The Crippled God

  The sun was bright, blistering down on the flood plain. On the west road huge wagons were wending up and down from the quarries. And as for the city to the south … he turned, squinted. Glorious light. Kurald Galain was gone. Black Coral was black no longer.

  Gone. The Tiste Andii had vanished, that red dragon with them, leaving everything else behind. Books, treasures, everything. Not a word to anyone, not a single hint. Damned mysterious, but then what was odd about that? They weren’t human. They didn’t think like humans. In fact—

  ‘Gods below!’

  From the high palace, from the towers, a sudden conflagration, swirling darkness that spread out in roiling clouds, and then broke into pieces.

  Shouts from the crews. Fear, alarm. Dread.

  Distant cries … raining down.

  Spindle was on his knees, the tin cup rolling away from trembling hands. The last time … gods! The last time he’d seen—

  Great Ravens filled the sky. Thousands, spinning, climbing, a raucous roar. The sun momentarily vanished behind their vast cloud.

  Shivering, his peace shattered, he could feel old tears rising from some deep well inside. He’d thought it sealed. Forgotten. But no. ‘My friends,’ he whispered. ‘The tunnels … oh, my heart, my heart …’

  Great Ravens, pouring out from the high places of the city, winging ever higher, massing, drifting out over the bay.

  ‘Leaving. They’re leaving.’

  And as they swarmed above the city, as they boiled out over the sea to the east, a hundred horrid, crushing memories wheeled into Spindle, and there took roost.

  Only a bastard would say it had all been for the good. That the finding of faith could only come from terrible suffering. That wisdom was borne on scars. Only a bastard.

  He knelt.

  And as only a soldier could, he wept.

  Something had drawn Banaschar to the small crowd of soldiers. It might have been curiosity; at least, that was how it must have looked, but the truth was that his every motion now, from one place to next, was his way of fleeing. Fleeing the itch. The itch of temple cellars, of all that had been within my reach. If I could have known. Could have guessed.

  The Glass Desert defied him. That perfect luxury that was a drunk’s paradise, all that endless wine that cost him not a single coin, was gone. I am damned now. As I swore to Blistig, as I said to them all, sobriety has come to pass for poor old Banaschar. Not a drop in his veins, not a hint upon his fevered breath. Nothing of the man he was.

  Except for the itch.

  The soldiers – regulars, he thought – were gathered about an overturned boulder. They’d been rolling it to pin down a corner of the kitchen tent. There’d been something hiding under it.

  Banaschar edged in for a look.

  A worm, coiled in sleep, though it had begun to stir, lifting a blind head. Long as an eel from Malaz Harbour, but there the similarity ended. This one had mouths all over it.

  ‘Can’t say I like the look of that thing,’ one of the soldiers was saying.

  ‘Looks slow,’ observed another.

  ‘You just woke it up. It crawls by day, is my guess. All those hungry mouths … Hood’s breath, we better turn all the rocks in camp. The thought of lying down to sleep with them out hunting whatever …’

  Someone glanced up and noticed Banaschar. ‘Look, that useless priest of D’rek’s here. What, come for a look at your baby?’

  ‘Myriad are the forms of the Autumn Worm—’

  ‘What’s that? A myrid worm, y’say?’

  ‘I’ve seen the like,’ Banaschar said, silencing them all. In my dreams. When the itch turns to something that bites. That chews and gnaws and I can’t see it, can’t find it. When I scream in the night. ‘That was good advice,’ he added. ‘Scour the camp – spread the word. Find them. Kill them all.’

  A boot heel slammed down.

  The worm writhed, and then uncoiled and lifted its head as would a spitting serpent.

  Soldiers backed away, swearing.

  Banaschar was jostled to one side. Iron flashed, a sword blade descending, slicing the worm in two. He looked up to see Faradan Sort. She glowered at the ring of soldiers. ‘Stop wasting time,’ she snapped. ‘The day grows hotter, soldiers. Get this done and then find some shade.’

  The two sections of the worm had squirmed until contacting one another, at which point they constricted in mortal battle.

  Someone threw a coin down, puffing dust. ‘The shorter myrid.’

  ‘I’ll see you on that.’ A second coin landed near the first one.

  Faradan Sort’s sword lashed down, again and again, until bits of worm lay scattered glistening in the white dust. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘the next bet I hear placed – on anything – will see the fool hauling water from here to the Eastern Ocean. Am I understood? Good. Now get to work, all of you.’

  As they hurried off, the Fist turned to Banaschar, studied him critically. ‘You look worse than usual, Priest. Find some shade—’

  ‘Oh, the sun is my friend, Fist.’

  ‘Only a man with no friends would say that,’ she replied, eyes narrowed. ‘You’re scorched. There will be pain – I suggest you seek out a healer.’

  ‘I appreciate your advice, Fist. Do I anticipate pain today? I do. In fact, I think I welcome it.’

  He saw a flash of disgust. ‘Gods below, you’re better than that.’

  ‘Am I? Nice of you to say so.’

  Faradan Sort hesitated, as if about to say something more, but then she turned away.

  He watched her making her way deeper into the camp of the regulars, where soldiers now hurried about, dislodging rocks with knives and short swords in hand. Blades flashed and curses sounded.

  The exhaustion of this place left him appalled. Shards of crystal born in screams of pressure, somewhere far below, perhaps, and then driven upward, slicing through the skin of the earth. Looking round, he imagined the pain of all that, the unyielding will behind such forces. He lifted his gaze, stared into the east where the sun edged open like a lizard’s eye. ‘Something,’ he whispered, ‘died here. Someone …’ The shock had torn through this land. And the power unleashed, in that wild death, had delivered such a wound upon the Sleeping Goddess that she must have cried out in her sleep. They killed her flesh. We walk upon her dead flesh. Crystals like cancer growing on all sides.

  He resumed his wandering, the itch biting at his heels.

  Fist Blistig pushed his way past the crowd and entered the tent. Gods below. ‘Everyone out. Except for the quartermaster.’ The mob besieging Pores, where he sat behind a folding table, quickly departed, with more than one venomous look cast at the clean-shaven man now leaning back on his stool. Brows lifting, he regarded Blistig.

  The Fist turned and dropped the tent flap. He faced Pores. ‘Lieutenant. Master-Sergeant. Quartermaster. Just how many ranks and titles do you need?’

  ‘Why, Fist Blistig, I go where necessity finds me. Now, what can I do for you, sir?’

  ‘How much water did we go through last night?’

  ‘Too much, sir. The oxen and horses alone—’

  ‘By your reckoning, how many days can we go without resupply?’

  ‘Well now, Fist, that depends.’

  Blistig scowled. ‘All the soldiers who were in here, Pores – what were they doing?’

  ‘Petitioning, sir. Needless to say, I have had to refuse them all. It is quickly becoming apparent that water is acquiring a value that beggars gold and diamonds. It has, in short, become the currency of survival. And on that matter, I am glad you’re here, Fist Blistig. I foresee a time – not far off – when begging turns to anger, and anger to violence. I would like to request more guards on the water wagons—’

  ‘Are you rationing?’

  ‘Of course, sir. But it’s difficult, since we don’t seem to have any reliable information on how many days it will take to cross this desert. Or, rather, nights.’ Pores hesitated, and then he leaned forward. ‘Sir, if you were to approa
ch the Adjunct. The rumour is, she has a map. She knows how wide this damned desert is, and she’s not telling. Why is she not telling? Because—’

  ‘Because it’s too far,’ Blistig growled.

  Lifting his hands in a just-so gesture, Pores leaned back. ‘My carefree days are over, sir. This is now in deadly earnest.’

  ‘You have the right of that.’

  ‘Did the Adjunct send you, Fist? Have you been requested to make a report on our provisions? If so, I have a tally here—’

  ‘How many days before we’re out of water?’ Blistig demanded.

  ‘At fullest rationing, and allowing for the beasts of burden, about five.’

  ‘And without the animals?’

  ‘Without the oxen at least, we’d end up having to pull the wagons ourselves – hard work, thirsty work. I cannot be certain, but I suspect any gains would be offset by the increased consumption among the pull-crews—’

  ‘But that would diminish over time, would it not? As the barrels emptied.’

  ‘True. Fist, is this the Adjunct’s command? Do we slaughter the oxen? The horses?’

  ‘When that order comes, soldier, it will not be going through you. I am prepared to strengthen the guard around the wagons, Pores.’

  ‘Excellent—’

  ‘Reliable guards,’ Blistig cut in, fixing Pores with his eyes.

  ‘Of course, sir. How soon—’

  ‘You are to set aside a company’s supply of water, Quartermaster. Initial the barrels with my sigil. They are to be breached only upon my personal command, and the portions will be allotted to the names on the list you will be given. No deviation.’

  Pores’s gaze had narrowed. ‘A company’s allotment, Fist?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And should I assume, sir, that your extra guards will be taking extra care in guarding those barrels?’

  ‘Are my instructions clear, Quartermaster?’

  ‘Aye, Fist. Perfectly clear. Now, as to disposition. How many extra guards will you be assigning?’

  ‘Ten should do, I think.’

  ‘Ten? In a single shift of rounds they’d be hard pressed to keep an eye on five wagons, sir, much less the scores and scores—’

  ‘Redistribute your other guards accordingly, then.’

  ‘Yes sir. Very good, sir.’

  ‘I am trusting to your competence, Pores, and your discretion. Are we understood?’

  ‘We are, Fist Blistig.’

  Satisfied, he left the tent, paused outside the flap to glower at the dozen or so soldiers still lingering. ‘First soldier caught trying to buy water gets tried for treason, and then executed. Now, you still got a reason to see the quartermaster? No, didn’t think so.’

  Blistig set out for his tent. The heat was building. She’s not going to kill me. I ain’t here to die for her, or any other fucking glory. The real ‘unwitnessed’ are the ones who survive, who come walking out of the dust when all the heroes are dead. They did what they needed to live.

  Pores understands. He’s cut from the same cloth as me. Hood himself knows that crook’s got his own private store squirrelled away somewhere. Well, he’s not the only smart bastard in this army.

  You ain’t getting me, Tavore. You ain’t.

  Frowning, Pores rose and began pacing, circling the folding table and the three-legged stool. Thrice round and then he grunted, paused and called out, ‘Himble Thrup, you out there?’

  A short, round-faced but scrawny soldier slipped in. ‘Been waiting for your call, sir.’

  ‘What a fine clerk you’ve become, Himble. Is the list ready?’

  ‘Aye, sir. What did Lord Knock-knees want, anyway?’

  ‘We’ll get to that. Let’s see your genius, Himble – oh, here, let me unfold it. You know, it’s amazing you can write at all.’

  Grinning, Himble held up his hands. The fingers had been chopped clean off at the knuckles, on both hands. ‘It’s easy, sir. Why, I never been a better scriber than I am now.’

  ‘You still have your thumbs.’

  ‘And that’s it, sir, that’s it indeed.’

  Pores scanned the parchment, glanced at his clerk. ‘You certain of this?’

  ‘I am, sir. It’s bad. Eight days at the stretch. Ten days in pain. Which way do we go?’

  ‘That’s for the Adjunct to decide.’ He folded up the parchment and handed it back to Himble. ‘No, don’t deliver it just yet. The Fist is sending us ten handpicked thugs to stand guard over his private claim – a company’s supply – and before you ask, no, I don’t think he means to share it with anyone, not even his lackeys.’

  ‘Just like y’said, sir. That it weren’t gonna be just regulars snivelling for a sip. Is he the first?’

  ‘And only, I should think, at least of that rank. We’ll get a few lieutenants in here, I expect. Maybe even a captain or two, looking out for the soldiers under them. How are the piss-bottles going?’

  ‘Being d’sturbeted right now, sir. You’d think they’d make faces, but they don’t.’

  ‘Because they’re not fools, Himble. The fools are dead. Just the wise ones left.’

  ‘Wise, sir, like you ’n’ me.’

  ‘Precisely. Now, sit yourself down here and get ready to scribe. Tell me when you’re set.’ Pores resumed pacing.

  Himble drew out his field box of stylus, wax tablets and wick lamp. From a sparker he lit the lamp and warmed the tip of the stylus. When this was done he said, ‘Ready, sir.’

  ‘Write the following: “Private missive, from Lieutenant Master-Sergeant Field Quartermaster Pores, to Fist Kindly. Warmest salutations and congratulations on your promotion, sir. As one might observe from your advancement and, indeed, mine, cream doth rise, etc. In as much as I am ever delighted in corresponding with you, discussing all manner of subjects in all possible idioms, alas, this subject is rather more official in nature. In short, we are faced with a crisis of the highest order. Accordingly, I humbly seek your advice and would suggest we arrange a most private meeting at the earliest convenience. Yours affectionately, Pores.” Got that, Himble?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Please read it back to me.’

  Himble cleared his throat, squinted at the tablet. ‘“Pores to Kindly meet in secret when?”’

  ‘Excellent. Dispatch that at once, Himble.’

  ‘Before or after the one to the Adjunct?’

  ‘Hmm, before, I think. Did I not say “a crisis of the highest order”?’

  Himble squinted again at the tablet and nodded. ‘So you did, sir.’

  ‘Right, then. Be off with you, Corporal.’

  Himble packed up his kit, humming under his breath.

  Pores observed him. ‘Happy to be drummed out of the heavies, Himble?’

  The man paused, cocked his head and considered. ‘Happy, sir? No, not happy, but then, get your fingers chopped off an’ what can y’do?’

  ‘I have heard of one of your companions getting a special leather harness made—’

  ‘Only one hand was done with ’im, sir. I lost the shield side in the first stand, and then the sword one in the fourth push.’

  ‘And now you’re a clerk.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  Pores studied him for a moment, and then said, ‘On your way, Himble.’

  Once he’d left, Pores continued pacing. ‘Note to self,’ he muttered, ‘talk to the armourer and weaponsmith. See if we can rig up something. Something tells me Himble’s old talents will become necessary before too long. With respect to the well-being and continued existence of one Pores, humble, most obedient officer of the Bonehunters.’ He frowned. Eight at the stretch. Ten in pain. May the gods above help us all.

  Fist Kindly ran a hand over his head as if smoothing down hair. For a brief instant Lostara Yil found the gesture endearing. The moment passed when she reminded herself of his reputation. In any case, the man’s worried expression was troubling, and she could see quiet dismay in his eyes.

  Faradan Sort set down her
gauntlets. ‘Adjunct, that was a difficult march. This broken ground is pounding the wagons, and then there’re the oxen and horses. Seven draught animals have come up lame and need slaughtering. Two horses among the Khundryl and another from the command herd.’

  ‘It’s only going to get worse,’ muttered Kindly. ‘This Glass Desert is well named. Adjunct,’ and he glanced at Faradan Sort and then Ruthan Gudd, ‘we would speak to you of our misgivings. This course of action could well shatter us. Even should we manage to cross this wretched land, our effectiveness as a fighting force will be severely compromised.’

  Faradan Sort added, ‘The mages are united in their opinion that no water is available, unless we were to halt for a few days and try sinking some deep wells. Very deep wells, Adjunct. And even then, well, the problem is that the mages have nothing to draw on. They’re powerless. Not a single warren is available to them, meaning they don’t know if there’s water far down under us, or not.’ She paused, and then sighed. ‘I wish I had some good news – we could do with it.’

  The Adjunct stood over her map table. She seemed to be studying the lands of Kolanse, as marked on oiled hide by some Bolkando merchant fifty years ago, the notes etched in a language none here could read. ‘We shall have to cross a range of hills, or buttes, here’ – she pointed – ‘before we can enter the valley province of Estobanse. It’s my suspicion, however, that the enemy will reach us before then. Either from the passes or from the east. Or both. Obviously, I’d rather we did not have to fight on two fronts. The passes will be key to all this. The threat from Estobanse is the greater of the two. Fist Kindly, kill all the command horses but one. Request the Khundryl to cull their herd down to one mount per warrior with ten to spare. Fist Sort, begin selecting crew to pull the supply wagons – those oxen won’t last many more nights.’

  Kindly ran a hand over his scalp again. ‘Adjunct, it seems that time is against us. In this crossing, I mean. I wonder, could we push the duration of each night’s march? Up past two bells after dawn, and a bell or more before the sun sets. It’ll wear on us, to be certain, but then we are facing that anyway.’

  ‘Those wagons that empty of provisions,’ Faradan Sort added, ‘could take the soldiers’ armour and melee weapons, relieving some of their burden. We could also begin divesting the train of extraneous materiel. Reduce the armourers and weaponsmiths. All of that is more or less in decent repair – the soldiers didn’t waste much time getting stuff mended or replaced. If we dropped seventy per cent of the raw iron, most of the forges, and the coal, we could redistribute the food and water on to more wagons, at least to start, which will relieve the oxen and the crews, not to mention reducing the damage to the wagons, since they’ll ride lighter.’