The Crippled God

  ‘We shall cross the Glass Desert,’ said the Adjunct, ‘emerging to the southwest of Estobanse Province. And we mean to be seen by the enemy at the earliest opportunity. And they shall gather their forces to meet us, and a battle shall be fought. One battle.’

  Something in Tavore’s tone made Aranict gasp and she felt herself grow cold with horror.

  ‘What of the Grey Helms?’ Krughava demanded.

  ‘In the Bay of Kolanse there rises a natural edifice known as the Spire. Atop this fastness there is a temple. Within this temple something is trapped. Something wounded, something that needs to be freed. The Bonehunters shall be the lodestone to the forces of the Forkrul Assail, Mortal Sword, but it is the Perish who will strike the death blow against the enemy.’

  Aranict saw Krughava’s iron eyes narrowing. ‘We are to take the south route.’

  ‘Yes.’

  A battle. One battle. She means to sacrifice herself and her soldiers. Oh, by all the Holds, she cannot—

  ‘You invite mutiny,’ said Fist Blistig, his face flushed dark. ‘Tavore – you cannot ask this of us.’

  And she faced her Fists then, and said in a whisper, ‘But I must.’

  ‘Unwitnessed,’ said Faradan Sort, ghost-pale, dry-lipped. ‘Adjunct, this battle you seek. If we face an enemy believing only in our own deaths—’

  Banaschar spoke, and Aranict was shocked to see tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘To the executioner’s axe there are those who kneel, head bowed, and await their fate. Then there are those who fight, who strain, who cry out their defiance even as the blade descends.’ He pointed a finger at Blistig. ‘Now you will speak true, Fist: which one is Adjunct Tavore?’

  ‘A drunken fool speaks for our commander?’ Blistig’s voice was vicious. He bared his teeth. ‘How damned appropriate! Will you stand there with us on that day, Banaschar?’

  ‘I shall.’

  ‘Drunk.’ The word was a sneer.

  The man’s answering smile was terrible. ‘No. Stone sober, Blistig. As befits your one – your only – witness.’

  ‘Hood take your damned executioner! I will have none of this!’ Blistig appealed to his fellow Fists. ‘Knowing what you now know, will you lead your soldiers to their deaths? If this Glass Desert doesn’t kill us, the Assail will. And all for what? A feint? A fucking feint?’ He spun to the Adjunct. ‘Is that all we’re worth, woman? A rusty dagger for one last thrust and if the blade snaps, what of it?’

  Krughava spoke. ‘Adjunct Tavore. This thing that is wounded, this thing in the temple upon the Spire – what is it that you wish freed?’

  ‘The heart of the Crippled God,’ Tavore replied.

  The Mortal Sword seemed visibly rocked by that. Behind her, with eyes shining, Tanakalian asked, ‘Why?’

  ‘The Forkrul Assail draw upon its blood, Shield Anvil. They seek to open the Gates of Justice upon this world. Akhrast Korvalain. To unleash the fullest measure of power, they intend to drive a blade through that heart when the time is right—’

  ‘And when is that?’ Abrastal demanded.

  ‘When the Spears of Jade arrive, Highness. Less than three months from now, if Banaschar’s calculations are correct.’

  The ex-priest grunted. ‘D’rek is coiled about time itself, friends.’

  Clearing his throat, Brys asked, ‘The Jade Spears, Adjunct. What are they?’

  ‘The souls of his worshippers, Prince. His beloved believers. They are coming for their god.’

  Chills tracked Aranict’s spine.

  ‘If the heart is freed,’ said Krughava, ‘then … he can return to them.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He will leave pieces behind no matter what,’ said Banaschar. ‘Pulling him down tore him apart. But there should be enough. As for the rest, well, “for the rotted flesh, the Worm sings”.’ His laugh was bitter. He stared at Tavore. ‘See her? Look well, all of you. She is the madness of ambition, friends. From beneath the hands of the Forkrul Assail, and those of the gods themselves, she means to steal the Crippled God’s heart.’

  Queen Abrastal gusted out a breath. ‘My Fourteenth Daughter is even now approaching the South Kingdoms. She is a sorceress of considerable talent. If we are to continue this discussion of tactics, I will seek to open a path to her—’

  The Adjunct cut in. ‘Highness, this is not your war.’

  ‘Forgive me, Adjunct Tavore, but I believe it is.’ She turned to her Barghast Warchief. ‘Spax, your warriors hunger for a scrap – what say you?’

  ‘Where you lead, Highness, the White Face Gilk shall follow.’

  ‘The Otataral sword I wear—’

  ‘Forgive me again, Adjunct, but the power my daughter is drawing upon now happens to be Elder. Omtose Phellack.’

  Tavore blinked. ‘I see.’

  Brys Beddict then spoke. ‘Mortal Sword Krughava, if you will accept the alliance of Queen Abrastal, will you accept mine?’

  The grey-haired woman bowed. ‘Prince – and Highness – the Perish are honoured. But …’ she hesitated, then continued, ‘I must tell you all, I shall be harsh company. Knowing what the Bonehunters face … knowing that they will face it alone, as wounded as the very heart they would see freed … ah, my mood is grim indeed, and I do not expect that to change. When at last I strike for the Spire, you will be hard pressed to match my determination.’

  Brys smiled. ‘A worthy challenge, Mortal Sword.’

  The Adjunct walked to stand once more before Hanavat. ‘Mother,’ she said, ‘I would ask this of you: will the Khundryl march with the Bonehunters?’

  Hanavat seemed to struggle finding her voice. ‘Adjunct, we are few.’

  ‘Nonetheless.’

  ‘Then … yes, we shall march with you.’

  Queen Abrastal asked, ‘Adjunct? Shall I call upon Felash, my Fourteenth Daughter? There are matters of tactics and logistics awaiting us this day. By your leave, I—’

  ‘I am done with this!’ Blistig shouted, turning to leave.

  ‘Stand where you are, Fist,’ Tavore said in a voice like bared steel.

  ‘I resign—’

  ‘I forbid it.’

  He stared at her, mouth open in shock.

  ‘Fists Blistig, Kindly and Faradan Sort, our companies need to be readied for tomorrow’s march. I shall call upon you all at dusk to hear reports of our status. Until then, you are dismissed.’

  Kindly grasped Blistig by one arm and marched him out, Sort following with a wry smile.

  ‘Omtose Phellack,’ muttered Banaschar once they’d left. ‘Adjunct, I was chilled enough the last time. Will you excuse me?’

  Tavore nodded. ‘Captain Yil, please escort our priest to his tent, lest he get lost.’ She then shot Aranict a glance, as if to ask Are you ready for this? To which Aranict nodded.

  Abrastal sighed. ‘Very well, shall we begin?’

  Aranict saw that the dung had burned down to dull ashes. She flicked away the gutted butt of her last stick, and then stood, lifting her gaze to the Spears of Jade.

  We’ll do what we can. Today, we promised as much. What we can.

  One battle. Oh, Tavore …

  Sick and shaken as she had been, her hardest journey this day had been back through the Bonehunter camp. The soldiers, their faces, the low conversations and the occasional laugh – each and every scene, each and every sound, struck her heart like a dagger’s point. I am looking upon dead men, dead women. They don’t know it yet. They don’t know what’s awaiting them, what she means to do with them.

  Or maybe they do.

  Unwitnessed. I’ve heard about this, about what she told them. Unwitnessed … is what happens when nobody survives.

  He’d intended to call them all together during the Adjunct’s parley, but re-forming the squads had taken longer than he’d thought it would – a notion which, he decided, had been foolishly optimistic. Even with spaces in each campfire’s circle yawning like silent howls, marines and heavies might as well have been rooted to the ground. They’d need
ed pulling, kicking, dragging out of their old places.

  To fit into a new thing you had to leave the old thing behind, and that wasn’t as easy as it sounded, since it meant accepting that the old thing was dead, for ever gone, no matter where you tried standing or how stubbornly you held fast.

  Fiddler knew he’d been no different. As bad as Hedge in that regard, in fact. The heavies and the marines were a chewed-up mess. Standing over them, like some cutter above a mauled patient, trying to work out exactly what he was looking at – desperate for something even remotely recognizable – he’d watched them trickle slowly into the basin he’d chosen for this meeting. As the sun waned in the sky, as pairs of squad-mates set out to find some missing comrade, eventually returning with a scowling companion in tow – aye, this was a rough scene, resentment thickening in the dusty air.

  He’d waited, weathering their impatience, until at last, with dusk fast rushing in, the final recalcitrant soldier walked into the crowd – Koryk.

  Well. You can try all the browbeating you want, when the skull’s turned into a solid stone wall there’s no getting in.

  ‘So,’ Fiddler said, ‘I’m captain to you lot now.’ He stared at the faces – only half of which seemed to be paying him any attention. ‘If Whiskeyjack could see me right now, he’d probably choke – I was never cut out for anything more than what I was in the beginning. A sapper—’

  ‘So what is it,’ a voice called out, ‘you want us to feel sorry for you?’

  ‘No, Gaunt-Eye. With you all feeling so sorry for yourselves I wouldn’t stand a chance, would I? I look out at you now and you know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking: you ain’t Bridgeburners. You ain’t even close.’

  Even the gloom wasn’t enough to hide the hard hostility fixed on him now. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘You see, it was back in Blackdog that it finally clunked home that we were the walking dead. Someone wanted us in the ground, and damn if we didn’t mostly end up there. In the tunnels of Pale, the tombs of the Bridgeburners. Tombs they dug for themselves. Heard a few stragglers hung on until Black Coral, and those bodies ended up in Moon’s Spawn the day it was abandoned by the Tiste Andii. An end to the tale, but like I said, we saw that end coming from a long way off.’

  He fell silent then, momentarily lost in his own memories, the million losses that added up to what he felt now. Then he shook himself and looked up once more. ‘But you lot.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re too stupid to know what’s been beating you on the heads ever since Y’Ghatan. Wide-eyed stupid.’

  Cuttle spoke up. ‘We’re the walking dead.’

  ‘Thanks for the good news, Fid,’ someone said, his voice muffled.

  A few laughs, but they were bitter.

  Fiddler continued. ‘Those lizards took a nasty bite out of us. In fact, they pretty much did us in. Look around. We’re what’s left. The smoke over Pale’s thinning, and here we are. Aye, it’s my past pulling me right round till I’m facing the wrong way. You think you feel like shits – try standing in my boots, boys and girls.’

  ‘Thought we were going to decide what to do.’

  Fiddler found Gaunt-Eye in the crowd. ‘Is that what you thought, Sergeant? Is that really what you thought we’d be doing here? What, we gonna vote on something? We gonna stick up our little hands after arguing ourselves blue? After digging our little holes and crouching in ’em like mummy’s womb? Tell me, Sergeant, exactly what have we got to argue about?’

  ‘Pulling out.’

  ‘Someone rustle up a burial detail, we got us a sergeant to plant.’

  ‘You called this damned meeting, Captain—’

  ‘Aye, I did. But not to hold hands. The Adjunct wants something special from us. Once we get t’other side of the Glass Desert. And here I am letting you know, we’re going to be our own little army. Nobody wanders off, is that understood? On the march, you all stay tight. Keep your weapons, keep sharp, and wait for my word.’

  ‘You call this an army, Captain?’

  ‘It’ll have to do, won’t it?’

  ‘So what is it we’re supposed to do?’

  ‘You’ll find out, I’m sure.’

  A few more laughs.

  ‘More lizards waiting for us, Cap’n?’

  ‘No, Reliko, we took care of them already, remember?’

  ‘Damn me, I miss something?’

  ‘No lizards,’ Fiddler said. ‘Something even uglier and nastier, in fact.’

  ‘All right then,’ said Reliko, ‘s’long as it’s not lizards.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Corporal Rib. ‘Captain, y’had us sitting here all afternoon? Just to tell us that?’

  ‘Not my fault we had stragglers, Corporal. I need some lessons from Sort, or maybe Kindly. A captain orders, soldiers obey. At least it’s supposed to work that way. But then, you’re all different now … special cases, right? You’ll follow an order only if you feel like it. You earned that, or something. How? By living when your buddies died. Why’d they die? Right. They were following orders – whether they liked ’em or not. Fancy that. Deciding whether or not to show up here, what was that? Must’ve been honouring your fallen comrades, I suppose, the ones who died in your place.’

  ‘Maybe we’re broken.’

  Again, that voice he couldn’t quite place. Fiddler scratched his beard and shook his head. ‘You’re not broken. The walking dead don’t break. Still waiting for that to clunk home, are ya? We’re going to be the Adjunct’s little army. But too little – anyone can see that. Now, it’s not that she wants us dead. She doesn’t. In fact, it might even be that she’s trying to save our lives – after all, where’s she taking the regulars? Chances are, wherever that is, you don’t want to be there.

  ‘So maybe she thinks we’ve earned a break. Or maybe not. Who knows what the Adjunct thinks, about anything. She wants what’s left of the heavies and the marines in one company. Simple enough.’

  ‘You know more than you’re saying, Fiddler.’

  ‘Do I, Koryk?’

  ‘Aye. You’ve got the Deck of Dragons.’

  ‘What I know is this. Next time I give you all an order, I don’t expect to have to wait all day to see you follow it. Next soldier tries that with me gets tossed to the regulars. Outa the special club, for good.’

  ‘We dismissed, Captain?’

  ‘I ain’t decided yet. In fact, I’m tempted to make you sit here all night. Just to make a point, right? The one about discipline, the one your friends died for.’

  ‘We took that point the first time, Captain.’

  ‘Maybe you did, Cuttle. Ready to say the same for the rest of ’em?’

  ‘No.’

  Fiddler sat down on a boulder at the edge of the basin and settled until he was comfortable. He looked into the night sky. ‘Ain’t that jade light pretty?’

  Things were simple, really. There’s only so much a soldier can do, only so much a soldier needs to think about at any one time. Pile on too much and their knees start shaking, their eyes glaze over, and they start looking around for something to kill. Because killing simplifies. It’s called an elimination of distractions.

  Her horse was content, watered and fed enough to send the occasional stream down and plant an island or two in their wake. Happy horse, happy Masan Gilani. Simple. Her companions were once more nowhere to be seen. Sour company besides; she hardly missed them.

  And she herself wasn’t feeling as saggy and slack as she’d been only a day earlier. Who knew where the T’lan Imass had found the smoked antelope meat, the tanned bladders filled to bursting with clean, cold water, the loaves of hard bread and the rancid jar of buttery cheese. Probably the same place as the forage for her horse. And wherever that was, it was a hundred leagues away from here – oh, speak it plain, Masan. It was through some infernal warren. Aye, I seen them fall into dust, but maybe that’s not what it seems. Maybe they just step into another place.

  Somewhere nice. Where at the point of a stone sword farmers hand over victuals with a beaming smile and good
hale to you all.

  Dusk was darkening the sky. She’d have to stop soon.

  They must have heard her coming, for the two men stood waiting at the far end of the slope, staring up at her the instant she’d cleared the rise. Masan reined in, squinted for a moment, and then nudged her mount forward.

  ‘You’re not all that’s left,’ she said as she drew nearer. ‘You can’t be.’

  Captain Ruthan Gudd shook his head. ‘We’re not far from them. A league or two, I’d wager.’

  ‘We’d thought to just push on,’ added Bottle.

  ‘Do you know how bad it was?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said the captain, eyeing her horse. ‘That beast looks too fit, Masan Gilani.’

  ‘No such thing,’ she replied, dismounting, ‘as a too-fit horse, sir.’

  He made a face. ‘Meaning you’re not going to explain yourself.’

  ‘Didn’t you desert?’ Bottle asked. ‘If you did, Masan, you’re riding the wrong way, unless you’re happy with being strung up.’

  ‘She didn’t desert,’ Ruthan Gudd said, turning to resume walking. ‘Special mission for the Adjunct.’

  ‘How do you know anything about it, sir?’ Masan asked, falling in step with the two men.

  ‘I don’t. I’m just guessing.’ He combed at his beard. ‘I have a talent for that.’

  ‘Has plenty of talents does our captain here,’ Bottle muttered.

  Whatever was going on between these two, she had to admit to herself that she was happy to see them. ‘So how did you two get separated from the army?’ she asked. ‘By the way, you both look a mess. Bottle, you bathe in blood or something? I barely recognized you.’

  ‘You’d look the same,’ he retorted, ‘buried under fifty corpses for half a day.’

  ‘Not quite that long,’ the captain corrected.

  Her breath caught. ‘So you were at the battle,’ she said. ‘What battle? What in Hood’s name happened?’

  ‘Bits are missing,’ Bottle replied, shrugging.

  ‘Bits?’