A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

his hand closed on a
projection that seemed to sink like sponge beneath his
clutching fingers. His other foot contacted the wall, and he
pushed with both legs until his back was against rough
stone.
    And there were spiders, each as big as an outstretched
hand, crawling all over him.
    Bottle went perfectly still, struggling to slow his
breathing.
    Hairless, short-legged, pale amber – but there was no
light – and he realized that the creatures were glowing,
somehow lit from within, like lantern-flame behind thick,
gold-tinted glass. They had swarmed him, now. From far
above, he heard Cuttle calling down in desperate,
frightened tones.
    Bottle reached out with his mind, and immediately
recoiled at the blind rage building in the spiders. And
flashes of memory – the rat – their favoured prey – somehow
evading all their snares, climbing down right past
them, unseeing, unaware of the hundreds of eyes tracking
its passing. And now ... this.
    Heart thundering in his chest, Bottle quested once more.
A hive mind, of sorts – no, an extended family – they
would mass together, exchange nutrients – when one fed,
they all fed. They had never known light beyond what
lived within them, and, until recently, never known wind. Terrified ... but not starving, thank Hood. He sought to calm
them, flinched once more as all motion ceased, all
attention fixed now on him. Legs that had been scrambling
over his body went still, tiny claws clasping hard in his
skin.
    Calm. No reason to fear. An accident, and there will be more
– it cannot be helped. Best go away now, all of you. Soon, the
silence will return, we will have gone past, and before long, this
wind will end, and you can begin to rebuild. Peace ... please.
    They were not convinced.
    The wind paused suddenly, then a gust of heat descended
from above.
    Flee! He fashioned images of fire in his mind, drew forth
from his own memory scenes of people dying, destruction
all around—
    The spiders fled. Three heartbeats, and he was alone.
Nothing clinging still to his skin, nothing but strands of
wiry anchor lines, tattered sheets of web. And, trickling
down his back, from the soles of his feet, from his arms:
blood.
    Damn, I'm torn up bad, I think. Pain, now, awakening ... everywhere. Too much – Consciousness fled.
    From far above: 'Bottle!'
    Stirring ... blinking awake. How long had he been hanging
here?
    'I'm here, Cuttle! I'm climbing down – not much farther,
I think!' Grimacing against the pain, he started working his
feet downward – the space was narrow enough, now, that
he could straddle the gap. He gasped as he pulled his back
clear of the wall.
    Something whipped his right shoulder, stinging, hard,
and he ducked – then felt the object slide down the right
side of his chest. The strap of a harness.
    From above: 'I'm climbing down!'
     
    Koryk called behind him, 'Shard, you still with us?' The man
had been gibbering – they'd all discovered an unexpected
horror. That of stopping. Moving forward had been a tether to
sanity, for it had meant that, somewhere ahead, Bottle was
still crawling, still finding a way through. When everyone had
come to a halt, terror had slipped among them, closing like
tentacles around throats, and squeezing.
    Shrieks, panicked fighting against immovable, packed
stone and brick, hands clawing at feet. Rising into a frenzy.
    Then, voices bellowing, calling back – they'd reached a
shaft of some kind – they needed rope, belts, harness straps
– they were going to climb down.
    There was still a way ahead.
    Koryk had, through it all, muttered his chant. The Child
Death Song, the Seti rite of passage from whelp into adulthood.
A ritual that had, for girl and boy alike, included the
grave log, the hollowed-out coffin and the night-long
internment in a crypt of the bloodline. Buried alive, for the
child to die, for the adult to be born. A test against
the spirits of madness, the worms that lived in each person,
coiled at the base of the skull, wrapped tight about the
spine. Worms that were ever eager to awaken, to crawl,
gnawing a path into the brain, whispering and laughing or
screaming, or both.
    He had survived that night. He had defeated the worms.
    And that was all he needed, for this. All he needed.
    He had heard those worms, eating into soldiers ahead of
him, soldiers behind him. Into the children, as the worms
raced out to take them as well. For an adult to break under
fear – there could be no worse nightmare for the child