Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Abyss take me, I hadn’t thought of that.’

  He glanced over as a squad of medium infantry arrived – Sergeant Cord’s – Ashok Regiment and all that. ‘What in Hood’s name happened?’

  ‘Ambush,’ Bottle said. ‘Sergeant Strings had to take a building down. Cusser.’

  Cord’s eyes widened. ‘Bloody marines,’ he muttered, then headed over to where Strings crouched. Bottle and Tarr followed.

  ‘You formed up again?’ Cord asked their sergeant. ‘We’re bunching up behind you—’

  ‘We’re ready, but send word back. There’ll be ambushes aplenty. Leoman means us to buy every street and every building with blood. Fist Keneb might want to send the sappers ahead again, under marine cover, to drop buildings – it’s the safest way to proceed.’

  Cord looked round. ‘Safest way? Gods below.’ He turned. ‘Corporal Shard, you heard Fid. Send word back to Keneb.’

  ‘Aye, Sergeant.’

  ‘Sinn,’ Cord added, speaking to a young girl nearby, ‘put that knife away – he’s already dead.’

  She looked up, even as her blade cut through the base of the dead warrior’s right index finger. She held it up for display, then stuffed it into a belt pouch.

  ‘Nice girl you got there,’ Strings said. ‘Had us one of those, once.’

  ‘Shard! Hold back there! Send Sinn with the message, will you?’

  ‘I don’t want to go back!’ Sinn shouted.

  ‘Too bad,’ Cord said. Then, to Strings: ‘We’ll link up with Mosel’s heavies behind you.’

  Strings nodded. ‘All right, squad, let’s try out the next street, shall we?’

  Bottle swallowed back another surge of nausea, then he joined the others as they scrambled towards Koryk and Cuttle. Gods, this is going to be brutal.

  Sergeant Gesler could smell it. Trouble in the night. Unrelieved darkness from gaping windows, yawning doorways, and on flanking streets, where other squads were moving, the sounds of pitched battle. Yet, before them, no movement, no sound – nothing at all. He raised his right hand, hooked two fingers and made a downward tugging motion. Behind him he heard boots on the cobbles, one padding off to his left, the other to his right, away, halting when the soldiers reached the flanking buildings. Truth on his left, Pella on his right, crossbows out, eyes on opposite rooftops and upper windows.

  Another gesture and Sands came up from behind to crouch at his side. ‘Well?’ Gesler demanded, wishing for the thousandth time that Stormy was here.

  ‘It’s bad,’ Sands said. ‘Ambushes.’

  ‘Right, so where’s ours? Go back and call up Moak and his squad, and Tugg’s – I want those heavies clearing these buildings, before it all comes down on us. What sappers we got with us?’

  ‘Thom Tissy’s squad’s got some,’ Sands said. ‘Able, Jump and Gupp, although they just decided to become sappers tonight, a bell or so ago.’

  ‘Great, and they got munitions?’

  ‘Aye, Sergeant.’

  ‘Madness. All right. Get Thom Tissy’s squad up here, too. I heard one cusser go off already – might be the only way to do this.’

  ‘Okay, Sergeant. I’ll be right back.’

  Under-strength squads and a night engagement in a strange, hostile city. Had the Adjunct lost her mind?

  Twenty paces away, Pella crouched low, his back against a mud-brick wall. He thought he’d caught movement in a high window opposite, but he couldn’t be certain – not enough to call out the alarm. Might well have been a curtain or something, plucked by the wind.

  Only… there ain’t much wind.

  Eyes fixed on that particular window, he slowly raised his crossbow.

  Nothing. Just darkness.

  Distant detonations – sharpers, he guessed, somewhere to the south. We’re supposed to be pushing in hard and fast, and here we are, bogged down barely one street in from the breach. Gesler’s gotten way too cautious, I think.

  He heard the clank of weapons, armour and the thud of footfalls as more squads came up. Flicking his gaze away from the window, he watched as Sergeant Tugg led his heavies towards the building opposite. Three soldiers from Thom Tissy’s squad padded up to the doorway of the building Pella was huddled against. Jump, Gupp and Able. Pella saw sharpers in their hands – and nothing else. He crouched lower, then returned his attention to the distant window, cursing under his breath, waiting for one of them to toss a grenado in through the doorway.

  On the other side of the street, Tugg’s squad plunged into the building – there was a shout from within, the clang of weapons, sudden screams—

  Then more shrieking, this time from the building at Pella’s back, as the three sappers rushed inside. Pella cringed – no, you fools! You don’t carry them inside – you throw them!

  A sharp crack, shaking dust from the wall behind Pella, grit raining down onto the back of his neck, then screams. Another concussion – ducking still lower, Pella looked back up at the opposite window—

  To see, momentarily, a single flash—

  —to feel the shock of surprise—

  —as the arrow sped at him. A hard, splintering cracking sound. Pella’s head was thrown back, helm crunching against the wall. Something, wavering, at the upper edge of his vision, but those edges were growing darker. He heard his crossbow clatter to the cobbles at his feet, then distant pain as his knees struck the stones, the jolt peeling skin away – he’d done that once, as a child, playing in the alley. Stumbling, knees skidding on gritty, filthy cobbles—

  So filthy, the murk of hidden diseases, infections – his mother had been so angry, angry and frightened. They’d had to go to a healer, and that had cost money – money they had been saving for a move. To a better part of the slum. The dream… put away, all because he’d skinned his knees.

  Just like now. And darkness closing in.

  Oh Momma, I skinned my knees. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I skinned my knees…

  As mayhem was exploding in the buildings to either side, Gesler crouched lower. He glanced over to his right and saw Pella. An arrow was jutting from his forehead. He was on his knees for a moment, his weapon falling, then he sank down to the side.

  Sharpers going off in that building, then something worse – a burner, the flare of red flame bursting through the ground-floor windows. Shrieks – someone stumbled outside, wreathed in flames – a Malazan, running, arms waving, slapping – straight for Moak and his squad—

  ‘Get away!’ Gesler bellowed, rising and raising his crossbow.

  Moak had pulled out his rain-cape – the soldiers were rushing towards the burning man – they didn’t see – the satchel – the munitions—

  Gesler fired his crossbow. The quarrel caught the sapper in the midsection, even as the munitions went off.

  Flung back, punched in the chest, Gesler sprawled, rolled, then, came to his feet.

  Moak, Stacker, Rove. Burnt, Guano and Mud. All gone, all pieces of meat and shattered bone. A helm, the head still in it, struck a wall, spun wildly for a moment, then wobbled to a halt.

  ‘Truth! To me!’ Gesler waved as he ran towards the building the heavies had entered, and where the sounds of fighting had grown fiercer. ‘You see Sands?’ he demanded as he reloaded his crossbow.

  ‘N-no, Sergeant. Pella—’

  ‘Pella’s dead, lad.’ He saw Thom Tissy and what was left of his squad – Tulip and Ramp – heading towards the doorway after Tugg and his heavies. Good, Thom’s thinking clear—

  The building that had swallowed Able, Jump and Gupp was a mass of flames, the heat pouring out like scalding liquid. Gods, what did they set off in there?

  He darted through the doorway, skidded to a halt. Sergeant Tugg’s fighting days were over – the soldier had been speared through just below the sternum. He had thrown up a gout of bloody bile before dying. At the inner doorway opposite, leading into a hall, lay Robello, his head caved in. Beyond, out of sight, the rest of the heavies were fighting.

  ‘Hang back, Truth,’ Gesler sa
id, ‘and use that crossbow to cover our backs. Tissy, let’s go.’

  The other sergeant nodded, gesturing towards Tulip and Ramp.

  They plunged into the hallway.

  Hellian stumbled after Urb, who suddenly halted – it was like hitting a wall – she bounced off, fell on her behind. ‘Ow, you bloody ox!’

  All at once there were soldiers around them, pulling back from the street corner, dragging fallen comrades.

  ‘Who? What?’

  A woman dropped down beside her. ‘Hanno. We lost our sergeant. We lost Sobelone. And Toles. Ambush—’

  One hand leaning hard on Hanno’s shoulder, Hellian pulled herself upright. She shook her head. ‘Right,’ she said, something cold and hard straightening within her, as if her spine had turned into a sword, or a spear, or whatever else won’t bend, no, it’ll bend, maybe, but not break. Gods, I feel sick. ‘Join up with my squad. Urb, what squad are we?’

  ‘No idea, Sergeant.’

  ‘Don’t matter, then, you’re with us, Hanno. Ambush? Fine, let’s go get the bastards. Touchy, Brethless, pull out those grenados you stole—’

  The twins faced her – innocence, indignation, both dreadful efforts, then the two pulled out munitions. ‘They’re smokers, Sergeant, and one cracker,’ Touchy said. ‘That’s all—’

  ‘Smokers? Perfect. Hanno, you’re going to lead us into the building the bastards attacked from. Touchy, you throw yours ahead of her. Brethless, pick the open flank and do the same. We ain’t gonna stand around – we ain’t even going in slow and cautious. I want fast, you all got that? Fast.’

  ‘Sergeant?’

  ‘What is it, Urb?’

  ‘Nothing. Only, I’m ready, I guess.’

  Well that makes one of us. I knew I’d hate this city. ‘Weapons out, soldiers, it’s time to kill people.’

  They set off.

  ‘We done left everybody behind,’ Galt said.

  ‘Shut that whining,’ Sergeant Balm snapped, wiping sweat arid mud from his eyes. ‘We just made it easier for the rest of ’em.’ He glared at the soldiers in his squad. Breathing hard, a few cuts here and there, but nothing serious. They’d carved through that ambush quick and dirty, like he’d wanted it.

  They were on a second floor, in a room filled with bolts of cloth – a fortune’s worth of silks. Lobe had said they’d come from Darujhistan, of all places. A damned fortune’s worth, and now most of it was soaked with blood and bits of human meat.

  ‘Maybe we should check the top floor,’ Throatslitter said, eyeing the nicks in his long-knives. ‘Thought I heard some scuffing, maybe.’

  ‘All right, take Widdershins. Deadsmell, go to the stairs—’

  ‘Leading up? It’s a ladder.’

  ‘Fine, the Hood-damned fucking ladder, then. You’re backup and mouthpiece, got it? Hear any scrapping upstairs and you join it, but not before letting us know about it. Understood?’

  ‘Clear as piss, Sergeant.’

  ‘Good, the three of you go. Galt, stay at the window and keep looking at what’s opposite you. Lobe, do the same at that window. There’s more crap waiting for us and we’re gonna carve right through all of it.’

  A short while later, the sound of footfalls padding back and forth from above ceased and Deadsmell called out from the hallway that Throatslitter and Widdershins were coming down the ladder. A dozen heartbeats later and all three entered the silk room. Throatslitter came close to Balm’s side and crouched. ‘Sergeant,’ he said, his voice near a whisper.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We found something. Don’t much like the looks of it. We think you should take a look.’

  Balm sighed, then straightened. ‘Galt?’

  ‘They’re there, all right, all three floors.’

  ‘Lobe?’

  ‘Same here, including on the roof, some guy with a hooded lantern.’

  ‘Okay, keep watching. Lead on, Throatslitter. Deadsmell, back into the hallway. Widdershins, do some magic or something.’

  He followed Throatslitter back to the ladder. The floor above was low-ceilinged, more of an attic than anything else. Plenty of rooms, the walls thick, hardened clay.

  Throatslitter led him up to one such wall. At his feet stood huge urns and casks. ‘Found these,’ he said, reaching down behind one cask and lifting into view a funnel, made from a gourd of some sort.

  ‘All right,’ Balm said, ‘what about it?’

  His soldier kicked one of the casks. ‘These ones are full. But the urns are empty. All of ’em.’

  ‘Okay…’

  ‘Olive oil.’

  ‘Right, this city’s famous for it. Go on.’

  Throatslitter tossed the funnel aside, then drew a knife. ‘See these damp spots on these walls? Here.’ He pointed with the knife-tip, then dug into the patch. ‘The clay’s soft, recently plugged. These walls, they’re hollow.’

  ‘For Fener’s sake, man, what are you going on about?’

  ‘Just this. I think these walls – the whole building, it’s filled with oil.’

  ‘Filled? With… with oil?’

  Throatslitter nodded.

  Filled with oil? What, some kind of piping system to supply it downstairs? No, for Hood’s sake, Balm, don’t be an idiot. ‘Throatslitter, you think other buildings are rigged like this? Is that what you’re thinking?’

  ‘I think, Sergeant, that Leoman’s turned Y’Ghatan into one big trap. He wants us in here, fighting in the streets, pushing in and in—’

  ‘But what about his followers?’

  ‘What about them?’

  But… that would mean… He thought back – the faces of the enemy, the fanaticism, the gleam of drugged madness. ‘Abyss take us!’

  ‘We got to find Fist Keneb, Sergeant. Or the captains. We got—’

  ‘I know, I know. Let’s get out of here, before that bastard with the lantern throws it!’

  It had begun messy, only to get messier still. Yet, from that initial reeling back, as ambushes were unveiled one after another, mauling the advance squads of marines, Fist Keneb’s and Fist Tene Baralta’s companies had rallied, regrouped, then pushed inward, building by building, street by street. Somewhere ahead, Keneb knew, what was left of the marines was penetrating still further, cutting through the fanatic but poorly armed and thoroughly undisciplined warriors of Leoman’s renegade army.

  He had heard that those warriors were in a drug-fuelled frenzy, that they fought without regard to injury, and that none retreated, dying where they stood. What he had expected, truth be told. A last stand, a heroic, martyred defence. For that was what Y’Ghatan had been, what it was, and what it would always be.

  They would take this city. The Adjunct would have her first true victory. Bloody, brutal, but a victory nonetheless.

  He stood one street in from the breach, smouldering rubble behind him, watching the line of wounded and unconscious soldiers being helped back to the healers in camp, watching fresh infantry filing forward, through the secured areas, and ahead to the battle that was the closing of the Malazan fist around Leoman and his followers, around the last living vestiges of the rebellion itself.

  He saw that Red Blade officer of Tene Baralta’s, Lostara Yil, leading three squads towards the distant sounds of fighting. And Tene himself stood nearby, speaking with Captain Kindly.

  Keneb had sent Faradan Sort ahead, to make contact with the advance squads. There was to be a second rendezvous, near the palace itself, and hopefully everyone was still following the battle plan.

  Shouts, then cries of alarm – from behind him. From outside the breach! Fist Keneb spun round, and saw a wall of flame rising in the killing field beyond – where the narrow, deep trench had been dug by Leoman’s warriors. Buried urns filled with olive oil began exploding from the trench, spraying burning liquid everywhere. Keneb saw the line of retreating wounded scatter apart near the trench, figures aflame. Shrieks, the roar of fire—

  His horrified gaze caught motion to his right, up on the nearest buildi
ng’s rooftop, where it faced onto the rubble of the breach. A figure, lantern in one hand, flaring torch in the other – bedecked in web-slung flasks, surrounded by amphorae, at the very edge of the roof, arms outstretched, kicking over the tall clay jars – ropes affixed between them and his ankles, the weight then plunging the figure over the side.

  Down into the rubble of the breach.

  He struck, vanished from view, then a sudden flaring of flames, rushing out in sheets—

  And Keneb saw, upon other rooftops, lining the city’s walls, more figures – flinging themselves down. Down, then the glow of raging fire, rising up, encircling – from the bastions, more flames, billowing out, spreading wild like a flood unleashed.

  Heat rushed upon Keneb, driving him back a step. Oil from shattered casks, beneath the wreckage of fallen wall and collapsed buildings, suddenly caught flame. The breach was closing, demonic fire lunging into sight.

  Keneb looked about, horror rising within him, and saw the half-dozen signallers of his staff huddled near a fragment of rubble. Bellowing, he ran to them. ‘Sound the recall! Damn you, soldiers, sound the recall!’

  Northwest of Y’Ghatan, Temul and a company of Wickans rode up the slope to the Lothal road. They had seen no-one. Not a single soul fleeing the city. The Fourteenth’s horse-warriors had fully encircled it. Wickans, Seti, Burned Tears. There would be no escape.

  Temul had been pleased, hearing that the Adjunct’s thinking had followed identical tracks with his own. A sudden strike, hard as a knife pushed into a chest, straight into the heart of this cursed rebellion. They had heard the munitions go off – loud, louder than expected, and had seen the flame-shot black clouds billowing upward, along with most of Y’Ghatan’s south wall.

  Reining in on the road, seeing beneath them the signs of the massive exodus that had clogged this route only days earlier.

  A flaring of firelight, distant rumbling, as of thunder, and the horse-warriors turned as one to face the city. Where walls of flame rose behind the stone walls, from the bastions, and the sealed gates, then, building after building within, more flames, and more.