The Crippled God

  Torrent collected up Absi, his heart clenching as the boy’s arms went round his neck. The young were quick to adapt, he knew, but even then there were hurts that slipped through awareness leaving not a ripple, and they sank deep. And many years later, why, they’d shaped an entire life. Abandon the child and all the man’s tethers will be weak. Take away the child’s love and the woman will be a leaf on every stream. So the older ones said. Always full of warnings, telling us all that life was a treacherous journey. That a path once begun could not easily be evaded, or twisted anew by wish or will.

  With a grinning Absi settled on the saddle, his small hands gripping the horn, Torrent collected the reins. The twins falling in beside him, he set off after Olar Ethil.

  The thunder had stopped as quickly as it had begun, and the cloudless sky was unchanged. Terrible forces were in play in these Wastelands, enough to shake even the deathless witch striding so purposefully ahead of them. ‘Call upon no gods in this place.’ A curious warning. Had someone prayed? He snorted. When did praying achieve anything but silence? Anything but the pathetic absence filling the air, building like a bubble of nothingness in the soul? Since when didn’t a prayer leave only empty yearning, where wishes burned and longing was a knife twisting in the chest?

  Call upon no gods in this place. Summon not Toc Anaster, my one-eyed guardian who can ride through the veil, who can speak with the voice of death itself. Why do you so fear him, Olar Ethil? What can he do to you?

  But I know the answer to that, don’t I?

  Ahead, the Bonecaster hesitated, turning to stare at Torrent.

  When he smiled, she faced forward again and resumed her walk.

  Yes, Olar Ethil. These Wastelands are very crowded indeed. Step lightly, hag, as if that will do any good.

  Absi made a strange grunting sound, and then sang, ‘Tollallallallalla! Tollallallalla!’

  Every word from a child is itself a prayer. A blessing. Dare we answer? Beware little Absi, Olar Ethil. There are hurts that slip through. You killed his dog.

  You killed his dog.

  The fabric between the warrens was shredded. Gaping holes yawned on all sides. As befitted his veered form, Gruntle moved in the shadows, a creature of stealth, muscles rolling beneath his barbed hide, eyes flaring like embers in the night. But purchase under his padded paws was uncertain. Vistas shifted wildly before his fixed gaze. Only desperation – and perhaps madness – had taken him on these paths.

  One moment flowing down a bitter cold scree of moss-backed boulders, the next moving like a ghost through a cathedral forest cloaked in fetid gloom. In yet another, the air was foul with poisons, and he found himself forced to swim a river, the waters thick and crusted with brown foam. Up on to the bank and into a village of cut stone crowded with carriages, passing through a graveyard, a fox pitching an eerie cry upon catching his scent.

  He stumbled upon two figures – their sudden appearance so startling him that alarm unleashed his instincts – a snarl, sudden rush, claws and then fangs. Screams tore the night air. His jaws crunched down through the bones of a human neck. A lash of one clawed paw ripped one side from a dog, flinging the dying beast into the brush. And then through, away from that world and into a sodden jungle lit by flashes of lightning – the reek of sulphur heavy in the air.

  Down a bank of mud, into a charnel pit of rotting corpses, the bloated bodies of men and horses, someone singing plaintively in the distance.

  A burning forest.

  The corridor of a palace or temple – dozens of robed people fleeing with shrieks – and once more he tore through them. Human blood filling his mouth, the taste appallingly sweet. Dragging bodies down from behind, crunching through skulls – weak fists thumping into his flanks—

  Somewhere deep inside him, he loosed a sob, tearing himself free – and once more the world shifted, a barren tundra now, someone kneeling beside a boulder, head lifting, eyes meeting his.

  ‘Stop this. Now. Child of Treach, you lose yourself to the beast’s blood.’

  A woman, her long black hair thick and glossy as a panther’s hide, her face broad, the cheekbones high and flaring, her amber eyes filled with knowing. A few rags of caribou skin for clothes, despite the frigid air.

  ‘When you find me,’ she continued, ‘it will not be as you imagine. We shall not meet as lovers. We shall not desire the same things. It may be we shall fight, you and me.’

  He crouched, sides heaving, muscles trembling, but the blind rage was fading.

  She made an odd gesture with one hand. ‘A cat leaps, takes the life of a bird. Another takes the life of a child playing in the garden. This is what a cat does, do you deny this? Is there a crime in these scenes? Perhaps. For the bird, the crime of carelessness, incaution. The child? An inattentive parent? An ill-chosen place to dwell in?

  ‘The chicks in their nest cry out for a mother who will not return. Her death is their deaths. The mother grieves her loss, but perhaps there will be another child, a new life to replace the one lost. Tell me, Gruntle, how does one measure these things? How does one decide which life is the more precious? Are feelings apportioned according to intelligence and self-awareness? Does a tiny creature grieve less deeply than one of greater … stature?

  ‘But is it not natural to rage for vengeance, for retribution? Does the dead bird’s mate dream of murder?

  ‘Child of Treach, you have taken more than just children, on this hard path of yours. In your wake, much grief now swirls. Your arrival was inexplicable to their senses, but the proof of your presence lay in pools of blood.

  ‘Be the weapon of random chance if you must. Be the unimaginable force that strikes down with no reason, no purpose. Be the taker of lives.

  ‘I will await you, at the end of this path. Will we discuss vengeance? With fang and claw?’

  At the threat a low growl rumbled from his chest.

  Her smile was sad. She gestured again—

  Blinking, Gruntle found himself on his hands and knees, stony ground under him. He coughed and then spat to clear gobs of thick blood from his mouth, reached up and wiped his wet lips – on the back of his hand a red smear and strands of human hair. ‘Gods below,’ he muttered. ‘That was a mistake.’

  The warrens were falling apart. Where was I going? What was I running from? But he remembered. Betrayals. Weaknesses. The flaws of being human – he’d sought an escape. A headlong plunge into mindlessness, fleeing from all manner of remorse and recrimination. Running away.

  ‘But what is the point?’ he said under his breath. To forget is to forget myself. Who I am, and that I must not surrender. If I do, I will have nothing left.

  Ah, but still … to be blameless. A cat above the tiny carcass of a bird. Above the corpse of a child.

  Blameless.

  But the bastards hunting me down don’t care about that. A child has died. Mothers bow in wretched grief. Weapons are taken in hand. The world is a dangerous place; they mean to make it less so. They yearn to die ancient and withered in straw beds, at the end of a long life, with skins upon their walls proclaiming their bravery.

  Well then, come to me if you must. To your eyes I am a monstrous tiger. But in my mind, I have a man’s cunning. And yes, I know all about vengeance.

  He could see now where his path was taking him. Trake’s deadly gift was turning in his hands, finding a new, terrible shape. ‘You would set yourselves apart, then? Not animal. Something other. Very well, then there will be war.’

  Brushing at his eyes, he climbed slowly to his feet. Admire the beast. He is brave. Even as he charges your spear. And should you then stand above my corpse, note well your own bravery, but in my lifeless eyes see this truth: what we have shared in this clash of courage, friend, was not a thing of sentience or intelligence. Skill and luck may be triumphant, but these are nature’s gifts.

  Confuse this at your peril.

  ‘Treach, hear me. I will fight this war. I see its … inevitability. I will charge the spear.’ Because I have no cho
ice. He bared his teeth. ‘Just make my death worthwhile.’

  Somewhere ahead, she awaited him. He still did not know what that meant.

  The veil between human and beast was shredded, and he found himself looking out from both sides. Desperation and madness. Oh, Stonny, I cannot keep my promise. I am sorry. If I could but set my eyes upon your face one more time. He sighed. ‘Yes, woman, to answer your cruel question, the bird’s mate dreams of murder.’

  The tears kept returning. Blurring his vision, streaming down his scarred, pitted cheeks. But Mappo forced himself onward, fighting each step he took. Two wills were locked in battle. The need to find his friend. The need to flee his shame. The war was now a thing of pain – there had been a time, so long ago now, when he had not shied from self-regard; when, for all the deceits guiding his life, he had understood the necessity, the sharp clarity of his purpose.

  He stood between the world and Icarium. Why? Because the world was worth saving. Because there was love, and moments of peace. Because compassion existed, like a blossom in a crack of stone, a fulsome truth, a breathtaking miracle. And Icarium was a weapon of destruction, senseless, blind. Mappo had given his life to keeping that weapon in its scabbard, peace-strapped, forgotten.

  In the name of compassion, and love.

  Which he had just walked away from. Turning his back upon children, so as to not see the hurt in their eyes, that hardening flatness as yet another betrayal beset their brief lives. Because, he told himself, their future was uncertain, yet still alive with possibilities. But if Icarium should awaken, and no one is there to stop him, those possibilities will come to an end. Does this not make sense? Oh yes, indeed it made sense.

  And still, it was wrong. I know it. I feel it. I can’t hide from it. If I harden myself to compassion, then what am I trying to save?

  And so he wept. For himself. In the face of shame, grief burned away. In the face of shame, he began to lose who he was, who he had always believed himself to be. Duty, pride in his vow, his sacrifice – it all crumbled. He tried to imagine finding Icarium, his oldest friend. He tried to envision a return to the old ways, to his words of deception in the name of love, to the gentle games of feint and sleight of hand that they played to keep horrifying truths at bay. Everything as it once was, and at the core of it all Mappo’s willingness to surrender his own life rather than see the Lifestealer’s eyes catch flame.

  He did not know if he could do that any more. A man’s heart must be pure for such a thing, cleansed of all doubts, sufficient to make death itself a worthy sacrifice. But the solid beliefs of years past had now broken down.

  He felt hunched down inside himself, as if folding round an old wound, leaving his bones feeling frail, a cage that could crumple at the first hint of pressure.

  The wasted land passed him by on all sides, barely observed. The day’s heat faltered before the conflagration in his skull.

  Mappo forced himself onward. He had to find Icarium now, more than ever. To beg forgiveness. And to end it.

  My friend. I am not enough any more. I am not the warrior you once knew. I am not the wall to lean your weary self against. I have betrayed children, Icarium. Look into my eyes and see the truth of this.

  I beg a release.

  ‘End it, Icarium. Please, end this.’

  Stormy thought he could make out a pall of dust to the southeast. No telling how far – the horizons played tricks in this place. The lizard he rode devoured leagues. It never seemed to tire. Glancing back, he glowered at the drones plodding in his wake. K’ell Hunters ranged on his flanks, sometimes visible, but mostly not, lost somewhere in the deceptive folds and creases of the landscape.

  I’m riding a damned Ve’Gath. The nastiest weapon of war I’ve ever seen. I don’t need a damned escort. All right, so it needed to be fed come evening. There was that to consider. But I’m a man. I hate the need to consider anything. It’s not a problem either. Mostly.

  He preferred being just a corporal. This Shield Anvil business left a sour taste in his mouth. Aye, there’s a sentimental streak in me. I don’t deny it, and maybe it’s wide as an ocean like Ges says. But I didn’t ask for it. I cried for a dying mouse once – dying because I tried to catch it only my hand was too clumsy and something got broken inside. Lying there in my palm, breaths coming so fast, but the tiny limbs’d stopped moving, and then the breaths slowed.

  I knelt on the stones and watched it slowly die. There in my hand. Gods, it’s enough to make me bawl all over again, just remembering. How old was I? Twenty?

  He leaned to one side and cleared his nose, one nostril and then the other. Then cleaned his moustache with his fingers, wiping them on his leg. Dust cloud any closer? Hard to say.

  Clearing a rise, he cursed and silently ordered his mount to a halt. The basin below stretched out three hundred or more paces, and half that distance out a dozen or so figures were standing or sitting in a rough circle. As soon as he came into view the ones standing turned to face him, while the ones sitting slowly climbed upright and did the same.

  They were tall, gaunt, and armoured in black chain, black scales and black leather.

  The Ke’ll Hunters had appeared suddenly to Stormy’s right and left and were closing up at a swift lope, their massive cutlasses held out to the sides.

  Stormy could taste something oily and bitter.

  ‘Calm down, lizards,’ he said under his breath, kicking the Ve’Gath into motion. ‘They ain’t drawing.’

  Dark narrow faces beneath ornate helms tracked Stormy’s approach. Withered faces. Those bastards are tusked. Jaghut? Must be – that old bust of Gothos in Aren’s Grey Temple had tusks like those. But then, these fellows ain’t looking too good. T’lan? Did the Jaghut have T’lan? Oh, never mind these questions, idiot. Just ask ’em. Or not. Ten paces between them, Stormy reined in. The Hunters halted a few paces back, settled and planted the tips of their cutlasses in the hard earth.

  He studied the warriors before him. ‘Ugly,’ he muttered.

  One spoke, though Stormy wasn’t immediately certain from which one the voice came. ‘Do you see this, Bolirium?’

  ‘I see,’ another answered.

  ‘A human – well, mostly human. Hard to tell behind all that hair. But let us be generous. A human, with K’Chain as pets. And only a few moments ago, Bolirium, you had the nerve to suggest that the world was a better place than when we’d last left it.’

  ‘I did,’ Bolirium admitted, and then added, ‘I was an idiot.’

  Low laughter.

  A third Jaghut then said, ‘K’Chain and termites, Gedoran. Find one …’

  ‘And you know there’s a hundred thousand more in the woodwork. As you say, Varandas.’

  ‘And with that other smell …’

  ‘Just so,’ Gedoran said – and Stormy found him by the nod accompanying the words. ‘Dust.’

  ‘Dreams and nightmares, Gedoran, hide in the same pit. Reach down and you’re blind to what you pull out.’

  They were all speaking Falari, which was ridiculous. Stormy snorted, and then said, ‘Listen. You’re in my way.’

  Gedoran stepped forward. ‘You did not come in search of us?’

  ‘Do I really look that stupid? No. Why, should I have?’

  ‘He is impertinent.’

  ‘Daryft, a human riding a Ve’Gath can be as impertinent as he likes,’ said Bolirium.

  Hard laughter, heads rocking back.

  Stormy said, ‘You’re in the middle of nowhere. What are you up to?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Gedoran, ‘now that is a pertinent query. We have sent our commander on a quest, and now await his return.’

  ‘You order your commander around?’

  ‘Yes, isn’t that wonderful?’

  The Jaghut laughed again, a habit, Stormy decided as it went on, and on, that could prove maddening. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it, then.’

  The fourteen Jaghut bowed, and Gedoran said, ‘Until we meet again, Shield Anvil.’

  ‘I don
’t intend to ride back the way I came in.’

  ‘Wisdom is not yet dead,’ said Bolirium. ‘Did I not suggest this to you all?’

  ‘Amidst a host of idiotic assertions, perhaps you did.’

  ‘Varandas, there must be a balance in the world. On one side a morsel of weighty wisdom, offsetting a gastric avalanche of brainless stupidity. Is that not the way of things?’

  ‘But Bolirium, a drop of perfume cannot defeat a heap of shit.’

  ‘That depends, Varandas, on where you put your nose.’

  Gedoran said, ‘Be sure to inform us, Varandas, when you finally smell something sweet.’

  ‘Don’t hold your breath, Gedoran.’

  To raucous laughter, Stormy kicked the Ve’Gath into motion, steering the creature to the left to ride round the Jaghut. Once past he urged his mount into a loping trot. A short while later the K’ell Hunters drew in closer.

  He could smell their unease. ‘Aye,’ he muttered.

  He wondered who the commander was. Must be a damned idiot. But then, anything to escape that laughing. Aye, now that makes sense. Why, I’d probably ride straight up Hood’s arsehole to get away from that lot.

  And as soon as I smell something sweet, boys and girls, why, I’ll ride straight back and tell you.

  That dust cloud looked closer. Maybe.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘Awaiting Restitution’

  Epigraph on gravestone, Lether

  ‘IS IT AS I SEE?’ BRYS BEDDICT ASKED. ‘THE FATE OF THE WORLD IN THE hands of three women?’

  Atri-Ceda Aranict drew one more time on the stick and then flicked the stub into the fire. Into flames … She held the smoke in her lungs as long as she could, as if in refusing to breathe out she could hold back time itself. I saw caverns. I saw darkness … and the rain, gods below, the rain … Finally, she sighed. If there was any smoke left she didn’t see it. ‘Not three women alone,’ she said. ‘There is one man. You.’