A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

He had not even seen it coming,
Hellian suspected. Lucky bastard. She looked back at her
squad. Blistered, red as boiled lobsters. Armour shed,
weapons flung away – too hot to hold. Marines and heavies.
Herself the only sergeant. Two corporals – Urb and Reem –
their expressions dulled. Red-eyed all of them, gasping in the
dying air, damn near hairless. Not much longer, I think. Gods,
what I would do for a drink right now. Something nice. Chilled,
delicate, the drunk coming on slow and sly, peaceful sleep beckoning
as sweet as the last trickle down my ravaged throat. Gods, I'm
a poet when it comes to drink, oh yes. 'Okay, that way's blocked
now. Let's take this damned alley—'
    'Why?' Touchy demanded.
    'Because I don't see flames down there, that's why. We
keep moving until we can't move no more, got it?'
    'Why don't we just stay right here – another building's
bound to land on us sooner or later.'
    'Tell you what,' Hellian snarled. 'You do just that, but
me, I ain't waiting for nothing. You want to die alone, you
go right ahead.'
    She set off.
    Everyone followed. There was nothing else to do.
     
    Eighteen soldiers – Strings had carried them through.
Three more skirmishes, bloody and without mercy, and
now they crouched before the palace gates – which yawned
wide, a huge mouth filled with fire. Smoke billowed above
the fortification, glowing in the night. Bottle, on his knees,
gasping, slowly looked round at his fellow soldiers. A few
heavies, the whole of Strings's squad, and most of Sergeant
Cord's, along with the few marines surviving from
Borduke's squad.
    They had hoped, prayed, even, to arrive and find other
squads – anyone, more survivors, defying this damned conflagration
... this far. Just this far, that's all. It would have
been enough. But they were alone, with no sign anywhere
that any other Malazans had made it.
    If Leoman of the Flails was in the palace, he was naught
but ashes, now.
    'Crump, Maybe, Cuttle, over to me,' Strings ordered,
crouching and setting down his satchel. 'Any other
sappers? No? Anyone carrying munitions? All right, I just
checked mine – the wax is way too soft and getting softer –
it's all gonna go up, and that's the plan. All of it, except the
burners – toss those – the rest goes right into the mouth of
that palace—'
    'What's the point?' Cord demanded. 'I mean, fine by me
if you're thinking it's a better way to go.'
    'I want to try and blow a hole in this growing firestorm –
knock it back – and we're heading through that hole, for as
long as it survives – Hood knows where it'll lead. But I
don't see any fire right behind the palace, and that'll do for
me. Problems with that, Cord?'
    'No. I love it. It's brilliant. Genius. If only I hadn't tossed
my helm away.'
    A few laughs. Good sign.
    Then hacking coughs. Bad sign.
    Someone shrieked, and Bottle turned to see a figure lumbering
out from a nearby building, flasks and bottles
hanging from him, another bottle in one hand, a torch in
the other – heading straight for them. And they had discarded
their crossbows.
    A bellowing answer from a soldier in Cord's squad, and
the man, Bell, rushed forward to intercept the fanatic.
    'Get back!' Cord screamed.
    Sprinting, Bell flung himself at the man, colliding with
him twenty paces away, and both went down.
    Bottle dropped flat, rolled away, bumping up against
other soldiers doing the same.
    A whoosh, then more screams. Terrible screams. And a
wave of heat, blistering, fierce as the breath of a forge.
    Then Strings was swearing, scrambling with his
collection of satchels. 'Away from the palace! Everyone!'
    'Not me!' Cuttle growled. 'You need help.'
    'Fine. Everyone else! Sixty, seventy paces at least! More
if you can! Go!'
    Bottle climbed upright, watched as Strings and Cuttle
ran crab-like towards the palace gates. Then he looked
round. Sixty paces? We ain't got sixty paces – flames were
devouring buildings in every direction he could see, now.
    Still, as far away as possible. He began running.
    And found himself colliding with someone – who
gripped his left arm and spun him round.
    Gesler. And behind him Thorn Tissy, then a handful of
soldiers. 'What are those fools doing?' Gesler demanded.
    'Blow – a hole – through the storm—'
    'Puckered gods of the Abyss. Sands – you still got your
munitions?'
    'Aye, Sergeant—'
    'Damned fool. Give 'em to me—'
    'No,' said Truth, stepping in between. 'I'll take them.
We've gone through fire before, right,