A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

scuffle –
Corabb drew his scimitar. Approached the curtain barring
the corridor. With the tip of his blade, he swung the cloth
aside.
    To see children. Crouching, huddled. Ten, fifteen –
sixteen in all. Smudged faces, wide eyes, all looking up at
him. 'Oh gods,' he murmured. 'They have forgotten you.'
    They all have. Every single one of them.
    He sheathed his weapon and stepped forward. 'It's all
right,' he said. 'We shall find us a room, yes? And wait this
out.'
    Something else .. . Thunder, the death of buildings, the
burgeoning wails of fire, howling winds. This is what is outside,
the world beyond, this ... spirits below, Dryjhna —
    Outside, the birth-cries of the Apocalypse rose still
higher.
     
    'There!' Throatslitter said, pointing.
    Sergeant Balm blinked, the smoke and heat like broken
glass in his eyes, and could just make out a half-score figures
crossing the street before them. 'Who?'
    'Malazans,' Throatslitter said.
    From behind Balm: 'Great, more for the clam-bake, what
a night we're going to have—'
    'When I said be quiet, Widdershins, I meant it. All right,
let's go meet them. Maybe they ain't as lost as us.'
    'Oh yeah? Look who's leading them! That drunk,
what's her name? They're probably trying to find a bar!'
    'I ain't lying, Widdershins! One more word and I'll
skewer you!'
     
    Urb's huge hand landed on her arm, gripping hard, turning
her round, and Hellian saw a squad stumbling towards
them. 'Thank the gods,' she said in a ravaged voice, 'they
got to know where they're going—'
    A sergeant approached in a half-crouch. Dal Honese, his
face patchy with dried mud. 'I'm Balm,' he said. 'Wherever
you're headed, we're with you!'
    Hellian scowled. 'Fine,' she said. 'Just fall in and we'll all
be rosy in no time.'
    'Got us a way out?'
    'Yeah, down that alley.'
    'Great. What's down there?'
    'The only place not yet burning, you Dal Honese monkrat!'
She waved at her troop and they continued on.
Something was visible ahead. A huge, smudgy dome of
some kind. They were passing temples now, the doors
swinging wide, banging in the gusting, furnace-hot wind.
What little clothes she was still wearing had begun
smoking, thready wisps stretching out from the rough
weave. She could smell her own burning hair.
    A soldier came up alongside her. He was holding twin
long-knives in gloved hands. 'You ain't got no cause to
curse Sergeant Balm, woman. He brought us through this
far.'
    'What's your name?' Hellian demanded.
    'Throatslitter—'
    'Nice. Now go and slit your own throat. Nobody's gotten
through nowhere, you damned idiot. Now, unless you got a
bottle of chilled wine under that shirt, go find someone else
to annoy.'
    'You was nicer drunk,' he said, falling back.
    Yeah, everyone's nicer drunk.
     
    At the far edge of the collapsed palace, Limp's left leg was
trapped by a sliding piece of stonework, his screams loud
enough to challenge the fiery wind. Cord, Shard and a few
others from the Ashok squad pulled him free, but it was
clear the soldier's leg was broken.
    Ahead was a plaza of some sort, once the site of a market
of some kind, and beyond it rose a huge domed temple
behind a high wall. Remnants of gold leaf trickled down
the dome's flanks like rainwater. A heavy layer of smoke
roiled across the scene, making the dome seem to float in
the air, firelit and smeared. Strings gestured for everyone to
close in.
    'We're heading for that temple,' he said. 'It likely won't
help – there's a damned firestorm coming. Never seen one
myself, and I'm wishing that was still the case. Anyway,' he
paused to cough, then spit, 'I can't think of anything else.'
    'Sergeant,' Bottle said, frowning, 'I sense ... something.
Life. In that temple.'
    'All right, maybe we'll have to fight to find a place to die.
Fine. Maybe there's enough of 'em to kill us all and that
ain't so bad.'
    No, Sergeant. Nowhere close. But never mind.
    'All right, let's try and get across this plaza.'
    It looked easy, but they were running out of air, and the
winds racing across the concourse were blistering hot – no
cover provided by building walls. Bottle knew they might not
make it. Rasping heat tore at his eyes, poured like sand into
his throat with every gasping breath. Through blurred pain,
he saw figures appear off to his right, racing out of the smoke.
Ten, fifteen, then scores, spilling onto the concourse, some of
them on fire, others with spears— 'Sergeant!'
    'Gods below!'
    The warriors were attacking. Here, in this square, this
...