A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

take us! All right, get the ropes out, Smiles—'
    'I tossed 'em,' she said, scowling. 'On the run in here.
Too damned heavy—'
    'And I picked them up,' Cuttle interjected, tugging the
coils from his left shoulder and flinging them forward.
    Strings reached out and rapped a knuckle against
Smiles's chin – her head snapped back, eyes widening in
shock, then fury. 'You carry what I tell you to carry, soldier,'
the sergeant said.
    Koyrk collected one end of the rope, backed up a few
paces, then bolted forward and leapt over the fissure. He
landed clean, although with very little room to spare.
There was no way Tarr or Cuttle could manage such a long
jump.
    Strings cursed, then said, 'Those who can do what Koryk
just did, go to it. And nobody leave gear behind, either.'
    Moments later both Bottle and Smiles crouched at
Koryk's side, helping anchor the rope as the sergeant, twin
sacks of munitions dangling from him, crossed hand over
hand, the bags swinging wild but positioned so that they
never collided with one another. Bottle released the rope
and moved forward to help, once Strings found footing on
the edge.
    Cuttle followed. Then Tarr, with the rope wrapped about
himself, made his way down onto the slanted floor and was
dragged quickly across as it shifted then slid away beneath
his weight. Armour and weapons clanking, the rest of the
squad pulled the corporal onto level ground.
    'Gods,' Cuttle gasped. 'The man weighs as much as a
damned bhederin!'
    Koryk re-coiled the rope and handed it, grinning, to
Smiles.
    They set off once more, up over a ridge of wreckage from
some kind of stall or lean-to that had abutted the inner
wall, then more rubble, beyond which was a street.
    And Borduke and his squad were just entering it, spread
out, crossbows at the ready. The bearded sergeant was in
the lead, Corporal Hubb on his right and two steps behind.
Ibb was opposite the corporal, and two paces behind the
pair were Tavos Pond and Balgrid, followed by Lutes, with
the rear drawn up by the sapper Maybe. Classic marine
advance formation.
    The buildings to the sides were dark, silent. Something
odd about them, Bottle thought, trying to work out what it
might be ... no shutters on the windows – they're all open. So
are the doors ... every door, in fact — 'Sergeant—'
    The arrows that suddenly sped down from flanking
windows, high up, were loosed at the precise moment that
a score of figures rushed out from nearby buildings, screaming,
spears, scimitars and shields at the ready. Those
arrows had been fired without regard to the charging
warriors, and two cried out as iron-barbed points tore into
them.
    Bottle saw Borduke spin round, saw the arrow jutting from
his left eye socket, saw a second arrow transfixing his neck.
Blood was spraying as he staggered, clawing and clutching at
his throat and face. Behind him, Corporal Hubb curled up
round an arrow in his gut, then sank to the cobbles. Ibb had
taken an arrow in the left shoulder, and he was plucking at it,
swearing, when a warrior rushed in on him, scimitar swinging
to strike him across the side of his head. Bone and helm caved
in, a gush of blood, and the soldier fell.
    Strings's squad arrived, intercepting a half-dozen
warriors. Bottle found himself in the midst of a vicious
exchange, Koryk on his left, the half-Seti's longsword
batting away a scimitar, then driving point first into the
man's throat. A screaming visage seemed to lunge at Bottle,
as if the warrior was seeking to tear into his neck with bared
teeth, and Bottle recoiled at the madness in the man's eyes,
then reached in with his mind, into the warrior's fierce
maelstrom of thoughts – little more than fractured images
and black rage – and found the most primitive part of his
brain; a burst of power and the man's coordination
vanished. He crumpled, limbs twitching.
    Cold with sweat, Bottle backed away another step, wishing
he had a weapon to draw, beyond the bush-knife in his
right hand.
    Fighting on all sides. Screams, the clash of metal,
snapping of chain links, grunts and gasps.
    And still arrows rained down.
    One cracked into the back of Strings's helm, pitching
him down to his knees. He twisted round, lifting his crossbow,
glaring at the building opposite – its upper windows
crowded with archers.
    Bottle reached out and grasped Koryk's baldric. 'Back!
Fid's cusser! Everyone! Back!'
    The sergeant raised the crossbow to his shoulder, aimed
towards an upper window—
    There were heavy infantry among