronger ones, could wedge himself across. And help people down.’
‘If we get enough straps and stuff to climb down, aye. Tulip, maybe, or that other corporal, Urb. But there ain’t room to get past anyone.’
I know. ‘I’m going to try and climb down.’
‘Where’s the rat?’
‘Down below. It’s reached the bottom. It’s waiting there. Anyway, here goes.’ Drawing on the Thyr Warren to pierce the darkness, he moved out to the very edge. The wall opposite looked to be part of some monumental structure, the stones skilfully cut and fitted. Patches of crumbling plaster covered parts of it, as did sections of the frieze fronting that plaster. It seemed almost perfectly vertical – the narrowing of the gap was caused by the wall on his side – a much rougher facing, with projections remaining from some kind of elaborate ornamentation. A strange clash of styles, for two buildings standing so close together. Still, both walls had withstood the ravages of being buried, seemingly unaffected by the pressures of sand and rubble. ‘All right,’ he said to Cuttle, who had drawn up closer, ‘this might not be so bad.’
‘You’re what, twenty years old? No wounds, thin as a spear…’
‘Fine, you’ve made your point.’ Bottle pushed himself further out, then drew his right leg round. Stretching it outward, he slowly edged over, onto his stomach. ‘Damn, I don’t think my leg’s long—’
The ledge he leaned on splintered – it was, he suddenly realized, nothing but rotted wood – and he began sliding, falling.
He spun over, kicking out with both legs as he plummeted, throwing both arms out behind and to the sides. Those rough stones tore into his back, one outcrop cracking into the base of his skull and throwing his head forward. Then both feet contacted the stone of the wall opposite.
Flinging him over, headfirst—
Oh Hood—
Sudden tugs, snapping sounds, then more, pulling at him, resisting, slowing his descent.
Gods, webs—
His left shoulder was tugged back, turning him over. He kicked out again and felt the plastered wall under his foot. Reached out with his right arm, and his hand closed on a projection that seemed to sink like sponge beneath his clutching fingers. His other foot contacted the wall, and he pushed with both legs until his back was against rough stone.
And there were spiders, each as big as an outstretched hand, crawling all over him.
Bottle went perfectly still, struggling to slow his breathing.
Hairless, short-legged, pale amber – but there was no light – and h
e realized that the creatures were glowing, somehow lit from within, like lantern-flame behind thick, gold-tinted glass. They had swarmed him, now. From far above, he heard Cuttle calling down in desperate, frightened tones.
Bottle reached out with his mind, and immediately recoiled at the blind rage building in the spiders. And flashes of memory – the rat – their favoured prey – somehow evading all their snares, climbing down right past them, unseeing, unaware of the hundreds of eyes tracking its passing. And now…this.
Heart thundering in his chest, Bottle quested once more. A hive mind, of sorts – no, an extended family – they would mass together, exchange nutrients – when one fed, they all fed. They had never known light beyond what lived within them, and, until recently, never known wind. Terrified…but not starving, thank Hood. He sought to calm them, flinched once more as all motion ceased, all attention fixed now on him. Legs that had been scrambling over his body went still, tiny claws clasping hard in his skin.
Calm. No reason to fear. An accident, and there will be more – it cannot be helped. Best go away now, all of you. Soon, the silence will return, we will have gone past, and before long, this wind will end, and you can begin to rebuild. Peace…please.
They were not convinced.
The wind paused suddenly, then a gust of heat descended from above.
Flee! He fashioned images of fire in his mind, drew forth from his own memory scenes of people dying, destruction all around—
The spiders fled. Three heartbeats, and he was alone. Nothing clinging still to his skin, nothing but strands of wiry anchor lines, tattered sheets of web. And, trickling down his back, from the soles of his feet, from his arms: blood.
Damn, I’m torn up bad, I think. Pain, now, awakening…everywhere. Too much – Consciousness fled.
From far above: ‘Bottle!’
Stirring…blinking awake. How long had he been hanging here?
‘I’m here, Cuttle! I’m climbing down – not much farther, I think!’ Grimacing against the pain, he started working his feet downward – the space was narrow enough, now, that he could straddle the gap. He gasped as he pulled his back clear of the wall.
Something whipped his right shoulder, stinging, hard, and he ducked – then felt the object slide down the right side of his chest. The strap of a harness.
From above: ‘I’m climbing down!’
Koryk called behind him, ‘Shard, you still with us?’ The man had been gibbering – they’d all discovered an unexpected horror. That of stopping. Moving forward had been a tether to sanity, for it had meant that, somewhere ahead, Bottle was still crawling, still finding a way through. When everyone had come to a halt, terror had slipped among them, closing like tentacles around throats, and squeezing.
Shrieks, panicked fighting against immovable, packed stone and brick, hands clawing at feet. Rising into a frenzy.
Then, voices bellowing, calling back – they’d reached a shaft of some kind – they needed rope, belts, harness straps – they were going to climb down.
There was still a way ahead.
Koryk had, through it all, muttered his chant. The Child Death Song, the Seti rite of passage from whelp into adulthood. A ritual that had, for girl and boy alike, included the grave log, the hollowed-out coffin and the night-long internment in a crypt of the bloodline. Buried alive, for the child to die, for the adult to be born. A test against the spirits of madness, the worms that lived in each person, coiled at the base of the skull, wrapped tight about the spine. Worms that were ever eager to awaken, to crawl, gnawing a path into the brain, whispering and laughing or screaming, or both.
He had survived that night. He had defeated the worms.
And that was all he needed, for this. All he needed.
He had heard those worms, eating into soldiers ahead of him, soldiers behind him. Into the children, as the worms raced out to take them as well. For an adult to break under fear – there could be no worse nightmare for the child that witnessed such a thing. For with that was torn away all hope, all faith.
Koryk could save none of them. He could not give them the chant, for they would not know what it meant, and they had never spent a night in a coffin. And he knew, had it gone on much longer, people would start dying, or the madness would devour their minds, completely, permanently, and that would kill everyone else. Everyone.
The worms had retreated, and now all he could hear was weeping – not the broken kind, but the relieved kind – weeping and gibbering. And he knew they could taste it, could taste what those worms had left behind, and they prayed: not again. No closer, please. Never again. ‘Corporal Shard?’
‘W-what, damn you?’
‘Limp. How is he? I keep kicking at him, hitting what I think is an arm, but he’s not moving. Can you climb ahead, can you check?’
‘He’s knocked out.’
‘How did that happen?’
‘I crawled onto him and pounded his head against the floor until he stopped screaming.’
‘You sure he’s alive?’
‘Limp? His skull’s solid rock, Koryk.’
He heard movement back there, asked, ‘What now?’
‘I’ll prove it to you. Give this broke leg a twist—’
Limp shrieked.
‘Glad you’re back, soldier,’ Shard said.
‘Get away from me, you bastard!’
‘Wasn’t me who panicked. Next time you think about panicking, Limp, just remind yourself I’m here, right behind you.’
‘I’m going to kill you someday, Corporal—’
‘As you like. Just don’t do it again.’
Koryk thought back to the babbling noises he’d heard from Shard, but said nothing.
More scuffling sounds, then a bundle of rope and leather straps – most of them charred – was pushed into Koryk’s hands. He dragged it close, then shoved it out ahead to the small boy huddled behind Tavos Pond. ‘Push it on, lad,’ he said.
‘You,’ the boy said. ‘I heard you. I listened.’
‘And you was all right, wasn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll teach it to you. For the next time.’
‘Yes.’
Someone had shouted back instructions, cutting through the frenzy of terror, and people had responded, stripping away whatever could be used as a rope. Chilled beneath a gritty layer of sweat, Tarr settled his forehead onto the stones under him, smelling dust mingled with the remnants of his own fear. When the bundle reached him he drew it forward, then struggled out of what was left of his own harness and added it to the pathetic collection.
Now, at least, they had a reason to wait, they weren’t stopped because Bottle had run out of places to crawl. Something to hold onto. He prayed it would be enough.
Behind him, Balgrid whispered, ‘I wish we was marching across the desert again. That road, all that space on both sides…’
‘I hear you,’ Tarr said. ‘And I also remember how you used to curse it. The dryness, the sun—’
‘Sun, hah! I’m so crisp I’ll never fear the sun again. Gods, I’ll kneel in prayer before it, I swear it. If freedom was a god, Tarr…
If freedom was a god. Now that’s an interesting thought…
‘Thank Hood all that screaming’s stopped,’ Balm said, plucking at whatever was tingling against all his skin, tingling, prickling like some kind of heat rash. Heat rash, that was funny—
‘Sergeant,’ Deadsmell said, ‘it was you doing all that screaming.’
‘Quiet, you damned liar. Wasn’t me, was the kid ahead of me.’
‘Really? I didn’t know he spoke Dal Honese—’
‘I will skewer you, Corporal. Just one more word, I swear it. Gods, I’m itchy all over, like I been rolling in Fool’s pollen—’
‘You get that after you been panicking, Sergeant. Fear sweat, it’s called. You didn’t piss yourself too, did you? I’m smelling—’
‘I got my knife out, Deadsmell. You know that? All I got to do is twist round and you won�
��t be bothering me no more.’
‘You tossed your knife, Sergeant. In the temple—’
‘Fine! I’ll kick you to death!’
‘Well, if you do, can you do it before I have to crawl through your puddle?’
‘The heat is winning the war,’ Corabb said.
‘Aye,’ answered Strings behind him, his voice faint, brittle. ‘Here.’
Something was pushed against Corabb’s feet. He reached back, and his hand closed on a coil of rope. ‘You were carrying this?’
‘Was wrapped around me. I saw Smiles drop it, outside the temple – it was smouldering, so that’s not a surprise…’
As he drew it over him, Corabb felt something wet, sticky on the rope. Blood. ‘You’re bleeding out, aren’t you?’
‘Just a trickle. I’m fine.’
Corabb crawled forward – there was some space between them and the next soldier, the one named Widdershins. Corabb could have kept up had he been alone back here, but he would not leave the Malazan sergeant behind. Enemy or no, such things were not done.
He had believed them all monsters, cowards and bullies. He had heard that they ate their own dead. But no, they were just people. No different from Corabb himself. The tyranny lies at the feet of the Empress. These – they’re all just soldiers. That’s all they are. Had he gone with Leoman…he would have discovered none of this. He would have held onto his fierce hatred for all Malazans and all things Malazan.
But now…the man behind him was dying. A Falari by birth – just another place conquered by the empire. Dying, and there was no room to get to him, not here, not yet.
‘Here,’ he said to Widdershins. ‘Pass this up.’
‘Hood take us, that’s real rope!’
‘Aye. Move it along fast now.’
‘Don’t order me around, bastard. You’re a prisoner. Remember that.’
Corabb crawled back.
The heat was building, devouring the thin streams of cool air sliding up from below. They couldn’t lie still for much longer. We must move on.
From Strings: ‘Did you say something, Corabb?’
‘No. Nothing much.’
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 495
