People cried out in pain, children screamed, dust and smoke filling the air – and then, from the floor, the sounds of rubble falling, striking things far below, bouncing, tumbling down, down…
'Bottle.'
At Strings's voice, he crawled forward, towards the gaping hole. He needed to find another rat. Somewhere down below. A rat my soul can ride. A rat to lead us out.
He said nothing to the others of what else he had sensed, flitting among life-sparks in the seeming innumerable layers of dead, buried city below – that it went down, and down, and down – the 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 humanbuilt wall could withstand this demon's fury. A distant, pale reflection was visible to the east. The sun, rising to meet its child.