A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

furnace. Burning figures fell away, stumbling, clawing at
their faces, but the others came on.
    'Form up!' Strings bellowed. 'Fighting retreat – to that
temple wall!'
    Bottle stared at the closing mass. Form up? Fighting
retreat? With what?
    One of Cord's soldiers appeared beside him, and the man
reached out, gesturing. 'You! A mage, right?'
    Bottle nodded.
    'I'm Ebron – we got to take these bastards on – with
magic – no other weapons left—'
    'All right. Whatever you got, I'll add to it.'
    Three heavy infantry, the women Flashwit, Mayfly and
Uru Hela, had drawn knives and were forming up a front
line. A heartbeat later, Shortnose joined them, huge hands
closed into fists.
    The lead score of attackers closed to within fifteen paces,
and launched their spears as if they were javelins. In the
momentary flash of the shafts crossing the short distance,
Bottle saw that the wood had ignited, spinning wreaths of
smoke.
    Shouted warnings, then the solid impact of the heavy
weapons. Uru Hela was spun round, a spear transfixing her
left shoulder, the shaft scything into Mayfly's neck with a
cracking sound. As Uru Hela stumbled to her knees, Mayfly
staggered, then straightened. Sergeant Strings sprawled, a
spear impaling his right leg. Swearing, he pulled at it, his
other leg kicking like a thing gone mad. Tavos Pond
staggered into Bottle, knocking him down as the soldier,
one side of his face slashed away, the eye dangling,
stumbled on, screaming.
    Moments before the frenzied attackers reached them, a
wave of sorcery rose in a wall of billowing, argent smoke,
sweeping out to engulf the warriors. Shrieks, bodies falling,
skin and flesh blackening, curling away from bones.
Sudden horror.
    Bottle had no idea what kind of magic Ebron was using,
but he unleashed Meanas, redoubling the smoke's thickness
and breadth – illusional, but panic tore into the warriors.
Falling, tumbling out of the smoke, hands at their eyes,
writhing, vomit gushing onto the cobbles. The attack
shattered against the sorcery, and as the wind whipped the
poisonous cloud away, they could see nothing but fleeing
figures, already well beyond the heap of bodies.
    Bodies smouldering, catching fire.
    Koryk had reached Strings, who had pulled the spear
from his leg, and began stuffing knots of cloth into the
puncture wounds. Bottle went to them – no spurting blood
from the holes, he saw. Still, lots of blood had smeared the
cobbles. 'Wrap that leg!' he ordered the half-Seti. 'We've
got to get off this plaza!'
    Cord and Corporal Tulip were attending to Uru Hela,
whilst Scant and Balgrid had chased down and tackled
Tavos Pond to the ground. Bottle watched as Scant pushed
the dangling eye back into its socket, then fumbled with a
cloth to wrap round the soldier's head.
    'Drag the wounded!' Sergeant Gesler yelled. 'Come on,
you damned fools! To that wall! We need to find us a way
in!'
    Numbed, Bottle reached down to help Koryk lift Strings.
    He saw that his fingers had turned blue. He was deafened
by a roaring in his head, and everything was spinning round
him.
    Air. We need air.
    The wall rose before them, and then they were skirting
it. Seeking a way in.
     
    Lying in heaps, dying of asphyxiation. Keneb pulled himself
across shattered stone, blistered hands clawing through the
rubble. Blinding smoke, searing heat, and now he could feel
his mind, starving, disintegrating – wild, disjointed visions
– a woman, a man, a child, striding out from the flames.
    Demons, servants of Hood.
    Voices, so loud, the wail endless, growing – and darkness
flowed out from the three apparitions, poured over the
hundreds of bodies—
    Yes, his mind was dying. For he felt a sudden falling off
of the vicious heat, and sweet air filled his lungs. Dying,
what else can this be? I have arrived. At Hood's Gate. Gods,
such blessed relief — Someone's hands pulled at him – spasms
of agony from fingers pressing into burnt skin – and he was
being rolled over.
    Blinking, staring up into a smeared, blistered face. A
woman. He knew her.
    And she was speaking.
    We're all dead, now. Friends. Gathering at Hood's Gate —
    'Fist Keneb! There are hundreds here!'
    Yes.
    'Still alive! Sinn is keeping the fire back, but she can't
hold on much longer! We're going to try and push through!
Do you understand me! We need help, we need to get
everyone on their feet!'
    What? 'Captain,' he whispered. 'Captain Faradan Sort.'
    'Yes! Now, on your feet, Fist!'
     
    A storm of fire was building above