A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

air rising up stinking of decay, the
pressing darkness, the cramped, tortured routes. Down. All
those rats, fleeing, downward. None, none within my reach
clambering free, into the night air. None.
    Rats will flee. Even when there's nowhere to go.
     
    Wounded, burned soldiers were being carried past Blistig.
Pain and shock, flesh cracked open and lurid red, like
cooked meat – which, he realized numbly, was what it was.
The white ash of hair – on limbs, where eyebrows had once
been, on blistered pates. Blackened remnants of clothing,
hands melted onto weapon grips – he wanted to turn away,
so desperately wanted to turn away, but he could not.
    He stood fifteen hundred paces away, now, from the road
and its fringes of burning grass, and he could still feel the
heat. Beyond, a fire god devoured the sky above Y'Ghatan
– Y'Ghatan, crumbling inward, melting into slag – the
city's death was as horrible to his eyes as the file of Keneb
and Baralta's surviving soldiers.
    How could he do this? Leoman of the Flails, you have made
of your name a curse that will never die. Never.
    Someone came to his side and, after a long moment,
Blistig looked over. And scowled. The Claw, Pearl. The
man's eyes were red – durhang, it could be nothing else, for
he had remained in his tent, at the far end of the encampment,
as if indifferent to this brutal night.
    'Where is the Adjunct?' Pearl asked in a low, rough voice.
    'Helping with the wounded.'
    'Has she broken? Is she on her hands and knees in the
blood-soaked mud?'
    Blistig studied the man. Those eyes – had he been weeping?
No. Durhang. 'Say that again, Claw, and you won't
stay alive for much longer.'
    The tall man shrugged. 'Look at these burned soldiers,
Fist. There are worse things than dying.'
    'The healers are among them. Warlocks, witches, from
my company—'
    'Some scars cannot be healed.'
    'What are you doing here? Go back to your tent.'
    'I have lost a friend this night, Fist. I will go wherever I
choose.'
    Blistig looked away. Lost a friend. What of over two
thousand Malazan soldiers? Keneb has lost most of his marines
and among them, invaluable veterans. The Adjunct has lost her
first battle – oh, the imperial records will note a great victory, the
annihilation of the last vestiges of the Sha'ik rebellion. But we,
we who are here this night, we will know the truth for the rest of
our lives.
    And this Adjunct Tavore, she is far from finished. I have
seen. 'Go back to the Empress,' Blistig said. 'Tell her the
truth of this night—'
    'And what would be the point of that, Fist?'
    He opened his mouth, then shut it again.
    Pearl said, 'Word will be sent to Dujek Onearm, and he
in turn will report to the Empress. For now, however, it is
more important that Dujek know. And understand, as I am
sure he will.'
    'Understand what?'
    'That the Fourteenth Army can no longer be counted on
as a fighting force on Seven Cities.'
    Is that true? 'That remains to be seen,' he said. 'In any
case, the rebellion is crushed—'
    'Leoman escaped.'
    'What?'
    'He has escaped. Into the Warren of D'riss, under the
protection of the Queen of Dreams – only she knows, I
suppose, what use he will be to her. I admit, that part
worries me – gods are by nature unfathomable, most of the
time, and she is more so than most. I find this detail ...
troubling.'
    'Stand here, then, and fret.' Blistig turned away, made for
the hastily erected hospital tents. Hood take that damned
Claw. The sooner the better. How could he know such
things? Leoman... alive. Well, perhaps that could be made
to work in their favour, perhaps his name would become a
curse among the people of Seven Cities as well. The
Betrayer. The commander who murdered his own army.
    But it is how we are. Look at High Fist Pormqual, after all.
Yet, his crime was stupidity. Leoman's was ... pure evil. If
such a thing truly exists.
    The storm raged on, unleashing waves of heat that
blackened the surrounding countryside. The city's walls
had vanished – for no human-built wall could withstand
this demon's fury. A distant, pale reflection was visible to
the east. The sun, rising to meet its child.
     
    His soul rode the back of a small, insignificant creature, fed
on a tiny, racing heart, and looked through eyes that cut
into the darkness. Like some remote ghost, tethered by the
thinnest of chains, Bottle could feel his own body, somewhere
far above, slithering through detritus, cut and
scraped raw, face gone slack, eyes straining. Battered