A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

of
yours!'
    They reached an intersection and Balm halted his
soldiers. Six alley-mouths beckoned, each leading into
tracks as twisted and dark as the next. Smoke was tumbling
from two of them, on their left. Head spinning, every
breath growing more pained, less invigorating, the Dal
Honese wiped hot sweat from his eyes and turned to study
his soldiers. Deadsmell, Throatslitter, Widdershins, Galt
and Lobe. Tough bastards one and all. This wasn't the right
way to die – there were right ones, and this wasn't one of
them. 'Gods,' he muttered, 'I'll never look at a hearth the
same again.'
    'You got that right, Sergeant,' said Throatslitter, punctuating
his agreement with a hacking cough.
    Balm pulled off his helm. 'Strip down, you damned fools,
before we bake ourselves. Hold on to your weapons, if you
can. We ain't dying here tonight. You understand me? All
of you listen – do you understand me?'
    'Aye, Sergeant,' Throatslitter said. 'We hear you.'
    'Good. Now, Widdershins, got any magic to make us a
path? Anything at all?'
    The mage shook his head. 'Wish I did. Maybe soon,
though.'
    'What do you mean?'
    'I mean a fire elemental's being born here, I think. A fire
spirit, a godling. We got a firestorm on the way, and that
will announce its arrival – and that's when we die if we
ain't dead already. But an elemental is alive. It's got a will,
a mind, damned hungry and eager to kill. But it knows fear,
fear because it knows it won't last long – too fierce, too hot
– days at best. And it knows other kinds of fear, too, and
that's where maybe I can do something – illusions. Of
water, but not just water. A water elemental.' He stared
round at the others, who were all staring back, then
shrugged. 'Maybe, maybe not. How smart is an elemental?
Got to be smart to be fooled, you see. Dog-smart, at least,
better if it was smarter. Problem is, not everybody agrees
that elementals even exist. I mean, I'm convinced it's a
good theory—'
    Balm cracked him across the head. 'All this on a theory? You wasted all that air on that? Gods below, Widdershins,
I'm minded to kill you right now.' He rose. 'Let's get going,
while we can. To Hood with the damned palace – let's take
the alley opposite and when the theoretical elemental
arrives we can shake its hand and curse it to the nonexistent
Abyss. Come on – and you, Widdershins, not
another word, got it?'
     
    The soldier returned, wreathed in flames. Running,
running from the pain, but there was nowhere to go.
Captain Faradan Sort aimed the crossbow and loosed a
quarrel. Watched the poor man fall, grow still as the flames
leapt all over him, blackening the skin, cracking open the
flesh. She turned away. 'Last quarrel,' she said, tossing the
weapon to one side.
    Her new lieutenant, with the mouthful name of
Madan'Tul Rada, said nothing – a characteristic Faradan
was already used to, and of which she was, most of the time,
appreciative.
    Except now, when they were about to roast. 'All right,'
she said, 'scratch that route – and I'm out of scouts. No
back, no forward, and, from the looks of it, no left and no
right. Any suggestions?'
    Madan'Tul Rada's expression soured, jaw edging down as
tongue probed a likely rotted molar, then he spat, squinted
in the smoke, and unslung his round shield to study its
charred face. Looked up again, slowly tracking, then: 'No.'
    They could hear a wind above them, shrieking, whirling
round and round over the city, drawing the flames up,
spinning tails of fire that slashed like giant swords through
the convulsing smoke. It was getting harder and harder to
breathe.
    The lieutenant's head lifted suddenly, and he faced the
wall of flame up the street, then rose.
    Faradan Sort followed suit, for she could now see what
he had seen – a strange black stain spreading out within the
flames, the tongues of fire flickering back, dying, the stain
deepening, circular, and out from its heart staggered a figure
shedding charred leathers, clasps and buckles falling
away to bounce on the street.
    Stumbling towards them, flames dancing in the full head
of hair – dancing, yet not burning. Closer, and Faradan Sort
saw it was a girl, a face she then recognized. 'She's from
Cord's Ashok squad. That's Sinn.'
    'How did she do that?' Madan'Tul Rada asked.
    'I don't know, but let's hope she can do it again. Soldier!
Over here!'
     
    An upper level had simply sheared away, down, crashing in
an explosion of dust and smoke onto the street. Where
Bowl had been crouching.