A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

children and drew out his scimitar.
    He heard voices – Malazan – then saw figures appearing
from the hallway's gloom. Soldiers, a woman in the lead.
Seeing Corabb, they halted.
    A man stepped past the woman. His blistered face bore
the mangled traces of tattooing. 'I am Iutharal Galt,' he
said in a ragged voice. 'Pardu—'
    'Traitor,' Corabb snapped. 'I am Corabb Bhilan
Thenu'alas, Second to Leoman of the Flails. You, Pardu, are
a traitor.'
    'Does that matter any more? We're all dead now,
anyway.'
    'Enough of this,' a midnight-skinned soldier said in badly
accented Ehrlii. 'Throatslitter, go and kill the fool—'
    'Wait!' the Pardu said, then ducked his head and added:
'Sergeant. Please. There ain't no point to this—'
    'It was these bastards that led us into this trap, Galt,' the
sergeant said.
    'No,' Corabb said, drawing their attention once more.
'Leoman of the Flails has brought us to this. He and he
alone. We – we were all betrayed—'
    'And where's he hiding?' the one named Throatslitter
asked, hefting his long-knives, a murderous look in his pale
eyes.
    'Fled.'
    'Temul will have him, then,' Iutharal Galt said, turning
to the sergeant. 'They've surrounded the city—'
    'No use,' Corabb cut in. 'He did not leave that way.' He
gestured behind him, towards the altar. 'A sorcerous gate.
The Queen of Dreams – she took him from here. Him and
High Mage L'oric and a Malazan woman named
Dunsparrow—'
    The doors opened once again and the Malazans whirled,
then, as voices approached – cries of pain, coughing, cursing
– they relaxed. More brethren, Corabb realized. More of the
damned enemy. But the Pardu had been right. The only
enemy now was fire. He swung back to look upon the
children, flinched at their terror-filled eyes, and turned round
once more, for he had nothing to say to them. Nothing worth
hearing.
     
    As he stumbled into the hallway, Bottle gasped. Cold, dusty
air, rushing past him – where? how? – and then Cuttle
pushed the doors shut once more, swearing as he burned his
hands.
    Ahead, at the threshold leading into the altar chamber,
stood more Malazans. Balm and his squad. The Kartoolian
drunk, Hellian. Corporal Reem and a few others from
Sobelone's heavies. And, beyond them in the nave itself, a
lone rebel warrior, and behind him, children.
    But the air – the air ...
    Koryk and Tarr dragged Strings past him. Mayfly and
Flashwit had drawn their meat-knives again, even as the
rebel flung his scimitar to one side, the weapon clanging
hollowly on the tiled floor. Gods below, one of them has
actually surrendered.
    Heat was radiating from the stone walls – the firestorm
outside would not spare this temple for much longer. The
last twenty paces round the temple corner to the front
façade had nearly killed them – no wind, the air filled with
the crack of exploding bricks, buckling cobblestones, the
flames seeming to feed upon the very air itself, roaring
down the streets, spiralling upward, flaring like huge
hooded snakes above the city. And the sound – he could
hear it still, beyond the walls, closing in – the sound ... is
terrible. Terrible.
    Gesler and Cord strode over to Balm and Hellian, and
Bottle moved closer to listen in on their conversation.
    'Anybody here worship the Queen of Dreams?' Gesler
asked.
    Hellian shrugged. 'I figure it's a little late to start.
    Anyway, Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas – our prisoner over
there – he said Leoman's already done that deal with
her. Of course, maybe she ain't into playing favourites—'
    A sudden loud crack startled everyone – the altar had
just shattered – and Bottle saw that Crump, the insane
saboteur, had just finished pissing on it.
    Hellian laughed. 'Well, scratch that idea.'
    'Hood's balls,' Gesler hissed. 'Someone go kill that
bastard, please.'
    Crump had noticed the sudden attention. He looked
round innocently. 'What?'
    'Want a word or two with you,' Cuttle said, rising. "Bout
the wall—'
    'It weren't my fault! I ain't never used cussers afore!'
    'Crump—'
    'And that ain't my name neither, Sergeant Cord. It's
Jamber Bole, and I was High Marshall in the Mott
Irregulars—'
    'Well, you ain't in Mott any more, Crump. And you ain't
Jamber Bole either. You're Crump, and you better get used
to it.'
    A voice from behind Bottle: 'Did he say Mott Irregulars?'
    Bottle turned, nodded at Strings. 'Aye, Sergeant.'
    'Gods below, who recruited him?'
    Shrugging, Bottle studied Strings for a moment. Koryk
and Tarr had carried him to just