The Bonehunters Read online

  He was not leading this morsel of a creature to its death. He would not do that, could not, and somehow it seemed to understand, to sense, now, a greater purpose to its life, its existence.

  'I have her,' Bottle heard himself saying.

  'Get down there, then!'

  'Not yet. She needs to find a way up — to lead us back down—'

  'Gods below!'

  Gesler spoke: 'Start adopting children, soldiers. I want one between everyone behind Cuttle, since Cuttle will be right behind Bottle—'

  'Leave me to the last,' Strings said.

  'Your leg—'

  'That's exactly right, Gesler.'

  'We got other injured — got someone guiding or dragging ' each of 'em. Fid—'

  'No. I go last. Whoever's right ahead of me, we're going to need to close up this tunnel, else the fire'll follow us down—'

  'There are copper doors. They covered the pool.' That was Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas. 'I will stay with you. Together, we shall use those panels to seal our retreat.'

  'Second to last?' someone snarled. 'You'll just kill Fid and—'

  'And what, Malazan? No, would I be allowed, I would go last. I stood at Leoman's side—'

  'I'm satisfied with that,' Strings said. 'Corabb, you and I, that will do.'

  'Hold on,' said Hellian, leaning close to Bottle. 'I ain't going down there. Someone better kill me right now—'

  'Sergeant—'

  'No way, there's spiders down there—'

  The sound of a fist cracking into a jaw, then a collapsing body.

  'Urb, you just knocked out your own sergeant.'

  'Aye. I known her a long time, you see. She's a good sergeant, no matter what all of you think.'

  'Huh. Right.'

  'It's the spiders. No way she'd go down there — now I got to gag her and tie her arms and feet — I'll drag her myself—'

  'If she's a good sergeant, Urb, how do you treat bad ones?'

  'Ain't had any other sergeant, and I mean to keep it that way.'

  Below, the broad crevasse that Bottle had sensed earlier, his rat scrambling free, now seeking to follow that wide but shallow crack — too shallow? No, they could scrape through, and there, beneath it, a tilted chamber of some kind, most of the ceiling intact, and the lower half of a doorway — he sent the rat that way, and beyond the doorway... 'I have it! There's a street! Part of a street — not sure how far—'

  'Never mind! Lead us down, damn you! I'm starting to blister everywhere! Hurry!'

  All right. Why not? At the very least, it'll purchase us a few more moments. He slithered down into the pit. Behind him, voices, the scrabble of boots, the hissing of pain as flesh touched hot stone.

  Faintly: 'How hot is that water in that pool? Boiling yet? No? Good, those with canteens and skins, fill 'em now—'

  Into the crevasse... while the rat scurried down the canted, littered street, beneath a ceiling of packed rubble...

  ****

  Bottle felt his body push through a fissure, then plunge downward, onto the low-ceilinged section of street. Rocks, mortar and potsherds under his hands, cutting, scraping as he scrabbled forward. Once walked, this avenue, in an age long past. Wagons had rattled here, horse-hoofs clumping, and there had been rich smells. Cooking from nearby homes, livestock being driven to the market squares. Kings and paupers, great mages and ambitious priests. All gone. Gone to dust.

  The street sloped sharply, where cobbles had buckled, sagging down to fill a subterranean chamber — no, an old sewer, brick-lined, and it was into this channel his rat had crawled.

  Pushing aside broken pieces of cobble, he pulled himself down into the shaft. Desiccated faeces in a thin, shallow bed beneath him, the husks of dead insects, carapaces crunching as he slithered along. A pale lizard, long as his forearm, fled in a whisper into a side crack. His forehead caught strands of spider's web, tough enough to halt him momentarily before audibly snapping. He felt something alight on his shoulder, race across his back, then leap off.

  Behind him Bottle heard Cuttle coughing in the dust in his wake, as it swept over the sapper on the gusting wind. A child had been crying somewhere back there, but was now silent, only the sound of movement, gasps of effort. Just ahead, a section of the tunnel had fallen in. The rat had found a way through, so he knew the barrier was not I impassable. Reaching it, he began pulling away the rubble.

  ****

  Smiles nudged the child ahead of her. 'Go on,' she murmured, 'keep going. Not far now.' She could still hear the girl's sniffles — not crying, not yet, anyway, just the dust, so much dust now, with those people crawling ahead. Behind her, small hands touched her blistered feet again and again, lancing vicious stabs of pain up her legs, but she bit back on it, making no outcry. Damned brat don't know any better, does he? And why they got such big eyes, looking up like that? Like starving puppies. 'Keep crawling, little one. Not much farther...'

  The child behind her, a boy, was helping Tavos Pond, whose face was wrapped in bloody bandages. Koryk was right behind them. Smiles could hear the half-Seti, going on and on with some kind of chant. Probably the only thing keeping the fool from deadly panic. He liked his open savannah, didn't he. Not cramped, twisting tunnels.

  None of this bothered her. She'd known worse. Times, long ago, she'd lived in worse. You learned to only count on what's in reach, and so long as the way ahead stayed clear, there was still hope, still a chance.

  If only this brat of a girl wouldn't keep stopping. Another nudge. 'Go on, lass. Not much more, you'll see...'

  ****

  Gesler pulled himself along in pitch darkness, hearing Tulip's heavy grunts ahead of him, Crump's maddening singing behind him. The huge soldier whose bare feet Gesler's outstretched hands kept touching was having a hard time, and the sergeant could feel the smears of blood Tulip left behind as he squeezed and pulled himself through the narrow, twisting passage. Thick gasps, coughing — no, not coughing—

  'Abyss take us, Tulip,' Gesler hissed, 'what's so funny?' 'Tickling,' the man called back. 'You. Keep. Tickling. My. Feet.'

  'Just keep moving, you damned fool!' Behind him, Crump's idiotic song continued.

  'and I says oh I says them marsh trees

  got soft feet, and moss beards all the way down

  and they sway in the smelly breeze

  from that swamp water all yella'n brown

  oh we was in the froggy toady dawn

  belly-down in the leeches and collectin spawn

  'cause when you give those worms a squeeze

  the blue pinky ropes come slimin down—

  and don't they taste sweet!

  and don't they taste sweet!

  sweet as peat, oh yes sweet as peat—'

  Gesler wanted to scream, like someone up ahead was doing. Scream, but he couldn't summon the breath — it was all too close, too fetid, the once cool sliding air rank with sweat, urine and Hood knew what else. Truth's face kept coming back to him, rising in his mind like dread accusation. Gesler and Stormy, they'd pulled the recruit through so much since the damned rebellion. Kept him alive, showed him the ways of staying alive in this Hood-cursed world.

  And what does he do? He runs into a burning palace. With a half-dozen cussers on his back. Gods, he was right on one thing, though, the fire couldn't take him — he went, way in, and that's what's saved us... so far. Blew that storm back. Saved us…

  Soldiers all round him were blistered, burned. They coughed with every breath drawn into scorched lungs. But not me. He could sense that godling, within that firestorm. Could sense it, a child raging with the knowledge that it was going to die all too soon. Good, you don't deserve nothing more. Fire couldn't hurt him, but that didn't mean he had to kneel before it in prayer, did it? He didn't ask for any of this. Him and Stormy and Truth — only, Truth was dead, now. He'd never expected...

  'and I says oh I says that ole bridge

  got feeta stone, and mortar white as bone

  and the badgers dangle from the led
ge

  swingin' alla day alla way home

  oh we was pullin vines from you know where

  and stuffin our ears with sweety sweet loam

  jus t'get them badgers flyin' outa there

  inta them cook pots in the hearthy home—

  and don't they taste sweet!

  and don't they taste sweet!

  sweet as peat,

  oh yes sweet as peat—'

  When he got out of here, he was going to wring Crump's scrawny neck. High Marshal? Gods below—

  'and I says oh I says that warlock's tower—'

  Corporal Tarr pulled on Balgrid's arms, ignoring the man's squeals. How the mage had managed to stay fat through that endless march was baffling. And now, all too likely to prove deadly. Mind you, fat could be squeezed, when muscled bulk couldn't. That was something, at least.

  Balgrid shrieked as Tarr dragged him through the crevasse. 'You're tearing my arms off!'

  'You plug up here, Balgrid,' Tarr said, 'and Urb behind you's gonna take out his knife—'

  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 he 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.