A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

vertigo rippled through Sergeant Hellian, nausea
threatening as she watched the magics draw ever closer to
Y'Ghatan. It was Y'Ghatan, wasn't it? She turned to the
sergeant standing beside her. 'What city is that? Y'Ghatan.
I know about that city. It's where Malazans die. Who are
you? Who's undermining the walls? Where are the siege
weapons? What kind of siege is this?'
    'I'm Strings, and you look to be drunk.'
    'So? I hate fighting. Strip me of my command, throw me
in chains, find a dungeon – only, no spiders. And find that
bastard, the one who disappeared, arrest him and chain him
within reach. I want to rip out his throat.'
    The sergeant was staring at her. She stared back –
at least he wasn't weaving back and forth. Not much, anyway.
    'You hate fighting, and you want to rip out someone's
throat?'
    'Stop trying to confuse me, Stirrings. I'm confused
'nough as it is.'
    'Where's your squad, Sergeant?'
    'Somewhere.'
    'Where is your corporal? What is his name?'
    'Urb? I don't know.'
    'Hood's breath.'
     
    Pella sat watching his sergeant, Gesler, talking with
Borduke. The sergeant of the Sixth Squad had only three
soldiers left under his command – Lutes, Ibb and Corporal
Hubb – the others either magicking or sapping. Of course,
there were only two left to Gesler's Fifth Squad – Truth and
Pella himself. The plan was to link up after the breach,
and that had Pella nervous. They might have to grab anyone
close by and to Hood with real squads.
    Borduke was tugging at his beard as if he wanted to yank
it off. Hubb stood close to his sergeant, a sickly expression
on his face.
    Gesler looked damn near bored.
    Pella thought about his squad. Something odd about all
three of them. Gesler, Stormy and Truth. Not just that strangely
gold skin, either ... Well, he'd stick close to Truth – that lad
still seemed too wide-eyed for all of this, despite what he'd
already gone through. That damned ship, Silanda, which
had been commandeered by the Adjunct and was now
likely north of them, somewhere in the Kansu Sea or
west of it. Along with the transport fleet and a sizeable
escort of dromons. The three had sailed it, sharing
the deck with still-alive severed heads and a lot worse
below-decks.
    Pella checked his sword one more time. He'd tied new
leather strapping round the grip's tang – not as tight as he
would have liked. He hadn't soaked it yet, either, not wanting
the grip still wet when he went into battle. He drew the
crossbow from his shoulder, kept a quarrel in hand, ready
for a quick load once the order came to advance.
    Bloody marines. Should've volunteered for plain old infantry.
Should've gotten a transfer. Should've never joined up at all.
Skullcup was more than enough for me, dammit. Should've run,
that's what I should've done.
     
    Night wind whistling about them, Corabb, Leoman, L'oric,
Dunsparrow and a guard stood on the gently swaying
platform atop the palace tower. The city spread out in all
directions, frighteningly dark and seeming lifeless.
    'What are we here to see, Leoman?' L'oric asked.
    'Wait, my friend – ah, there!' He pointed to the rooftop
of a distant building near the west wall. On its flat top
flickered muted lantern-light. Then ... gone.
    'And there!'
    Another building, another flash of light.
    'Another! More, they are all in place! Fanatics! Damned
fools! Dryjhna take us, this is going to work!'
    Work? Corabb frowned, then scowled. He caught
Dunsparrow's gaze on him – she mouthed a kiss. Oh how he
wanted to kill her.
     
    Heaps of rubble, broken pots, a dead, bloated dog, and
animal bones, there wasn't a single stretch of even ground
at the base of the wall. Bottle had followed on the heels of
the sappers, up the first tier, brick fragments spilling away
beneath their boots, then cries of pain and cursing as someone
stumbled over a wasp nest – darkness alone had saved
them from what could have been a fatal few moments – the
wasps were sluggish – Bottle was astonished they had come
out at all, until he saw what the soldier had managed.
Knocking over one rock, then thumping his entire foot
down the nest's maw.
    He'd momentarily relinquished Meanas, then, to slip
into the swarming soul-sparks of the wasps, quelling their
panic and anger. Devoid of disguising magic for the last two
tiers, the sappers had scrambled like terrified beetles – the
rock they had hidden under suddenly vanishing – and made
the base of the wall well ahead of the others. Where they
crouched, unlimbering their