When he got out of here, he was going to wring Crump's scrawny neck.
High Marshal? Gods below 'and I says oh I says that warlock's tower-'
Corporal Tarr pulled on Balgrid's arms, ignoring the man's squeals.
How the mage had managed to stay fat through that endless march was baffling. And now, all too likely to prove deadly. Mind you, fat could be squeezed, when muscled bulk couldn't. That was something, at least.
Balgrid shrieked as Tarr dragged him through the crevasse. 'You're tearing my arms off!'
'You plug up here, Balgrid,' Tarr said, 'and Urb behind you's gonna take out his knife-'
A muted voice from the huge man behind Balgrid: 'Damn right. I'll joint you like a pig, mage. I swear it.'
The darkness was the worst of all – never mind the spiders, the scorpions and centipedes, it was the darkness that clawed and chewed on Tarr's sanity. At least Bottle had a rat's eyes to look through.
Rats could see in the dark, couldn't they? Then again, maybe they couldn't. Maybe they just used their noses, their whiskers, their ears. Maybe they were too stupid to go insane.
Or they're already insane. We're being led by an insane rat'I'm stuck again, oh gods! I can't move!'
'Stop yelling,' Tarr said, halting and twisting round yet again.
Reaching out for the man's arms. 'Hear that, Balgrid?'
'What? What?'
'Not sure. Thought I heard Urb's knives coming outa their sheaths.'
The mage heaved himself forward, kicking, clawing.
'You stop moving again,' Balm snarled to the child in front of him, ' and the lizards will get you. Eat you alive. Eat us all alive. Those are crypt lizards, you damned whelp. You know what crypt lizards do?
I'll tell you what they do. They eat human flesh. That's why they're called crypt lizards, only they don't mind if it's living flesh-'
'For Hood's sake!' Deadsmell growled behind him. 'Sergeant – that ain' t the way-'
'Shut your mouth! He's still moving, ain't he? Oh yes, ain't he just.
Crypt lizards, runt! Oh yes!'
'Hope you ain't nobody's uncle, Sergeant.'
'You're getting as bad as Widdershins, Corporal, with that babbling mouth of yours. I want a new squad-'
'Nobody'll have you, not after this-'
'You don't know nothing, Deadsmell.'
'I know if I was that child ahead of you, I'd shit right in your face.'
'Quiet! You give him ideas, damn you! Do it, boy, and I'll tie you up, oh yes, and leave you for the crypt lizards-'
'Listen to me, little one!' Deadsmell called out, his voice echoing. '
Them crypt lizards, they're about as long as your thumb! Balm's just being a-'
'I'm going to skewer you, Deadsmell. I swear it!'
Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas dragged himself forward. The Malazan in his wake was gasping – the only indication that the man still followed.
They had managed to drop one of the copper panels over the pit, burning their hands – bad burns, the pain wouldn't go away – Corabb's palms felt like soft wax, pushed out of shape by the stones they gripped, the ledges they grasped.
He had never felt such excruciating pain before. He was sheathed in sweat, his limbs trembling, his heart hammering like a trapped beast in his chest.
Pulling himself through a narrow space, he sank down onto what seemed to be the surface of a street, although his head scraped stone rubble above. He 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
