A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

slithered forward,
gasping, and heard the sergeant slip down after him.
    Then the ground shook, dust pouring down thick as
sand. Thunder, one concussion after another, pounding
down from above. A rush of searing hot air swept over
them from behind. Smoke, dust—
    'Forward!' Strings screamed. 'Before the ceiling goes—'
    Corabb reached back, groping, until he clasped one of
the Malazan's hands – the man was half-buried under
rubble, his breath straining beneath the settling weight.
Corabb pulled, then pulled harder.
    A savage grunt from the Malazan, then, amidst clattering,
thumping bricks and stones, Corabb tugged the man
clear.
    'Come on!' he hissed. 'There's a pit ahead, a sewer – the
rest went down there – grab my ankles, Sergeant—'
    The wind was beating back the roiling heat.
    Corabb pitched headfirst into the pit, dragging Strings
with him.
     
    The rat had reached a vertical shaft, rough-walled enough
so that she could climb down. The wind howled up it,
filled with rotted leaves, dust and insect fragments.
The creature was still descending when Bottle pulled
himself up to the ledge. The detritus bit at his eyes as he
peered down.
    Seeing nothing. He pulled free a piece of rubble and
tossed it downward, out from the wall. His soul, riding the
rat's own, sensed its passage. Rodent ears pricked forward,
waiting. Four human heartbeats later there was a dull,
muted crack of stone on stone, a few more, then nothing. Oh gods ...
    Cuttle spoke behind him. 'What's wrong?'
    'A shaft, goes straight down – a long away down.'
    'Can we climb it?'
    'My rat can.'
    'How wide is it?'
    'Not very, and gets narrower.'
    'We got wounded people back here, and Hellian's still
unconscious.'
    Bottle nodded. 'Do a roll call – I want to know how
many made it. We also need straps, rope, anything and
everything. Was it just me or did you hear the temple come
down?'
    Cuttle turned about and started the roll call and the
request for straps and rope, then twisted round once more.
'Yeah, it went down all right. When the wind dropped off.
Thank Hood it's back, or we'd be cooking or suffocating or
both.'
    Well, we're not through this yet ...
    'I know what you're thinking, Bottle.'
    'You do?'
    'Think there's a rat god? I hope so, and I hope you're
praying good and hard.'
    A rat god. Maybe. Hard to know with creatures that don't
think in words. 'I think one of us, one of the bigger, stronger
ones, could wedge himself across. And help people down.'
    'If we get enough straps and stuff to climb down, aye.
Tulip, maybe, or that other corporal, Urb. But there ain't
room to get past anyone.'
    I know. 'I'm going to try and climb down.'
    'Where's the rat?'
    'Down below. It's reached the bottom. It's waiting there.
Anyway, here goes.' Drawing on the Thyr Warren to pierce
the darkness, he moved out to the very edge. The wall
opposite looked to be part of some monumental structure,
the stones skilfully cut and fitted. Patches of crumbling
plaster covered parts of it, as did sections of the frieze
fronting that plaster. It seemed almost perfectly vertical –
the narrowing of the gap was caused by the wall on his side
– a much rougher facing, with projections remaining from
some kind of elaborate ornamentation. A strange clash of
styles, for two buildings standing so close together. Still,
both walls had withstood the ravages of being buried, seemingly
unaffected by the pressures of sand and rubble. 'All
right,' he said to Cuttle, who had drawn up closer, 'this
might not be so bad.'
    'You're what, twenty years old? No wounds, thin as a
spear ...'
    'Fine, you've made your point.' Bottle pushed himself
further out, then drew his right leg round. Stretching it
outward, he slowly edged over, onto his stomach. 'Damn, I
don't think my leg's long—'
    The ledge he leaned on splintered – it was, he suddenly
realized, nothing but rotted wood – and he began sliding,
falling.
    He spun over, kicking out with both legs as he
plummeted, throwing both arms out behind and to the
sides. Those rough stones tore into his back, one outcrop
cracking into the base of his skull and throwing
his head forward. Then both feet contacted the stone of the
wall opposite.
    Flinging him over, headfirst—
    Oh Hood—
    Sudden tugs, snapping sounds, then more, pulling at
him, resisting, slowing his descent.
    Gods, webs —
    His left shoulder was tugged back, turning him over. He
kicked out again and felt the plastered wall under his foot.
Reached out with his right arm, and