The Crippled God

  Is that what destiny is? Is that all it is?

  It was surprisingly easy to leave them behind, the ones she’d walked with for so long now. She could have turned back right then, to face the city – all the cities and all the broken lands that fed them. She could have chosen to accept her humanness. Instead … look at me. Here I walk.

  Let the Wolves cleanse this world. Let the beasts return. Above all, let the senseless killing end: we are tired of running, tired of dying. You must see that. You must feel something for that. Just how cold is your soul?

  You empty the land. You break the earth and use it until it dies, and then your children starve. Do not blame me. Do not blame any of us for that.

  Her breath caught and she hesitated. A sudden dark thought had flared in her mind. A knife in her hand. Throats opening to the night. Four more of the murderers dead. In a war that she knew might never end. But what difference does that make – we’ve been losing for so long, I doubt we’d know the taste of victory even as it filled our mouths. Even as it drowned us in its glory.

  Could she kill them? Could she turn around, here and now, and creep back into the camp? No pup skulls to crack open, but still. The dead-inside have to work hard at their pleasures. That burst of shock. Disbelief. The sudden laugh. So hard, to feel anything at all, isn’t it?

  The thoughts were delicious, but she resumed her journey. It was not, she decided, her destiny to kill one here, another there. No, if she could, she would kill them all. This is the war the Wolves have sought. The Hold shall be reborn. Am I to be their leader? Am I to stand alone at the head of some vast army of retribution?

  All at once, the ghost wolves were surrounding her, brushing close, and she began a loping run, effortlessly, her heart surging with strength. Freedom – she understood now – was something so long lost among humans that they had forgotten what it felt like. Bend to your labours! Grasp those coins! Keep the doors locked and fires raging to empty the shadows behind you! Make your brothers and sisters kneel before you, to serve your pleasures. Are you free? You don’t remember the truth of what once was – of what you all so willingly surrendered.

  I will show you freedom. So I vow: I will show you what it is to be free.

  On all sides, the ghost wolves howled.

  ‘She’s gone.’

  Faint opened her eyes, blinked at the bright morning sun. ‘What? Who?’

  ‘The girl. Setoc, with the wolf eyes. Gone.’

  She stared up at Amby, frowning. And then said, ‘Oh.’

  ‘I don’t think she’s coming back.’

  ‘No, Amby, I don’t either.’

  He moved back as she sat up. Her chest ached, her ragged scars itched. She was filthy and the taste in her mouth was thick with the rancid meat they’d eaten the night before. Amby stood like a man lost in the company of anyone but his brother – just a glance nearly broke her heart.

  She looked past him. Sweetest Sufferance was still asleep, her rounded form swathed in blankets. Precious Thimble sat near the ashes of the night’s fire, eyes fixed dully on Amby.

  She’d heard tales of horror, amongst the shareholders who’d signed out and now sat in taverns waiting to die. They’d drink and tell of missions that had ended in disaster. A dead mage, lost in unknown lands, no way home. The few lucky ones would find a place to book passage, or perhaps another Trygalle carriage would find them, half starved and half mad, and these ones would come home broken, their eyes empty.

  She stared up at the morning sky. Was the flying lizard still up there? Did it mock them with its cold eyes? She doubted it. If we make it out of this, it will be a miracle. The longest tug of the Lady’s luck this world has ever seen. And let’s face it, things don’t work out that way. They never do.

  ‘I smelled smoke,’ said Amby.

  ‘When?’

  He shrugged. ‘Dawn. The wind had yet to turn. Was running before the sun.’

  East. She stood, studied the rumpled wastes. Was that a faint haze? No, that veil was too big. A cloud. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it’s where we were headed, more or less.’

  If the man wanted to smell things, fine. Made no difference.

  ‘We need water,’ Amby said.

  Sighing, Faint turned and approached Precious Thimble. The young witch would not meet her eyes. Faint waited for a moment, and then said, ‘Can you conjure water?’

  ‘I told you—’

  ‘Yes, the land’s mostly dead. Still. Can you?’

  ‘There’s no point in trying.’

  ‘Try anyway.’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘Who left you in charge?’

  ‘You’re a shareholder in the Trygalle. I have seniority here, Precious.’

  ‘But I’m—’

  ‘So far,’ Faint cut in, ‘you’re nothing. Show us some magery and that might drag you up a notch or two. Open us a gate home and I’ll personally crown you empress. But until then, Precious, I’m in charge.’

  ‘It hurts.’

  ‘What does? Listen. People die.’

  But she shook her head. ‘Magic. Here. The ground … flinches.’

  ‘Precious, I don’t care if it howls. Just get us some water.’

  ‘It doesn’t want us here. It doesn’t want anyone here.’

  ‘Too bad.’

  Precious shivered. ‘There’s something … If it’s a spirit – even the ghost of one. Maybe …’

  ‘Get started on it.’ Faint walked over to Sweetest Sufferance. ‘Hood’s breath, wake up.’

  ‘I’m awake, cow.’

  Well, turned out everyone felt as miserable as she did.

  ‘Hungry,’ said Precious Thimble.

  Gods below. Faint looked to the east again. Cloud or smoke? Nearby, Amby made a groaning sound. She glanced over. Something was wrong with his face – mud streaks? Tears? No, too dark. She stepped closer. What, is that blood?

  Nearby, the packhorse tore free of the stake tethering it and lunged away, hoofs thundering.

  A rattling sound erupted from Sweetest Sufferance. Faint spun. ‘Sweetie?’

  The blanket-swathed form was twitching.

  ‘Hungry,’ said Precious Thimble again.

  Spasms surged through Sweetest Sufferance, her limbs jumping. She kicked her way clear of the blankets, rolled on to her back. Her eyes were opened wide, filling with blood. Her face was visibly swelling. Flesh split.

  ‘In here?’ asked Precious Thimble.

  Faint whirled to the witch – saw the strange tilt to her head, the drool slicking her chin. Her eyes were glazed. She rushed over. ‘Get it out! Precious! Send it away!’

  Sweetest Sufferance jerked upright, blood draining down from her fingertips. Bony projections had pushed through her face, closing the space for her eyes, her mouth. Her entire body shook as if something was inside, trying to escape. Tearing sounds burst from under her clothing as more bones thrust past skin, pushed at her sodden clothing.

  The ground beneath the woman seemed to be cracking open.

  Numb with horror, Faint backed up a step. Shock stole her will. ‘Precious – please—’

  Amby suddenly howled and the cry was so raw it jolted Faint awake. Twisting round once more, she rushed to Precious Thimble. Struck the woman in the face, a vicious slap, as hard as she could manage. The young witch’s head rocked. Amby screamed again.

  Faint glanced back at Sweetest Sufferance – but the woman was mostly gone, and in her place, rising up from the broken earth below, was a stained wrist thick as the bole of an ancient tree. The hand had pushed its fingers through the woman’s body, as if fighting free of an ill-fitting glove. Gore-streaked nails clawed at the air.

  The ground tilted beneath Faint, almost pitching her from her feet.

  Amby staggered up to Precious Thimble – his face a mask of blood – and when his fist struck her face her entire head snapped back. She toppled. Bawling, he took her in his arms and began running.

  The arm was reaching higher, the remnants of Sweetest Sufferance’s body st
ill clinging to the grasping hand. Blood was burning away, blackening, shedding in flakes, revealing a limb of purest jade.

  Faint staggered back. A mound was rising – an entire hill – splitting the hard ground. The tree at the spring thrashed, and on its long-dead branches green suddenly sprouted, writhing like worms. Jade fruit bulged, burgeoned in clusters to pull the branches down.

  Rock exploded from a ridge fifty paces to the south. High grasses waved like jade flames. A vast, gleaming boulder rocked into view – a forehead – oh, gods below, oh, Hood. Beru – please—

  Draconus turned round, his eyes black as pools of ink. ‘Wait here,’ he said.

  Ublala opened his mouth, but the ground was shaking, rolling like waves rushing in from somewhere to the north, and he forgot what he wanted to ask. He turned to his beloved.

  Ralata was awake, crouched low on the balls of her feet. Terror filled her face as she stared past Ublala.

  He turned back in time to see Draconus drawing his sword. Blackness poured from the long blade like wind-whipped shrouds, billowing out, twisting to close around the man like folding wings. Draconus disappeared inside the darkness, and the inky cloud spiralled higher, growing in size. In moments it towered over them, and then those black wings unfolded once more.

  The apparition rose into the sky, enormous wings of inky smoke thundering the air.

  Ublala stared after it. His mace was in his hands for some reason, and the skystone head steamed as if dipped in a forge.

  He watched the huge thing fly away, northward. Not a dragon. Winged darkness. Just that. Winged darkness.

  He licked his lips. ‘Draconus?’

  The brow ridges lifted clear of the shattered bedrock. Eyes blazed like emerald beacons. A second hand had thrust free, thirty paces to the west. Faint stood as if rooted to the shaking ground, as trapped as the rattling tree. Her thoughts had fled. A pressure was building inside her skull. She could hear voices, thousands, tens of thousands of voices, all speaking in a language she could not understand. They were rising in alarm, in fear, in panic. She clapped her hands to her ears, but it was no use.

  They want out.

  They asked. But no answers came. They begged. Pleaded. The world gave them silence. How do I know this? Their hearts – the beating – I can feel them. Feel them breaking.

  Anguish tore at her soul. She could not survive this. It was too much, the pain too vast.

  Icy air swept over her from behind. An enormous shadow swirled across the earth to her left. Something enshrouded in darkness, borne on vast ethereal wings, descended to where the jade head was emerging.

  Faint saw the flash of something long and black, a gleaming edge, and as the darkness slammed like a tidal wave against the brow of the giant that splinter was driven forward, piercing the centre of the forehead.

  Thunder cracked. Faint was thrown from her feet by the concussion. The impossible chorus of voices cried out – in pain, in shock, and something else. Beneath her the earth seemed to moan. Staggering upright once more, Faint coughed out the blood filling her mouth.

  Those cries? Relief? At last. At last, an answer.

  The forearm directly in front of her and the hand off to the west were suddenly motionless, the jade luminescence fading as if sheathed in dust. The tree, tilted precariously to one side, slowed its manic shivering, its branches now burdened with leaves of jade and the huge globes of fruit.

  Up on the hill, the darkness coalesced, like a slowly indrawn breath, and in its place stood a tall, broad-shouldered man. His hands were clasped about the grip of a two-handed sword bleeding black streams that spun lazily in the air. She saw him struggle to pull the weapon from the jade forehead that reared like a stone wall in front of him.

  He grunted when he finally succeeded. The sword slid into the scabbard slung under his left arm. He turned round, walked towards Faint. Pale skin, chiselled features, black hair, depthless eyes. As he neared her, he spoke in Daru. ‘Where he came from, every god is a Shield Anvil. Woman, have you lost your mind?’

  She opened her mouth for a denial, a rush of protest, but then he was walking past her. She turned, stared after him. South? What’s down there? Where are you going? No, never mind, Faint.

  Gods below, what have I just witnessed?

  Her gaze returned to the sundered forehead surmounting the hill. The wound in its centre was visible even from this distance. It had nearly split the giant skull in half.

  She slowly sank to her knees. A god. That was a god. Were they both gods? Did one just murder the other? She realized that she had wet herself. One more reek to clash with all the others. Drawing a shaky breath, she lowered her head. ‘Sweetest Sufferance, I’m sorry. She warned me against it. I’m sorry, Sweetie. Please forgive me.’

  She would, in a while, set out to find Amby and Precious Thimble.

  But not yet. Not quite yet.

  Ublala watched her tying up her bedroll. ‘Where are you going? We should wait. He said to wait.’

  She bared her teeth but did not look at him. ‘He is a demon. When he runs out of things to hunt, he’ll kill and eat us.’

  ‘No he won’t. He’s nice. Draconus is nice, my love—’

  ‘Don’t call me that.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Be quiet. Give me back my knife.’

  ‘I can’t. You might stab me.’

  ‘I won’t. I’m leaving you both. I’m going home.’

  ‘Home? Where is that? Can I come?’

  ‘Only if you can swim,’ she said. ‘Now, at least the knife. And if you love me the way you say you do, you’ll give me the rest of my weapons too.’

  ‘I’m not supposed to.’

  Venom blazed in her eyes. ‘You’re awake. You’re holding that club. I can’t hurt you. Unless you’re a coward, Ublala. I can’t love cowards – they disgust me.’

  He hunched down. ‘Just because I’m scared of you don’t mean I’m a coward. I once fought five Teblor gods.’

  ‘Of course you did. Cowards always lie.’

  ‘And I fought against the Fangs of Death and all those tusked warriors liked me – no, that wasn’t me. At least, I don’t think it was.’ He stared at the mace. ‘But I killed Dalk. I killed a dragon. It was easy – no, it wasn’t. It was hard, I think. I can’t remember.’

  ‘No end to all the lies.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he said, suddenly glum. ‘No end to them.’

  ‘Give me my weapons.’

  ‘If I do you’ll die.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ll leave us, and there’s no food out here unless Draconus gets it for us. You’ll starve. I can’t.’

  ‘Am I your prisoner? Is that how you like it, Ublala? You want a slave?’

  He looked up at her. ‘Can I sex you any time if you’re my slave?’

  ‘That’s not love,’ she said.

  ‘It’s been so long,’ he replied, ‘I suppose I’ll take sex instead of love. See what’s happened to me?’

  ‘Fine. I’ll lie with you, if you give me my weapons afterwards.’

  Ublala clutched his head. ‘Oh, you’re confusing me!’

  She advanced on him. ‘Agree to my offer, Ublala, and I’m yours—’ She stopped abruptly, turned away.

  He stared after her. ‘What’s wrong? I agree! I agree!’

  ‘Too late,’ she said. ‘Your friend’s back.’

  Ublala twisted round to see Draconus approaching. ‘He’s no friend of mine,’ he muttered. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘Too crowded, these Wastelands,’ she said.

  ‘Then leave us,’ Torrent replied. ‘We won’t miss you.’

  In answer, Olar Ethil picked up Absi once more, by the scruff of his neck. ‘We have rested enough,’ she said.

  ‘Stop carrying him like that,’ said Torrent. ‘He can ride with me.’

  Her neck creaked as she turned to regard him. ‘Attempt to flee and I will catch you, pup.’

  Torrent glanced across at the twins, who huddled
together near the ring of stones where they had tried making a fire the night before. ‘I won’t do that,’ he said.

  ‘Sentimentality will see the death of you,’ said the Bonecaster. ‘Come here. Take the child.’

  He strode over. When he reached for the boy, Olar Ethil’s skeletal hand snapped out. Torrent was dragged close, pulled up until his eyes were less than a hand’s breadth from her broken face.

  ‘Call upon no gods in this place,’ she hissed. ‘Everything’s too close to the surface. Do you understand me? Even the ghost of Toc Younger cannot withstand a summons – and he will not arrive alone.’ She pushed him back. ‘You have been warned – my only warning. I catch you whispering a prayer, Torrent of the Awl, and I will kill you.’

  He stepped back, scowling. ‘That threat’s getting as old as you, hag.’ He took Absi’s hand and led him slowly to where his horse waited. ‘And we need food – remember what that is, Olar Ethil? And water.’

  He looked round but could see no sign of Telorast and Curdle – when had he last seen them? He could not recall. Sighing, he beckoned to the twins. Stavi and Storii leapt to their feet and joined him. ‘Can you walk for a time?’ he asked them. ‘Later, you can ride, a little longer than you did yesterday. I don’t mind walking.’

  ‘Did you hear that thunder?’ Stavi asked.

  ‘Just thunder.’

  ‘Is our father still alive?’ Storii asked. ‘Is he really?’

  ‘I won’t lie,’ Torrent said. ‘If his spirit walks the land again, he is the same as Olar Ethil. A T’lan Imass. I fear there will be little that you will recognize—’

  ‘Except what’s inside him,’ said Storii. ‘That won’t have changed.’

  Torrent glanced away. ‘I hope you’re right, for all our sakes.’ He hesitated, and then said, ‘After all, if anyone can stand up to this Bonecaster, it will be your father.’

  ‘He’ll take us back,’ said Stavi. ‘All three of us. You’ll see.’

  He nodded. ‘Ready, then?’

  No, he wouldn’t lie to them, not about their father. But some suspicions he would keep to himself. He did not expect Olar Ethil to take them to Onos T’oolan. Absi, and perhaps even the twins, had become her currency when forcing the First Sword’s hand, and she would not permit a situation where he could directly challenge her over possession of them. No, these coins of flesh she would keep well hidden.