The Crippled God

  ‘Husband.’

  ‘I will die today.’

  ‘I know,’ she replied.

  ‘Will you flee this battle? For our child?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Please. I beg you.’

  ‘Husband, we have nowhere to go. We shall find you in the Ancestral Hills, beneath a warm sun, and the desert flowers will fill our eyes with the colours of spring.’

  At the ancient parting words of the Khundryl, Gall slowly closed his eyes. ‘I have fallen,’ he said, looking up once more to meet her level gaze. ‘You have seen my weakness.’

  ‘I have only seen what can be found in all of us, beloved. Does not a Warleader of the Khundryl walk the same ground as the rest of us? Your gift was courage and cunning on the field of battle. That gift remains. Take it with you this day, in the name of Coltaine, and in the spirit of the Wickans, who were the greatest horse-warriors this world has ever seen. Did we not proclaim that? With your own words, did you not cry their name to the heavens – until even the Ancestral Hills stirred in the awakening of our ghosts?’

  ‘I did, my love.’

  ‘We burned tears upon our faces to mark their passing from the world. But I see Khundryl warriors behind you, husband. I see the best of what remains. Lead them. I give to you the courage of my own heart, to join with yours. Today, I am proud.’

  Trembling, he stepped forward and took her in his arms.

  Fist Faradan Sort watched the massive army form up on the plain beyond. By numbers alone the centre dominated. Medium infantry along with skirmishers and crescents of archers: she judged seven or eight thousand. The wings belonged to heavy infantry, and she could see a pure-blooded Forkrul Assail commanding each one. Her eyes narrowed on the Pure opposite her – a female, mounted on a bone-white horse, from which she was now dismounting.

  ‘They have power in their voice!’ Faradan Sort shouted. ‘By command alone they will seek to make you yield. To drop your weapons. Defy them, Malazans!’ Easy enough to say. Probably impossible to achieve. This could turn into horror very quickly. She drew her sword. Ancient scars from the sorcery of the Stormriders marred the blade, forming a crazed mottling of pattern welding and watermarking.

  In her mind, a faint echo rose up – the crash of massive waves, shuddering the treacherous, icy stone underfoot. The bitter cold bite of the shackles round her bandaged ankles. Explosions of foam – and then, rising through the blue-white foment, a shape, a figure armoured in ice— she shook herself, mouth suddenly dry.

  It’s a warm day. Nothing to slip on. No numbness to steal all feeling from my hands. No raw patches where my skin has torn away at the touch of metal.

  I have faced worse. Remember that – it’s what has kept you going battle after battle.

  The Forkrul Assail was walking ahead of her troops now, up towards a low rise.

  Faradan Sort suddenly looked down, studied the yellow, brittle grasses, the countless rodent holes. ‘Soldiers – anyone see any scorpions hereabouts?’

  A chorus of grunts answered her, all in the negative.

  ‘Good. That will do, then. Shields high – seems she’s got something to say to us!’ Gods, this is where it gets unfair.

  Smiling, Sister Freedom studied the enemy forces. Ah, we were wrong. They are not moments from routing. There was rage and stolid determination in the faces across from her, but none of that would help – not now. Shields and armour would resist the power she was about to unveil, would protect them – for a time. Perhaps a handful of heartbeats. But then her voice would tear through, claw away skin and muscle, spray blood into the air. Bones would snap, skulls would shatter.

  They were all about to die, and nothing they did would prevent that.

  As here, so too the rest of the world.

  Glancing to her left, she saw the centre advancing – now less than thirty paces distant from the motionless line of defenders. Archers were loosing arrow upon arrow, with the enemy’s own archers countering here and there. Soldiers were falling, though for most shields fended off the deadly rain. Twelve paces, and then the charge. Its weight will drive them back, break up that facing line, and into the gaps we will pour, splitting the formation apart. And then will come the slaughter.

  Returning her attention to the flank opposite her, she raised her arms, began drawing breath.

  The flint sword that erupted from the ground beneath the Forkrul Assail ripped into the inside of her left thigh, lifting her into the air as the tip cracked and pierced her hip bone. As its wielder rose in a shower of earth, stones and roots, others burst from the ground surrounding the Forkrul Assail.

  Weapons hammered into her.

  Howling, writhing still on that sword, she lashed out. The back of one hand struck the forehead of Urugal the Woven, collapsing it inward, pitching the T’lan Imass from its feet.

  Kalt Urmanal’s bone mace caught the Forkrul Assail under her left arm, spun her entirely around, boots skyward, and off from the skewering sword.

  She landed with a roar, surging back to her feet.

  Beroke’s obsidian-tipped spear slid through her, exploding out from her lower belly. Twisting round, the Assail grasped hold of the spear shaft and lifted it into the air, taking Beroke with it. Releasing the wood, she reached up to trap Beroke’s skull between her hands as he slid closer to her.

  With a bellow she crushed the warrior’s skull.

  In her mind, Sister Freedom shouted commands to her officers. ‘Charge the enemy – break through and encircle them! Kill every damned one of them! Leave these bone-bags to me!’ The T’lan Imass with the crumpled forehead came towards her again. Snarling, she flung herself at him.

  Blistig could feel the desperate rage growing in him, and as the enemy ranks suddenly seemed to build like a rising wave and rush howling towards him, he screamed his own fury.

  The collision lifted soldiers from their feet, shoved them into the air. Blood misted, weapons hammered down, and the front ranks of the Malazans recoiled, and then stiffened. The clamour was deafening – weapons and shrieks – and the world was crazed before the Fist’s eyes, frantic with motion, the flash of faces, teeth bared, sudden gushes of blood from mouths and gaping throats. Bodies pushing up against his shins. Staggering, flaying with his sword, buffeted by repeated blows against his shield, Blistig fought with the ferocity of a rabid dog.

  He was going to die. They wanted to kill him – every damned one of them wanted to kill him, drag him down, trample his corpse. His life wasn’t supposed to end like this. He would fight, and fight. This was not going to be the end – he wouldn’t let it. I will not let it!

  Chaos spun wild around him and the soldiers pressing against his sides.

  They were pushed back another step.

  Lostara Yil moved up alongside the Adjunct, drawing her swords. Another dance. All I can do. The dance of the world – this fucking, miserable, murderous world. She saw Ruthan Gudd take Tavore’s other flank, and behind her she could hear Henar Vygulf – the fool was singing some damned Bluerose sea shanty.

  Ahead, advancing now, leaning forward and striding on stiff legs like a madman, came the Forkrul Assail. His eyes were feral and they were fixed on the Adjunct.

  When he roared, the sound hammered them back.

  Blood sprayed into the air and Lostara staggered, blinded. Whose blood? What— And now it was pouring down her cheeks and she saw Henar thump down, turning to her a shredded face. Oh, gods, it’s my blood – we’re all—

  Impossibly, the Adjunct straightened against that devastating onrush of wordless sound, drew her sword round, and sought to close.

  The Forkrul Assail was still almost forty paces away.

  We can’t do this. Even Tavore – we can’t—

  Ruthan Gudd reached the Adjunct’s side in his armour of ice – but that too was riven with cracks, breaking away in a hail of shards. He seemed to be reaching for her, as if to drag her back – away from this – but no retreat was far enough.

  The Assa
il roared again.

  Lostara Yil’s own scream was lost even to her own ears.

  She felt her body skidding across the broken, tortured ground.

  Against this – we are done with. Not even the Adjunct. Not even Ruthan Gudd. He slays us. Cotillion—

  But not even a god could hear her prayers now.

  Fifty paces behind, driven to his knees by the power of Akhrast Korvalain, Banaschar wiped blood from his eyes. He had tried to get closer – tried to move up and join with the Adjunct and her companions – but he had failed.

  Failure. I know that word – spent many a night sitting at its table—

  A figure stepped past him.

  Badalle hummed softly to herself, and that gentle sound pushed away all that the Quisitor flung at her. Ahead, she could see how the power was hurting Mother – even with all her magic-deadening blood, her extraordinary will, Mother was being torn apart.

  She gave words to her wordless song. Simple words, three to find the fourth, when the fourth was all that mattered. ‘Opals gems diamonds shards. Opals gems diamonds shards.’ You have forgotten so much. Until only hunger and pain remains. I know those two things. I know them well. We have shared them, you and I.

  ‘Opals gems diamonds shards. Opals gems diamonds shards.’

  I sent you away once. I told you to take your hurt and your hunger away from us. Because we deserved neither.

  Someone hurt you long ago. Someone hurt Rutt long ago. Someone hurt Saddic, and Held, and all the others. Someone must have hurt me, too.

  ‘Opals gems diamonds shards. Opals gems diamonds shards.’

  I sent you away. Now, I summon you. See the bringer of pain. See the deliverer of hunger. The Quisitor. I know him. I remember him. He came among my people. He told them they had to die. To answer ancient crimes.

  Perhaps he was right.

  But that did not mean he had the right.

  ‘Opals gems diamonds shards. Opals gems diamonds shards.’

  Do you know his kind? I think you do. Do you awaken now to ancient hurts? I think you do. I summon you. They like their justice. Now, my friend, deliver it.

  ‘Opals gems diamonds shards. Opals gems diamonds Shards!’

  And above the Forkrul Assail, the sky darkened.

  Banaschar stared as the swarm of locusts descended – where they had come from, how they had been summoned, he knew not. Their sound was a seething whisper, and then a swarming, howling cacophony. He saw the Forkrul Assail cease his attack, saw the man look up.

  And then the swarm plunged down in an enveloping cloud, a storm of wings that suddenly blossomed crimson.

  Brother Aloft screamed, and as he screamed the locusts crawled into his mouth, poured inside, mandibles slashing. Blood soaked the creatures, helped them slide down his throat. Choking, blinded and deafened, he fell to his knees. They chewed inside – his windpipe, and now his stomach. They blocked his nostrils, fought to enter his ears. Their bites cut through his eyelids and burst the eyes behind them. They swarmed into the sockets.

  The god of the Forkrul Assail was coming home.

  The locusts formed a seething pillar, which fell as the body it shrouded toppled to one side. Flashes of red gristle, of pink bone, and then the creatures were lifting away on their wings, rushing into the Kolansii infantry – but those soldiers, well armoured, their shields up before their faces, pushed through and the locusts spun, the whirr of their wings reaching a higher pitch, as if giving voice to their frustration.

  Abruptly the swarm lifted, swirled into the air overhead.

  Badalle could feel their need – it was without end – and she knew that if they remained in this place she would lose control of them – they would devour everyone.

  Go now. You cannot stay.

  The roar reached a pitch that shivered the air – a scream of impotence – and then the whirling cloud spun away.

  Just beyond the bones of the Forkrul Assail, the Kolansii infantry advanced, and before them stood four figures sheathed in blood.

  Mother, when this is done – when you and all your children have fallen – I shall with my last breath summon them again. To deliver our revenge.

  Warleader Gall sat on his horse, eyes on the heavy infantry pushing past the embattled female Forkrul Assail. Their ranks were disordered, broken by the steep pitch of the hillside on their right, crowding to avoid the hill where fought their commander and the T’lan Imass. Large stones that had long ago rolled down from the summit further slowed their advance.

  He could see the flank of Malazans turning to ready for the inward attack – but he could also see that the intention of the enemy was to win through to the rear of the defenders.

  Beside him, Shelemasa said, ‘Warleader – the south flank—’

  ‘We must choose one or the other,’ Gall cut in. ‘Do you see the ones before us? They cannot hold their lines – but see how, once they are past the Malazans, they will be able to spread out, once more on level ground. They will then form up.’

  ‘Warleader, the Adjunct—’

  ‘We cannot help her,’ he said. ‘If there were three thousand of us, yes, we could challenge that flank. But these ones here – at the threshold of open ground – we will meet them there.’ He drew his tulwar, rode out ahead of his pitifully small army, and then wheeled.

  ‘In the name of Coltaine and the Fall!’

  He needed say nothing more. Weapons flashed, the horses tossing their heads as they caught the sudden fever of their riders.

  Gall sawed on his reins, pitching his mount round. The beast reared, hoofs scything in the air.

  And the Warleader laughed.

  Faradan Sort had pushed her way to the edge of the flank – once the Kolansii broke through, she would need to be there, to hold her soldiers, to maintain their resolve – but they do not need me. See their faces! The enemy seeks our underbelly and will be met with iron. And I will be there – this battle shall be mine, to the end.

  And then she heard the sound of horse’s hoofs. Looked up, twisted round – and saw the Khundryl Burned Tears at full charge. Even as the first of the Kolansii spilled out from the narrow passage, the horse-warriors – with Gall in the lead – crashed into them.

  The impact shook the ground, rippled through bodies all the way to the Malazan ranks.

  ‘Hold fast!’ Faradan Sort shouted. ‘Now push! Into the enemy! Push!’

  The Kolansii advance had been checked – but not for long, she knew. It has to be enough. Now let’s make them pay for that bad footing.

  The north-facing side of the Malazan phalanx surged forward, Faradan Sort in their midst, and the Kolansii heavy infantry turned to meet them. But they were staggering, stones rolling underfoot, boulders trapping their legs.

  And the Khundryl were in a frenzy, driving ever deeper into their ranks.

  Gods! See them fight!

  Sergeant Ordinary Grey grasped hold of the corporal’s jerkin, pulled him close. ‘Grid Ffan – where’s your squad?’

  The Falari’s eyes were wild, his face bright red. ‘All around us, you Kartoolii spider bait!’

  ‘Where’s your sergeant?’

  ‘Dead! Where’s your fucking squad?’

  ‘With your sergeant,’ snapped Ordinary Grey. ‘Except for my Semk here …’

  They were being jostled, ever losing ground. Grid Ffan’s eyes shifted past the sergeant and then widened. ‘Someone sewed up his fucking mouth!’

  ‘He likes it that way. Now listen – the south flank—’

  ‘We ain’t got a south flank!’

  ‘She’s over there – her and that Shadow Dancer and that captain with piss-ice in his beard. The Assail’s finished, but the heavy infantry’s about to fold us up. She named you, Ffan! Just like she named me and Could Howl. You understanding me?’

  Grid Ffan shifted round. ‘Hare Ravage! Sample! Find the others – we’re pulling out of this press!’

  The squad’s huge mailed fist turned to the corporal. ‘I barely got a swi
ng in! Been waiting for fucking ever, Corporal!’

  ‘We’ll get you your Hood-damned fight, you Kanese squid-eater – we’re taking on a whole army of heavies!’

  ‘How many of us?’ Sample demanded, her blue-tinted skin ashen with dust.

  Ffan turned back to Ordinary Grey, who answered, ‘Maybe ten.’

  The Napan’s grin flashed white, and in a sharp, piercing voice, she cried out, ‘Shades, Brutan, Asp, Shipwreck and Gill Slime! With us! Move, damn you all!’

  Pores sagged beside Kindly, who risked a moment to glower down at the man. ‘Get out of here! You’re a damned liability!’

  ‘Just need – to – catch my breath!’

  Beyond Pores, in the seething press, Kindly saw a dozen or so soldiers moving through the ranks away from the front line. ‘What in Hood’s name are they doing?’ But he saw no panic in the faces of the soldiers closest to them – words were shouted back and forth, and the ranks shifted to make room for them to pass.

  Pores straightened once more, followed Kindly’s glare. ‘Ordinary Grey … Ffan and Sample. And there’s that scary Semk – it’s the ones she called on, sir.’

  ‘Is it now?’

  Another hard shove from the front staggered them back again.

  ‘Head back to the camp, Pores – do something useful. Protect the children.’

  ‘I don’t think – oh, right. Sir—’

  ‘I’m moving up again – get out of here.’

  ‘Sir—’

  ‘That’s it – you’re up on report, soldier! Now go before I kill you myself!’

  Lesser Watered Trissin moved past the bones of Brother Aloft – she struggled to not look down, yet could not help herself. Locusts still crawled here and there, out from under the bones or the slack skins of intestines, still crowded the gaping jaws.

  She could feel Sister Freedom’s fury and pain as the wounded Pure lashed out – the T’lan Imass would not win that battle – but they were taking all the Forkrul Assail’s concentration. In truth, it was High Watered Melest who was commanding the assault, from the centre.

  She saw, ahead of them, a line of four soldiers, and her eyes widened – this is all they have for us? They are mad!