A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

packs of munitions.
    Bottle scampered up to crouch at Cuttle's side. 'The
gloom's back,' he whispered. 'Sorry about that – good thing
they weren't black wasps – Maybe'd be dead by now.'
    'Not to mention yours truly,' Cuttle said. 'It was me who
stepped in the damned thing.'
    'How many stings?'
    'Two or three, right leg's numb, but that's better than it
was fifteen heartbeats ago.'
    'Numb? Cuttle, that's bad. Find Lutes fast as you can
once we're done here.'
    'Count on it. Now, shut up, I got to concentrate.'
    Bottle watched him lift out from his pack a bundle of
munitions – two cussers strapped together, looking like a
pair of ample breasts. Affixed to them at the base were two
spike-shaped explosives – crackers. Gingerly setting the
assemblage on the ground beside him, Cuttle then turned
his attention to the base of the wall. He cleared bricks and
rocks to make an angled hole, large and deep enough to
accommodate the wall-breaker.
    That was the easy part, Bottle reminded himself as he
watched Cuttle place the explosive into the hole. Now comes the acid on the wax plug. He glanced up and down the
length of wall, saw other sappers doing the very same thing
Cuttle had just done. 'Don't get ahead of the rest,' Bottle
said.
    'I know what needs knowing, mage. Stick to your spells
and leave me alone.'
    Miffed, Bottle looked away again. Then his eyes
widened. 'Hey, what's he doing – Cuttle, what's Crump
doing?'
    Cursing, the veteran glanced over. 'Gods below—'
    The sapper from Sergeant Cord's squad had prepared
not one wall-breaker, but three, the mass of cussers and
crackers filling his entire pack. His huge teeth were
gleaming, eyes glittering as he wrestled it loose and, lying
on his back, head closest to the wall, settled it on his
stomach and began crawling until there was the audible
crunch of the back of his skull contacting the rearing
stonework.
    Cuttle scrambled over. 'You!' he hissed. 'Are you mad?
Take those damned things apart!'
    The man's grin collapsed. 'But I made it myself!'
    'Keep your voice down, idiot!'
    Crump rolled and shoved the mass of munitions up
against the wall. A small glittering vial appeared in his
right hand. 'Wait till you see this!' he whispered, smiling
once more.
    'Wait! Not yet!'
    A sizzle, threads of smoke rising—
    Cuttle was on his feet, and, dragging a leg, he began
running. And he began screaming. 'Everyone! Back! Run,
you fools! Run!'
    Figures pelting away on all sides, Bottle among them.
    Crump raced past as if the mage had been standing still, the
man's absurdly long legs pumping high and wild, knobby
knees and huge boots scything the air. Munitions had been
left against the wall but unset, others remained a pace or
more back. Sacks of sharpers, smokers and burners left
behind – gods below, this is going to be bad —
    Shouts from atop the wall, now, voices raised in alarm. A
ballista thumped as a missile was loosed at the fleeing
sappers. Bottle heard the crack and skitter as it struck the
ground.
    Faster — He glanced over his shoulder, and saw Cuttle
hobbling along in his wake. Hood take us! Bottle skidded to
a halt, turned and ran back to the sapper's side.
    'Fool!' Cuttle grunted. 'Just go!'
    'Lean on my shoulder—'
    'You've just killed yourself—'
    Cuttle was no lightweight. Bottle sagged with his weight
as they ran.
    'Twelve!' the sapper gasped.
    The mage scanned the ground ahead in growing panic.
Some cover—
    'Eleven!'
    A shelf of old foundation, solid limestone, there, ten,
nine paces—
    'Ten!'
    Five more paces – it was looking good – a hollow on the
other side—
    'Nine!'
    Two paces, then down, as Cuttle screamed: 'Eight!'
    The night vanished, flinging stark shadows forward as
the two men tumbled down behind the shelf of limestone,
into a heap of rotting vegetation. The ground lifted to meet
them, a god's uppercut, driving the air from Bottle's lungs.
    Sound, like a collapsing mountain, then a wall of stone,
smoke, fire, and a rain filled with flames—
     
    The concussion threw Lostara Yil from her feet moments
after she'd stared, uncomprehending, at the squads of
marines arrayed beyond the picket line – stared, as they
were one and all flattened, rolling back before an onrushing
wave – multiple explosions now, rapid-fire, marching
along the wall to either side – then she was hammered in
the chest, flung to the ground amidst other soldiers.
    Rocks arrived in an almost-horizontal hail, fast as sling-stones,
cracking off armour, thudding