The Crippled God

  ‘Kill them! All these who have so defied us on this day – destroy them!’

  His horse lagging beneath him, beginning to weave, Paran cursed and slowed the beast. He fumbled in the saddlebag on his left, drew out a lacquered card. Glared at the lone rider painted on it. ‘Mathok! I know you can hear me! I’m about to open the gate for you. But listen! Come at the charge, do you understand? You wanted a damned Hood-balled blood-pissing fight, and now I’m giving it to you!’

  Paran kicked his horse forward again, pushing the poor beast into a gallop. He fixed his eyes on the place where he would tear open the gate, and then rose in his stirrups. ‘There,’ he said to the card, and then threw it.

  The card sailed out, level as a quarrel from a crossbow, so fast it blurred as it cut through the air.

  Beneath Paran, his horse stumbled. Then collapsed.

  He threw himself clear, struck hard, rolled and was still.

  Ruthan Gudd fought to defy the envelopment, but even with this unknown brute of a soldier fighting at his side he could not prevent the hundreds of Kolansii from swinging round, well beyond the reach of their swords.

  Behind him he felt a sudden surge rip through the regulars, pushing everyone forward a step. Twisting round, Ruthan strained to see the cause – but dust filled the air, and all he could see was the reeling mass of Malazans, now breaking apart, spilling out, as if in a berserk fever they now sought to charge – but before these soldiers there were no Kolansii.

  They are broken. They are finally—

  Thunder spun him round, and he stared, disbelieving, as thousands of warriors rode out from an enormous gate – but no, this ragged tear in the fabric of the world did not deserve so lofty a title. It was huge, opened to a howling wind – and it was barely thirty paces from the first ranks of the enemy.

  The riders bore lances, their mounts heavily armoured across chest and neck. They struck the disordered mass of heavy infantry – there had been no time to wheel, no time to draw shields round – and the concussion of that impact shuddered through the Kolansii. The wing split, broke apart – and suddenly all cohesion was lost, and the horse-warriors were delivering slaughter on all sides.

  The regular infantryman beside him stumbled then, leaned hard against Ruthan Gudd’s hip. Startled, he stared down, saw the man pressing his forehead against his ice-sheathed side.

  Eyes closed, the gasping Kanese breathed, ‘Gods below, that feels good.’

  Lostara Yil saw Adjunct Tavore stumbling away from the ranks. The pressure was gone – the enemy had other foes to deal with, and those foes were driving them back, away from the Bonehunters. She stared after Tavore.

  The Adjunct was barely recognizable. Covered in blood and gore, her helm torn off, her hair stained red, she staggered into the clear. Ten jerking, almost manic steps, her sword still in her hand but held out to one side, as if the arm had forgotten how to relax.

  Lostara pulled free of the ranks, moved after her – but a hand grasped her, dragged her back, and Henar’s voice was close by her ear. ‘No, love. Leave her. Just … leave her.’

  Her steps ran out, lost all momentum, and then she was standing, alone, her back to her army. The sounds of battle seemed to be falling away, as if thick, heavy curtains were being drawn across every side of the world, shutting away every scene, every swirl of motion and dust.

  She was alone.

  The sword, still held out so awkwardly, and her head slowly tilting back, to lift her face to the sky.

  Eyes were upon her now, but she saw them not.

  Tavore’s mouth opened, and the cry of anguish that tore from it held nothing human.

  It rang across the field of battle. It pushed past the witnessing Bonehunters, reached out and caressed countless corpses. It fought with the dust, rising up to vanish in the lurid green hue of the sky’s fading light.

  When her voice gave out, all could see that cry continuing in the stretched contortion of her face. Silent now, she gave nothing to the sky, and in that nothing, there was everything.

  Half stunned by the fall from the horse, Paran staggered towards her. That sound had not come from his sister. Too terrible, too ravaged, too brutal, and yet it dragged him towards her, as if he was caught in a rushing current.

  Off to his left, a few hundred Bonehunters still alive, motionless, unable even to sag or settle to the ground. They looked upon his sister and he could make no sense of their meaning, of what they still wanted from her.

  Is this not enough? This one weakness, breaking loose so raw, so horrifyingly, from her?

  Is it never enough?

  I don’t – I don’t understand what you want from her! What more are you waiting for?

  Through the bars of his helm’s iron grille, she was directly ahead, a prisoner still.

  Someone was rushing towards her. Another enemy. She could not even open her eyes, could not turn to meet him. One more death seemed too much, but she knew what waited within her. This need. This need … to finish.

  Do not attack me. Please. Someone stop him. Please.

  I will kill him.

  She heard him arrive and she dropped down into a crouch, spinning round, eyes opening – a heavy helm, an armoured body lunging for her.

  Her blade was a blur.

  He caught her wrist, was rocked back by the force of the swing.

  Pulled her close as she struggled.

  Fumbled at his helm’s strap.

  ‘Tavore! Stop! It’s me – it’s Ganoes!’

  The helm came away, left his hand to thump on the ground – she stared up at him, disbelieving, and then, in her face, everything shattered.

  ‘I lost her! Oh, Ganoes, I lost her!’

  As she collapsed into his arms, frail as a child, Ganoes held her tight. One hand against the back of her sweat-matted head, her bloodied face now pressed into his shoulder as she broke down, he found himself sinking to his knees, taking her within him.

  And when he looked up, over at those Bonehunters, he saw that whatever they had been waiting for they had now found.

  Like him, like her, they were settling down, to their knees. They were … surrendering.

  To whatever was left inside them.

  Muffled against his shoulder, through her sobs, she was saying his name. Over and over again.

  On a distant part of the field, as High Watered Melest swung his Jhag horse round, seeking to flee, Mathok’s lance took him in the side of the head.

  And the final battle of the Bonehunter Regular Infantry was done.

  ‘Corporal! Get over to those fat women!’

  ‘Dead, Sergeant!’

  ‘Then the other one, damn you!’

  ‘Both corporals are dead – I told you!’

  Cursing, Hellian sidestepped a lunging attacker, drove her knee into the man’s jaw. The head snapped upward and the body beneath it sagged. She stabbed him in the neck and then turned to glare at her squad’s last soldier. ‘Well what good are you, damn it? What’s your name?’

  ‘You stupid brain-dead cow – I’m Maybe! I been with you from the start!’

  ‘And you’re still here – just my luck. I’ll hold this track – go find someone to spell those two whales. Most of those Bridgeburners are dead.’

  Swearing, Maybe moved off.

  Hellian took a moment to dry the sweat and blood from her palm, and then picked up her sword again. Where was Urb? If that fool was dead she’d kill him. No, that’s not right. No matter.

  Below, she saw more helmed heads lurching into view on the narrow, winding incline.

  Come on, then. One of you’s gotta have a flask. Something, for Hood’s sake. See what happens when I’m sober?

  Corabb heard Maybe shouting behind him and turned – saw weapons flashing, Kolansii soldiers pouring up on to the summit. Marines were going down all round Maybe – Mulvan Dreader, Ruffle, Honey – ‘Breach!’ he screamed. ‘Breach!’

  And then he was running.

  Maybe stumbled, stabbed through one
calf, buckling to blows against his shield. Corabb saw Ruffle push herself on to her hands and knees – but then an axe descended, bursting her skull. She flopped back down, limp as a rag doll.

  Now he could see the breach. The two Bridgeburner sergeants had both gone down at the top of the trail they had been defending.

  Corabb leapt over the chained god.

  Kolansii faces turned towards him – and then he was among them, his sword singing. The shield was torn from his left arm by an axe blade. A point bit deep into his side. Howling, he slashed open a shoulder, cutting through chain, the links scattering, and then drove another man to his knees on the backswing.

  A heavy grunt from someone on his right – Shortnose had arrived, shield-bashing two foes, sending both to the ground. He’d collected up a Kolansii axe and now used it to dispatch the stunned soldiers.

  More of the enemy rushed them.

  The Crippled God was able to turn his head, was witness to the savage, desperate defence from these two Malazans. He watched the enemy driven back in one instant, then pushing closer in the next. The sweat of one of his protectors had splashed his face when the man had sailed over him, and those droplets now ran down in trickles, leaving tracks that felt cool as tears.

  It seemed that there would be no reinforcements to this modest engagement – the enemy was upon them on all sides. They had finally come within sight of his chained body – and now the Forkrul Assail understood the purpose behind all this. The Crippled God could feel the Assail’s hunger.

  I am almost all here, within this bag of skin. And I remain in chains.

  He can wound me. He can feed on my power for all time – and none could challenge him. He will unleash my poison upon the world.

  The Malazan with the cut-off nose-tip staggered, pierced through by a sword, and then another. Only to then straighten, his axe lashing out. Bodies reeled, toppled in welters of gore. He stumbled forward, and the Crippled God saw his face in profile – and saw the man’s smile as he fell face first on to the ground.

  Leaving but one defender, harried now by three Kolansii, with a fourth and fifth soldier appearing from behind them.

  His lone stalwart marine cut one down with his singing blade. And then another – crippled by a thigh chopped down to the bone.

  The axe that caught the marine was swung from the shield side – but the Malazan held no shield, could not block the swing. It cut clean through his left shoulder, severing the arm. Blood spraying, the man stepped back, his torso held pitched to one side, unbalanced. A second swing slashed through half his neck.

  Somehow, the marine found the strength to drive the point of his sword into his killer’s throat, the tip bursting out below the back of the skull. The thrust toppled him forward, into the dying man’s arms. They fell as one.

  Even as the remaining two Kolansii moved towards the Crippled God, weapons lifting, quarrels flashed in the air, knocked both men down.

  The god heard the scuff and thump of boots, and then someone landed and slid up against him, and he turned his head to the kneeling saviour, looked up into Captain Fiddler’s eyes.

  ‘They reach you, Lord?’

  The Crippled God shook his head. ‘Captain, your soldiers …’

  As if the word alone wounded him, Fiddler looked away, and then scrambled back on to his feet, cranking back the claw on the crossbow, his eyes fixing on the breach. Those eyes then went wide. ‘Hedge!’ he screamed.

  Hedge fell against the hacked bodies of Sweetlard and Rumjugs. The trail just below where the two women had fought was jammed with corpses – but beyond them he could see more Kolansii soldiers, dragging the way clear. They’d be through in moments.

  Too many. Fuck.

  How long had they been fighting? He had no idea. How many waves of attacks? It seemed like hundreds, but that wasn’t possible – they still had daylight above them. Dying daylight, aye, but still …

  Eyes on the mass of enemy below, an enemy heaving ever closer, he drew round the satchel he had collected from the mound of gear close to the feet of the Crippled God. Drew out the cusser. Always keep one. Always.

  Sapper’s vow. If you’re going down, take the bastards with ya.

  He lifted it high.

  Behind him he heard Fiddler shriek his name.

  Aw, shit. Sorry, Fid.

  Hedge plunged down the trail, rushing the mob of Kolansii.

  And then heard someone behind him, and whirled. ‘Fiddler, damn you! No! Go back!’

  Instead, his friend tackled him. Both went down, the cusser flying from Hedge’s hand.

  Neither man ducked for cover, instead turning to watch the munition take its leisurely, curving path down to the press of soldiers – and all those bobbing iron helms.

  It struck one of those helms clean as a coconut falling from a tree.

  Burst open to spill insensate carmine powder.

  The two sappers stared at each other, faces barely a hand’s width apart, and in unison they cried, ‘Dud!’

  And then a Malazan slammed down beside them in a clatter of armour – a man if anything shorter than Reliko, yet pale and thin, his ears protruding from the sides of his narrow head. He faced them and offered up a yellow, snaggle-toothed smile. ‘Got your backs, sirs. Get on wi’yee now!’

  Fiddler stared at the man. ‘Who in Hood’s name are you?’

  The soldier gave him a hurt look. ‘I’m Nefarias Bredd, sir! Who else would I be? Now, get back up there – I’ll cover yee, aye?’

  Fiddler turned and dragged Hedge back on to his feet, pulling him up the trail. As they scrabbled to the edge, hands reached down and dragged them up. The faces of the marines now surrounding them – Tarr, Bottle, Smiles and Koryk – were the palest he had ever seen. Deadsmell arrived and fell to his knees beside the prone bodies of Rumjugs and Sweetlard, looked up and muttered something to Tarr.

  Nodding, Sergeant Tarr pushed Hedge and Fiddler from the edge. ‘We got this breach taken care of, sirs.’

  Fiddler grasped Hedge’s arm, yanked him as he dragged him away.

  ‘Fid—’

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’ He rounded on Hedge. ‘You thought to just do it all over again?’

  ‘It looked like we was finished!’

  ‘We ain’t never finished, damn you! We drove ’em back again – you hearing me? They’re pulling back – we drove them back again!’

  Hedge’s legs suddenly felt watery beneath him. He abruptly sat down. Gloom was settling round them. He listened to gasping breaths, cursing, ragged coughs. Looking about, he saw that the others within sight were also down on the ground, too tired for anything more. Heads fell back, eyes closed. His sigh was a rasp. ‘Gods, how many soldiers you got left, Fid?’

  The man was now lying beside him, back propped against a tilted stone. ‘Maybe twenty. You?’

  A shudder took Hedge and he looked away. ‘The sergeants were the last of ’em.’

  ‘They ain’t dead.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cut up, aye. But just unconscious. Deadsmell figures it was heat prostration.’

  ‘Heat— Gods below, I told ’em to drink all they had!’

  ‘They’re big women, Hedge.’

  ‘My last Bridgeburners.’

  ‘Aye, Hedge, your last Bridgeburners.’

  Hedge opened his eyes and looked over at his friend – but Fid’s own eyes remained shut, face towards the darkening sky. ‘Really? What you said?’

  ‘Really.’

  Hedge settled back. ‘Think we can stop ’em again?’

  ‘Of course we can. Listen, you ain’t hiding another cusser, are you?’

  ‘No. Hood take me, I been carrying that one for bloody ever. And all that time, it was a dud!’

  Faces floated behind Fiddler’s eyes. Stilled in death, when so many memories of each one gave them so much life – but that life was trapped now, inside Fiddler’s own mind. And there they would remain, when in opening his eyes – which he was not yet ready to do – he would se
e only that stillness, the emptiness.

  He knew which world he wanted to live in. But, people didn’t have that choice, did they? Not unless they killed the spark inside themselves first. With drink, with the oblivion of sweet smoke, but those were false dreams and made mockery of the ones truly lost – the ones whose lives had passed.

  Around him, the desperate gulps of breath were fading, the groans falling off as wounds were bound. Few soldiers had the strength to move, and he knew that they were now settled as he was, here against this stone. Too tired to move.

  From the slope on all sides, the low cries and moans of wounded Kolansii lifted up, soft and forlorn, abandoned. The Malazans had killed hundreds, had wounded even more, and still the attackers would not relent, as if this hill had become the lone island in a world of rising seas.

  But it’s not that.

  It’s just the place we chose. To do what’s right.

  But then, maybe that alone gives reason to take us down, to destroy us.

  Hedge was silent beside him, but not asleep – if he had been, his snores would have driven them all from this place, the Crippled God included, chains be damned. And from the army still surrounding them, down on the lower ground, nothing more than a sullen mutter of sound – soldiers resting, checking weapons and armour. Readying for the next assault.

  The last assault.

  Twenty-odd soldiers cannot stop an army.

  Even these soldiers.

  Someone coughed nearby, from some huddle of stones, and then spoke. ‘So, who are we fighting for again?’

  Fiddler could not place the voice.

  Nor the one that replied, ‘Everyone.’

  A long pause, and then, ‘No wonder we’re losing.’

  Six, a dozen heartbeats, before someone snorted. A rumbling laugh followed, and then someone else burst out in a howl of mirth – and all at once, from the dark places among the rocks of this barrow, laughter burgeoned, rolled round, bounced and echoed.

  Fiddler felt his mouth cracking wide in a grin, and then he barked a laugh, and then another. And then he simply could not stop, pain clenching his side. Beside him, Hedge was suddenly hysterical, twisting over and curling up as the laughter poured out of him.