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, headfirstOh HoodSudden tugs, snapping sounds, then more, pulling at him, resisting, slowing his descent.
Gods, websHis 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 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 aroundThe 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 that witnessed such a thing. For with that was torn away all hope, all faith.
Koryk could save none of them. He could not give them the chant, for they would not know what it meant, and they had never spent a night in a coffin. And he knew, had it gone on much longer, people would start dying, or the madness would devour their minds, completely, permanently, and that would kill everyone else. Everyone.
The worms had retreated, and now all he could hear was weeping – not the broken kind, but the relieved kind – weeping and gibbering. And he knew they could taste it, could taste what those worms had left behind, and they prayed: not again. No closer, please. Never again.
'Corporal Shard?'
'W-what, damn you?'
'Limp. How is he? I keep kicking at him, hitting what I think is an arm, but he's not moving. Can you climb ahead, can you check?'
'He's knocked out.'
'How did that happen?'
'I crawled onto him and pounded his head against the floor until he stopped screaming.'
'You sure he's alive?'
'Limp? His skull's solid rock, Koryk.'
He heard movement back there, asked, 'What now?'
'I'll prove it to you. Give this broke leg a twist-'
Limp shrieked.
'Glad you're back, soldier,' Shard said.
'Get away from me, you bastard!'
'Wasn't me who panicked. Next time you think about panicking, Limp, just remind yourself I'm here, right behind you.'
'I'm going to kill you someday, Corporal-'
'As you like. Just don't do it again.'
Koryk thought back to the babbling noises he'd heard from Shard, but said nothing.
More scuffling sounds, then a bundle of rope and leather straps – most of them charred – was pushed into Koryk's hands. He dragged it close, then shoved it out ahead to the small boy huddled behind Tavos Pond. '
