Stumbling towards them, flames dancing in the full head of hair – dancing, yet not burning. Closer, and Faradan Sort saw it was a girl, a face she then recognized. 'She's from Cord's Ashok squad. That's Sinn.'
'How did she do that?' Madan'Tul Rada asked.
'I don't know, but let's hope she can do it again. Soldier! Over here!'
An upper level had simply sheared away, down, crashing in an explosion of dust and smoke onto the street. Where Bowl had been crouching. He had not even seen it coming, Hellian suspected. Lucky bastard. She looked back at her squad. Blistered, red as boiled lobsters. Armour shed, weapons flung away – too hot to hold. Marines and heavies.
Herself the only sergeant. Two corporals – Urb and Reem – their expressions dulled. Red-eyed all of them, gasping in the dying air, damn near hairless. Not much longer, I think. Gods, what I would do for a drink right now. Something nice. Chilled, delicate, the drunk coming on slow and sly, peaceful sleep beckoning as sweet as the last trickle down my ravaged throat. Gods, I'm a poet when it comes to drink, oh yes. 'Okay, that way's blocked now. Let's take this damned alley-'
'Why?' Touchy demanded.
'Because I don't see flames down there, that's why. We keep moving until we can't move no more, got it?'
'Why don't we just stay right here – another building's bound to land on us sooner or later.'
'Tell you what,' Hellian snarled. 'You do just that, but me, I ain't waiting for nothing. You want to die alone, you go right ahead.'
She set off.
Everyone followed. There was nothing else to do.
Eighteen soldiers – Strings had carried them through. Three more skirmishes, bloody and without mercy, and now they crouched before the palace gates – which yawned wide, a huge mouth filled with fire. Smoke billowed above the fortification, glowing in the night. Bottle, on his knees, gasping, slowly looked round at his fellow soldiers. A few heavies, the whole of Strings's squad, and most of Sergeant Cord's, along with the few marines surviving from Borduke's squad.
They had hoped, prayed, even, to arrive and find other squads – anyone, more survivors, defying this damned conflagration… this far.
Just this far, that's all. It would have been enough. But they were alone, with no sign anywhere that any other Malazans had made it.
If Leoman of the Flails was in the palace, he was naught but ashes, now.
'Crump, Maybe, Cuttle, over to me,' Strings ordered, crouching and setting down his satchel. 'Any other sappers? No? Anyone carrying munitions? All right, I just checked mine – the wax is way too soft and getting softer – it's all gonna go up, and that's the plan. All of it, except the burners – toss those – the rest goes right into the mouth of that palace-'
'What's the point?' Cord demanded. 'I mean, fine by me if you're thinking it's a better way to go.'
'I want to try and blow a hole in this growing firestorm – knock it back – and we're heading through that hole, for as long as it survives – Hood knows where it'll lead. But I don't see any fire right behind the palace, and that'll do for me. Problems with that, Cord?'
'No. I love it. It's brilliant. Genius. If only I hadn't tossed my helm away.'
A few laughs. Good sign.
Then hacking coughs. Bad sign.
Someone shrieked, and Bottle turned to see a figure lumbering out from a nearby building, flasks and bottles hanging from him, another bottle in one hand, a torch in the other – heading straight for them. And they had discarded their crossbows.
A bellowing answer from a soldier in Cord's squad, and the man, Bell, rushed forward to intercept the fanatic.
'Get back!' Cord screamed.
Sprinting, Bell flung himself at the man, colliding with him twenty paces away, and both went down.
Bottle dropped flat, rolled away, bumping up against other soldiers doing the same.
A whoosh, then more screams. Terrible screams. And a wave of heat, blistering, fierce as the breath of a forge.
Then Strings was swearing, scrambling with his collection of satchels.
'Away from the palace! Everyone!'
'Not me!' Cuttle growled. 'You need help.'
'Fine. Everyone else! Sixty, seventy paces at least! More if you can!
Go!'
Bottle climbed upright, watched as Strings and Cuttle ran crab-like towards the palace gates. Then he looked round. Sixty paces? We ain't got sixty paces – flames were devouring buildings in every direction he could see, now.