But Hedge shook his head. ‘Not them. Never mind.’ And then he shrugged, as if dismissing something. ‘You was probably too busy last time, but we made a mess of those Short-Tails.’
‘And you didn’t use most of them up? That’s not like you, Hedge.’
‘Bavedict concocted more – the man’s a genius. Deranged and obsessive, the best kind of genius. Anyway, we’re packing them all.’
‘I’d noticed.’
‘Sure, it’s wore us out, all that stuff. Tell me, Fid, we going to get time to rest up first?’
‘Little late asking me that now.’
‘So what? I’m still asking you.’
‘To be honest, I don’t know. Depends.’
‘On what?’
‘Whether the Spire’s fallen to us. Whether they got the heart undamaged. Whether they managed to break its own set of chains, or whatever geas is protecting it – could be twenty Kenyll’rah demons for all we know, and imagine the scrap that’d be.’
‘Twenty Kenyll’rah demons? What is this, some bad fairy tale? Why not a demon king? Or a giant three-headed ogre with scorpion tails at the end of every finger, and a big one on his cock for added measure? Breathing fire outa his arse, too.’
‘Fine, so my imagination’s failed. Sorry about that – I ain’t no spinner of decent tales, Hedge.’
‘I’ll say. What else should I know? We got to kiss that fucking heart awake once we get it? Put a hat on it? Dance in fucking circles round it? Gods, not more blood sacrifice – that stuff creeps me out.’
‘You’re babbling, Hedge. It’s what you always do before a fight – why?’
‘To distract you, of course. You keep chewing on yourself there’ll be nothing left but wet gristle and a few pubic hairs I really don’t want to see. Oh, and the teeth that did all the chewing.’
‘You know,’ Fiddler said with a sidelong glance, ‘if you wasn’t here, Hedge, I’d have to invent you.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Just saying thanks, that’s all.’
‘Fine. Now can I babble some more? ’Cause I’m terrified, y’see.’
‘This will work, Hedge. Get your kitten throwers spread out through my squads, and we’ll make a mess of whoever tries to take us down.’
‘Exactly. Good idea. Shoulda thought of it myself.’
The man moved off again, and Fiddler’s gaze tracked him until he reached his original position at the head of the Bridgeburners. Bless ya, Hedge. He swung round to face his troops. ‘That’s the place, soldiers. That hill. Let’s quick-time it now – only a bell or two before dusk and I want us digging and piling stones in a solid perimeter.’
‘Aye, Captain,’ barked out a heavy. ‘Could do with some fucking exercise.’
Another soldier answered. ‘Knew I should never have carried you, woman!’
‘If you’d been carrying me, Reliko, I’d be pregnant by now – any chance y’get, right, you rat-eating piece of elephant dung.’
‘Maybe if I closed my eyes. But then, can a man even breed with a warthog?’
‘If anybody’d know the answer to that—’
‘Save your breaths, damn you,’ growled Fiddler.
They trudged over the lesser rises, tackled the hillside. Bottle moved up past Corabb and made the climb alongside Sergeant Tarr. ‘Listen, Sergeant …’
‘Now what, Bottle? Pull out your shovel – we got work to do.’
Soldiers were throwing down their kits on all sides, muttering and complaining about sore backs and aching shoulders.
‘It’s this ground,’ Bottle said, drawing close. ‘I need to talk to the captain.’
Tarr scowled at him, and then nodded. ‘Go on, but don’t take too long. I don’t want you dying ’cause you dug your hole too shallow.’
Bottle stared at the man, and then looked round. ‘They that close?’
‘How should I know? Care to risk your life that they aren’t?’
Swearing under his breath, Bottle set out to where he’d last seen Fiddler – up near the crest of the hill. Hedge had gone up there as well.
Taking a narrow, twisted route between outcrops of bedrock, he heard boots behind him and turned. ‘Deadsmell. You following me for a reason or is it my cute backside?’
‘Your cute backside, but I need to talk to Fid, too. Two joys in one, what can I say?’
‘This hill—’
‘Barrow.’
‘Right, fine. Barrow. There’s something—’
‘Sunk deep all the way round it, aye. Widdershins damn near shit himself the moment he hit the slope.’
Bottle shrugged. ‘Us other squaddies call him Widdershits, on account of his loose bowels. What about it?’
‘Really? Widdershits? That’s great. Wait till Throatslitter hears that one. But listen, how come you’re keeping secrets from us like that? Names like that? We wouldn’t do it to you, you know.’
‘Stifflips and Crack? Scuttle and Corncob? Turd and Brittle?’
‘Oh, you heard them, huh?’
They reached the crest, stepped out on to level ground. Ahead, standing near a long sword thrust into the ground, Fiddler and Hedge. Both men turned as the soldiers approached, hearing the stones snapping underfoot.
‘Forgot how to dig holes, you two?’
‘No, Captain. It’s just that we got us company.’
‘Explain that, Bottle. And be succinct for a change.’
‘There’s a god here with us.’
Hedge seemed to choke on something and turned away, coughing, hacking and then spitting.
‘You idiot,’ said Fiddler. ‘That’s the whole fucking point.’
‘Not him, Captain,’ said Deadsmell.
‘What do you mean, not him? Of course he’s here – as much of him as there is, I mean. The Adjunct said this was the place.’
Deadsmell met Bottle’s eyes, and after a moment Bottle turned away, his mouth suddenly dry. ‘Captain,’ he said, ‘the Crippled God ain’t here. We’d know it if he was.’
Fiddler gestured at the sword. ‘That’s the Adjunct’s, Bottle. Otataral, remember? Why should you think you’d be able to sense anything?’
Deadsmell was rubbing at the back of his neck as if he wanted to wear off two or three layers of skin, checking to see if he still had a backbone. Then he drew a fortifying breath and said, ‘He’s foreign – we’d know it anyway, Captain.’
Fiddler seemed to sag.
Hedge clapped him on the back. ‘Relax, Fid, it’s just the usual fuck-up. So we go through the motions anyway – you’re still a damned sapper, you know. Who said you were supposed to be on the thinking side of things? We don’t know that all this isn’t how it’s supposed to be right now, anyway. In fact, we don’t know a damned thing about anything. The way it always is. What’s the problem?’ He faced Bottle then. ‘So which turd-chewing god’s got the nerve to horn in our business?’
But Deadsmell was the first to respond. ‘Smells like old death.’
‘Hood? Wrong. Impossible.’
‘Didn’t say that, did I?’ Deadsmell retorted, scowling. ‘Just smells old and dead, right? Like brown leaves in a cold wind. Like a barrow’s stone-lined pit. Like the first breath of winter. Like—’
‘Worm of Autumn,’ growled Bottle.
‘I was working up to that, damn you!’
‘What does D’rek want with us?’ Hedge demanded.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Fiddler, turning back to stare at the sword. ‘We’ve had that priest crouching on our shoulders ever since Malaz City. When we were here he said something about his god, I seem to recall. Wrapping round the base of the hill. Him and the Adjunct seemed to think we’d need help. Anyway, it’s not like we can do anything about it. Fine, what you said, Hedge. We go through the motions. Deadsmell, is this place a barrow?’
‘Aye, but no longer sanctified. The tomb’s been looted. Broken.’
‘Broken, huh?’
‘Trust the Adjunct,’ said Hedge.
Fidd
ler rounded on him. ‘Was that you saying that?’
Hedge shrugged. ‘Thought it worth a try.’ Then he frowned. ‘What’s that smell?’
‘Probably Widdershits,’ Bottle said.
‘Gods, downwind, damn him – always downwind!’
Masan Gilani threw herself down near Sinter and Kisswhere. ‘Balm just tried putting his hand down my breeches. Said he forgot where he was. Said he wasn’t even looking. Said he thought he was reaching into his kit bag.’
Kisswhere snorted. ‘And with that sharpness of wit, Dal Honese men won an empire.’
‘I should’ve stayed with the cavalry.’
‘There was no cavalry.’
‘The Khundryl, then.’
Sinter slowly straightened, studied the darkening sky. ‘See any clouds?’ she asked, slowly turning as she scanned the heavens.
‘Clouds? What’s up, sister?’
‘Not sure. I keep expecting …’
‘Clouds?’
Sinter made a face. ‘You were the one asking me what I was seeing, remember? Now I’m telling you, I got something.’
‘Clouds.’
‘Oh, never mind.’ She settled back down lengthways in the slit trench she’d hacked out of the stony barrowside. ‘But if anyone sees …’
‘Clouds, aye,’ said Masan Gilani, rubbing at her eyes.
Rejoining his squad, Bottle glanced over at Shortnose. ‘Joined us again, have you?’
‘I brought a shield,’ the heavy said.
‘Oh, that’s nice.’
‘You need to tie it to my hand.’
‘What, now?’
‘Tie it so it doesn’t come loose. Use … knots and things.’
‘With rawhide.’
‘And knots and things.’
Bottle moved over to the man, crouched down.
‘You do that,’ Smiles observed, ‘and next he’ll be asking you to give him a shake, too.’
‘Make sure it’s after the little shudder,’ Cuttle advised. ‘Else you get wet.’
‘I once shuddered so hard,’ said Shortnose, ‘I shit myself.’
Everyone looked over, but it seemed that no one could think of a rejoinder to that.
Koryk had drawn his sword from its scabbard and now began running a stone down the length of the blade’s edge. ‘Someone make us a fire,’ he said. ‘We’re facing east here – if they come in from the morning sun … I want charcoal under my eyes.’
‘Sound enough,’ replied Cuttle, grunting to his feet. ‘Glad you’re back thinking like a soldier, Koryk.’
The Seti half-blood said nothing, lifting the weapon to squint at its edge.
‘Once that’s all done,’ Tarr said, ‘eat, drink and sleep. Corporal, set the watch.’
‘Aye, Sergeant. Listen all of you! I can taste it in the air!’
‘That’d be Widdershins.’
‘No! It is glory, my friends. Glory!’
Koryk said, ‘If that’s the smell of glory, Corabb, I knew an anaemic cat that was queen of the world.’
Corabb frowned at him. ‘I don’t get it. Was it named Glory?’
Corporal Rim settled down beside Honey. ‘I can hold a shield,’ he said. ‘I’ll cover you one side.’
‘Not if it’s going to get you killed.’
‘A soldier who’s lost his weapon arm isn’t much good to anyone. Just let me do this, will you?’
Honey’s brow creased. ‘Listen, you’ve been moping ever since the lizards. It’s obvious why, but still, show us a smile, will you? If you die here you won’t be the only one, will you?’
‘So what’s the problem if my guarding you gets me killed?’
‘Because I don’t want it on me, right?’
Rim scratched at his beard. ‘Fine then, I’ll shield-bash the fuckers.’
‘That’s better. Now, I got a watch here – go to sleep, sir.’
Fiddler walked the crest of the hill, doing a full circuit, studying where his troops had dug in and fortified defensive positions using boulders and stones. Hedge was right, he saw. They were too thin, and the footing was precarious at best. Should’ve brought spears – like those Bridgeburners did.
Admit it, Fid, having Hedge here may hurt like a stuck knife, but you’re glad of it anyway.
He studied the sky – the setting of the sun had passed almost unnoticed, so bright were the Jade Strangers overhead. Sighing, the captain moved to find a place to sit, his back against a carved stela. He closed his eyes. He knew he should try to sleep, but knew as well that such a thing was impossible.
He’d never wanted any of this. Handling a single squad had been burden enough. And now everyone here’s looking to me. If only they knew, the fools. I’m as lost as they are.
In the ghoulish light he drew out the House of Chains. The lacquered wooden cards slipped about in his hands as if coated in grease. He squinted down at them, slowly worked his way through each one, studying it in turn. Seven cards. Six felt cool to his touch. Only one glistened with sweat.
Leper.
Aw, Hedge. I’m so sorry for that.
The Shi’gal Assassin had left a place of flame far behind him now. Flame and the blood of a slain god raining down from a tortured sky. He had witnessed the deaths of thousands. Humans, K’Chain Che’Malle, Imass. He had seen the fall of Forkrul Assail and Jaghut warriors. Toblakai and Barghast. All for the scarred thing he now clutched in his hands.
It dripped blood and there seemed to be no end to that flow, trickling down his fingers, painting his claws, spattering his thighs as the rhythmic beat of his wings carried him westward, as if chasing the sun’s eager plunge beyond the horizon. The heart was once more alive, heavier than any stone of similar size – the weight of a skystone, such as fell from the sky. But that seemed an appropriate detail, since it belonged to the Fallen God.
Gu’Rull’s mind tracked back to the last scene he had witnessed atop the Spire, moments after he had torn loose the heart from those dying chains. The body of the Mortal Sword lying so motionless on the blood-splashed platform. The dog guarding what had already left the world.
It is only the dumb beast that understands futile gestures – the cold necessity for them, in the face of all the hard truths. We who hold to the higher aspirations of the intellect, we surrender too quickly. And yet, in looking upon that dog – a creature knowing only loyalty and courage – we find flavours to wound our own souls.
I now wonder, is it envy we feel?
He had underestimated the Matron’s choices. Destriant Kalyth, Shield Anvil Stormy and Mortal Sword Gesler – were these not worthy humans? They have shown us a path, for all the children of Gunth Mach. Two are fallen. Two gave their lives, but one remains.
I am not likely to see her again. But in my mind, in this moment and all the moments that remain to me, I will honour her, as I honour Gesler and Stormy. They lived as brothers, they fell as brothers. I shall call them kin, and of the tasks awaiting me, I shall in turn strive to see this through.
Destriant, in your sorrow and grief – which I even now taste – I will seek to give meaning to their deaths.
His wings shifted slightly at a sudden twist in the currents, and all at once the air seemed to thicken around the Shi’gal Assassin, filling with a strange susurration – heavy whispers, a sudden darkness that swarmed and swirled, blotting out the entire sky.
And Gu’Rull realized that he would not be making this journey alone.
Sinter sat up, and then stood. She studied the sky – and there, to the east. A black cloud, vast and seething, growing. Growing. Gods below. ‘Everyone!’ she shouted. ‘Get under your shields! Take cover! Everyone!’
‘Beloved children! Listen to your mother! Hear her words – the words of Crone! We took inside us his flesh! All that we could find! We kept it alive on the blood of sorcery! All for this moment! Rejoice, my sweet children, for the Fallen God is reborn!’
And Crone gave voice to her joy, and on all sides her children, in their tens of thousands, cri
ed out in answer.
The winged K’Chain Che’Malle, clutching its precious prize, was buffeted by the cacophony, and Crone cackled in delight.
Ahead, she could sense the fragments of bone scattered on the knoll – the bones of dozens of people once interred in crypts within the barrow. Would they be enough? There was no choice. The moment had come, and they would take what was available to them. They would make a man. A poor man. A weak man. But a man nonetheless – they would make a home for the god’s flesh from these bones, and then fill it with their own blood, and it would have to be enough.
The Great Ravens whirled over the knoll, and then plunged downward.
Fiddler threw himself behind the carved stela. The thunder of wings was deafening, crashing down, and the air grew hot and brittle. He felt the stone shuddering against his back.
Something like fists struck the ground, concussive blows coming one after another. He clutched at his head, tried to block his ears, but it was no use. The world had vanished inside a storm of black wings. He was suffocating, and before his eyes small objects were flashing past, converging somewhere close to the sword. Splinters, bleached fragments – bones, pulled into the air, prised loose from tangles of grass and roots. One cut a vicious gouge across the back of his hand and he flinched it under cover.
Who had voiced the warning?
Whoever it had been, it had probably saved their lives.
Except for me – I stayed too close to the sword. I should have gone down lower, with my soldiers. But I held back. I didn’t want to see their faces, didn’t want to feel this terrible love that takes a commander before battle – love for his soldiers, every one of them, that builds and ever builds, trying to shatter his heart.
My courage failed – and now—
Gu’Rull circled high overhead. He watched as the Great Ravens launched themselves at the knoll, saw the blooms of raw power erupt one after another. The black-winged creatures were sacrificing themselves, one by one, to return their god to living flesh – to make for his soul a mortal house.
One of the birds swung up alongside him and he tracked her with his lower eyes.
‘K’Chain Che’Malle! I am Crone, mother of all these blessed children! You bring a gift!’ And she laughed.