The Crippled God

  None of this was real. Not any more. And all the ordered precision of existence was now in shambles, a bloodied mess. There was nothing to discuss, no arguments to fling back and forth, no pauses in time to step back and study old tapestries on the walls and pray for the guidance of heroic ancestors.

  Saranas was destroyed, and when this was done it would be as empty, as filled with ghosts, as Kharkanas. Light finds the face of Darkness, and lo, it is its own. Is this not what you wanted, Kadagar? But, when you finally possess what you wanted, who, O Lord of Ghosts, who will sweep the floors?

  And now, at last, the elite ranks were pushing up against the gate – all the fodder had been used up. Now, then, arrived the final battle.

  Aparal made his way down to where the wounded were being left, abandoned, alongside the trenches. The chorus of their cries was horrible beyond measure – to enter this place was an invitation to madness, and he almost welcomed that possibility. He pushed past the staggering, dead-eyed cutters and healers, searching until he found one man, sitting cradling the stump of his left arm, the severed end of which trailed wisps of smoke. A man not screaming, not weeping, not yet reduced to a piteous wretch.

  ‘Soldier. Look at me.’

  The head lifted. A shudder seemed to run through the man.

  ‘You have been through the gate?’

  A shaky nod.

  ‘How many left – among the enemy? How many left?’

  ‘I – could not be sure, Lord. But … I think … few.’

  ‘This is what we keep hearing, but what does that mean? Fifty? Five thousand?’

  The soldier shook his head. ‘Few, Lord. And, Lord, there is laughter!’

  ‘Hust weapons, soldier. Possessed blades. Tell me what is few?’

  The man suddenly bared his teeth, and then, with deliberation, he spat at Aparal’s feet.

  All who return from the other side are subjects no longer. Mark this, Kadagar. Aparal pointed at the legions now crowding the gate. ‘More than them? Look, damn you!’

  Dull eyes shifted, squinted.

  ‘That, soldier, is seven thousand, maybe eight. On the other side, as many? More? Less?’ When the man simply returned his stare, Aparal drew his sword. ‘You have been through the gate. You have seen – assess the enemy’s strength!’

  The man grinned, eyes now on the weapon in Aparal’s hand. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘No, not you, soldier.’ He waved with the blade of the sword, the gesture encompassing a score of other wounded. ‘I will kill them, one after another, until you answer me.’

  ‘Do you not see, Lord, why we refuse you? You have already killed us. All of us. Surviving these wounds will not change that. Look at me. I am already dead. To you. To all the world. Now fuck off. No, better yet – take yourself through to the other side. See for—’

  Aparal did not know where the rage came from, but the savage strength of his blow lifted the soldier’s head from his neck, sent it spinning, and then bouncing, until it fetched up against another wounded soldier – who turned her head, regarded it for a moment, then looked away again.

  Trembling, horrified by what he had done, Aparal Forge backed away.

  From one side he heard a weary chuckle, and then, ‘Barely a thousand left, Lord. They’re done.’

  He twisted round, sought out the one who spoke. Before him was the trench, piled with corpses. ‘Is it the dead who now speak?’

  ‘As good as,’ came the reply. ‘You don’t understand, do you? We don’t tell you because we honour our enemy – they’re not Tiste Andii. They’re humans – who fight like demons.’

  He saw the man now. Only the upper half of his body was visible, the rest buried under bodies. Someone had judged him dead. Someone had made a mistake. But then Aparal saw that half his skull was gone, exposing the brain. ‘The Hust Legion—’

  ‘Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? But there’s no Hust Legion. There’s one man. One Hust sword. Slayer of dragons and slayer of hounds, slayer of a thousand Liosan … one man. And when you finally break through, Lord, may he cut you down – you Soletaken, you betrayers. Every one of you.’

  If you stood here, Kadagar Fant … if you stood here, you would finally see what we have done.

  Aparal retreated, made his way towards the gate. Yes, he would push through. He would step out on to that foreign shore. And, if he could, he would destroy this lone warrior. And then it will be over. Because that is all I want, now, for this to be over.

  He spied a messenger corps, a dozen or so runners standing just beyond the nearest legion. ‘Words to my kin!’ he barked. ‘Less than a thousand remain on the other side. And there is but one man with a Hust sword. Inform our lord – the time is now.’

  An end. Bless me, an end.

  Sheathing his bloody sword, he fixed his gaze on the gate. ‘There,’ he whispered. ‘Now.’

  Halfway across the bridge, Nimander paused, stared at the keep’s massive gates. The air was filling with smoke, and he could now hear the detonations. The sorcery of dragons, the Eleint doing what they did best. Destroying everything in their path.

  The return of the Tiste Andii should not have been like this. In flames, in annihilation. He had felt his kin being torn away from him. They had veered over the Outer Marches: they had been flying in the company of Silanah. To honour her, of all things. She was of the royal household now, or so Nimander had wanted – another foolish conceit. In Draconic form, she was my father’s lover – but that was long ago. But Anomander Rake’s hunger for awakening the blood of the Eleint within him had waned. Even when faced with the ruination of Moon’s Spawn, he had not surrendered to it.

  Nimander could not even imagine the will that had denied such a … gift. Above Pale, he could have killed Tayschrenn – Korlat had said as much. He could have flown down from Moon’s Spawn, Silanah at his side, and brought fire and devastation to the Malazans. The sudden descent of terror from the skies, scattering the enemy, shattering the opposition arrayed against him.

  Instead, he waited, and when at last he veered into his Draconic form, it was to save a different city.

  ‘He would have done so for Pale, if not for the betrayal.’

  ‘But, Korlat, it was only the mages who broke their vow. Not the people of the city.’

  She had nodded then, and looked across to her two companions. Prazek Goul, who had once been Orfantal’s swordmaster. And Dathenar Fandoris, abandoned spawn from a High Priestess and then, much later, Korlat’s own Mistress of Assassination. The three of them, all that remained of his father’s cadre of Soletaken dragons.

  Prazek had said, ‘No matter what, there would have been terrible destruction visited upon Pale. Had Anomander Rake veered into a dragon, Tayschrenn would have had no choice but to turn his fullest powers upon him. By the time the two were done, all of Pale would have been ashes. Instead, our lord descended into the city, and hunted down those wizards, taking them one by one. So, in truth, he did indeed save Pale.’

  ‘Although,’ added Dathenar, ‘he could not have anticipated the revenge of the Moranth upon Pale’s citizens.’

  ‘The Malazans could have stopped that,’ countered Prazek.

  And the three had nodded.

  Blinking, Nimander drew a deep breath, pushing away that gnawing hunger within him – to veer, to rise up, to join the Storm. Then he made his way across the bridge, and into the palace.

  From the shadows of the entrance, Apsal’ara stepped out to block his path. ‘Lord Nimander, there is a Tiste Andii woman upon the throne.’

  ‘So Korlat told me. She has bound Silanah – I must convince her—’

  ‘She is Korlat’s mother, Lord. Once a Hostage, now the Queen of High House Dark. But madness has taken her. It may be, Lord, that you will have to kill her.’

  ‘What? Where is Spinnock?’

  ‘Returned to your legions. There is war upon the First Shore. The Tiste Liosan seek to invade, and those who oppose them are few.’

  ‘There are other
Tiste Andii?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. They are Shake.’

  Shake? The island prison – gods, no. He stood, his desire suddenly torn in two directions.

  ‘Make the Queen yield, Lord,’ said Apsal’ara. ‘Spinnock will lead your people in battle.’ She stepped closer, reached up and brushed Nimander’s cheek. ‘My love, do this.’

  ‘I will not usurp the Queen of High House Dark! Do we return, only to spill Andiian blood all over again?’ He shook his head in horrified denial. ‘No, I cannot!’

  ‘Then convince her to release Silanah – the Storm will be needed. To save Kharkanas – to save the Shake.’

  ‘Come with me.’

  ‘No, Nimander. I will go to the First Shore. I will fight. Find me there.’ Her hand slipped behind his head now and drew his face down to her own. She kissed him hard, and then pushed him away, and was past him, out on to the bridge.

  The thunder of Silanah’s rage was drawing closer.

  Nimander rushed inside.

  The elders and the young remained camped near the bank of the river, though Spinnock knew that before long they would have to retreat into the city. If Silanah could not be stopped. Glancing back, up the road, it seemed that half the sky was aflame. Forests were burning, the ground itself erupting into fountains of molten rock. He caught a dark shape sailing amidst the smoke.

  Drawing on his gauntlets, he faced his warriors, and saw that all eyes were upon him. At Spinnock’s back was the forest, and beyond it waited the First Shore. They understood what was to come. He need tell them nothing.

  And yet …

  Anomander, old friend. Do you now sit at your mother’s side? Do you now look down upon us? Are you helpless, unable to reach across, to still Silanah’s savage fury? Or have you ceased to care?

  And yet.

  ‘Anomander, old friend. Do you now sit at your mother’s side? Do you now look down upon us? Are you helpless, unable to reach across, to still Silanah’s savage fury? Or have you ceased to care?’

  Spinnock straightened, scanned the helmed faces before him. And then he drew his sword. Caught the eye of Captain Irind, gestured the burly man forward. ‘Face to me your shield, Captain, and hold well your stance.’

  The man’s eyes narrowed slightly, and then he took position, raising the shield between them and settling his shoulder beneath its rim, head turned away.

  Spinnock half turned, as if dismissing Irind, and then he whirled. The sword cracked hard against the shield, staggering the captain. The reverberation echoed, out into the forest, and then fell back like rain among the troops.

  ‘When he led you and your ancestors from this place,’ Spinnock said, pitching his voice loud enough to carry – though in truth a sudden silence had taken the scene, and it seemed not even the Storm could reach through, ‘from smoke, from fire, from ruin, Mother Dark had turned away. Before you, before your lord Anomander Rake, there was … nothing.’

  Again his sword struck. Again Irind staggered but held his ground.

  ‘Prepare to advance. We will not form up once clear of the forest.’ He bared his teeth. ‘There is no time for that. Captain Irind, stay at my side.’

  Spinnock led the way into the ancient wood. Behind him the ranks spilled out, order almost immediately broken by the boles of trees, by sinkholes and tree-falls. The air was heavy with mists. Water streamed down every trunk, every branch, every dark-veined leaf.

  He raised his voice as he advanced, knowing that they would hear him, knowing that Mother Dark had given him this. For her people. For this day, this most fraught day. ‘Lord Nimander has gone to the palace. He seeks to turn Silanah from her path. What value winning the battle if we lose the war? If not for that, he would be here. He would be speaking to you. But he is not. And … this time, this one time, it is well – for like many of you, I was born in this realm.’

  Irind was beside him, ready for the blow. The sword hammered the shield, the sound a shout of iron.

  ‘Lord Anomander Rake led you to another world. He fought to give you purpose – a reason to live. And for many, in that he failed. But those of you here – for you, he did not fail.’

  He swung the sword again, the impact shivering up his arm.

  ‘He asked you to fight wars that were not yours to fight. He asked you to bow to causes not your own. A hundred banners, a hundred cities – allies who welcomed you and allies who did not. Allies who blessed you and allies who feared you. And your kin died, oh, how they died – they gave up their lives in causes not their own.’

  The sword cracked again, and this time Irind almost buckled beneath the blow. Spinnock could hear his harsh breaths.

  ‘They were all different, and they were all the same. But the cause – the true cause he offered you – did not change.’

  The blow sent Irind to his knees.

  Another soldier moved up, readying his own shield. Bodily dragged Irind back, and then took his place. The sounds from the advancing warriors behind Spinnock was a susurration – breaths, armour, boots scrabbling for purchase.

  ‘Your lord was thinking – each and every time – he was thinking … of this moment.’

  Again flashed the sword.

  ‘Each time, every time. The cause was just.’

  Crack!

  ‘He needed to keep reminding you. For this day!’

  Crack!

  ‘Today, this is not foreign soil! Today, this cause is your own!’

  Crack!

  ‘Today, the Tiste Andii fight for themselves!’

  And this time other weapons found the rims of shields.

  CRACK!

  ‘Your home!’

  CRACK!

  ‘Your kin!’

  CRACK!

  The sword shivered in his hand. The soldier stumbling beside him fell away, his shield split.

  Gasping, Spinnock Durav pushed on. Anomander Rake – do you witness this? Do you look into these faces – all these faces behind me?

  ‘This time! Strangers fight in your name! Strangers die for you! Your cause – not theirs!’

  CRACK!

  The reverberation shoved him forward, shivered through him like something holy. ‘Children of Dark, humans are dying in your name!’

  CRACK!

  The very air trembled with that concussion. A torrent of water – clinging to high branches, to needles and leaves – shook loose and rained down in an answering hiss.

  Ahead, Spinnock could hear fighting.

  Do you see, Anomander? Old friend, do you see?

  This is our war.

  CRACK!

  Through the boles a glimmer of falling light. A vast shape lifting high. The sudden roar of a dragon.

  Gods, no, what have they done?

  CRACK!

  Anomander Rake entered the throne room. Sandalath Drukorlat stared at him, watching as he strode towards her.

  His voice held a hint of thunder outside. ‘Release Silanah.’

  ‘Where is your sword?’

  The Son of Darkness drew up momentarily, brow clouding. One hand brushed the grip of the weapon slung at his belt.

  ‘Not that one,’ she said. ‘The slayer of Draconus. Show me. Show me his sword!’

  ‘Highness—’

  ‘Stop that! This throne is not mine. It is yours. Do not mock me, Lord. They said you killed him. They said you cut him down.’

  ‘I have done no such thing, Highness.’

  A sudden thought struck her. ‘Where is Orfantal? You took him to stand at your side. Where is my son? My beloved son? Tell me!’

  He drew closer. He looked so young, so vulnerable. And that was all … wrong. Ah, this is much earlier. He has not yet killed the Consort. But then … who am I?

  ‘Release Silanah, Sandalath Drukorlat. The Storm must be freed – the destruction of Kharkanas will make all the deaths meaningless.’

  ‘Meaningless! Yes! It is what I have been saying all along! It’s all meaningless! And I am proving it!’

  He was
standing before her now, his eyes level with her own. ‘Korlat—’

  A shriek shattered his next words. Sandalath recoiled, and only then realized that the cry had been torn from her own throat. ‘Not yet! Where is Orfantal? Where is my beloved son?’

  She saw something in his face then, an anguish he could not hide. She had never known him to be so … weak. So pathetically unguarded. She sneered. ‘Kneel, Anomander, Son of Darkness. Kneel before this Hostage.’

  When he lowered himself to one knee, a sudden laugh burst from her. Disbelief. Shock. Delight. ‘I proclaim my beloved son Knight of Darkness – you, I cast out! You’re kneeling! Now,’ and she leaned forward, ‘grovel.’

  ‘Release Silanah, Highness, or there can be no Knight of Darkness.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you’re destroying Kharkanas!’

  She stabbed a finger at him. ‘As you did! When you made Mother Dark turn away! But don’t you see? I can save you from all that! I can do it first!’ She bared her teeth at him. ‘Now who is the hostage?’

  He rose then, and she shrank back in the throne. She had gone too far – she could see it in his eyes. His trembling hands. He seemed to be struggling to speak.

  ‘Just tell me,’ Sandalath whispered. ‘The truth. Where is my son?’

  It was as if the question delivered a mortal wound. Anomander Rake staggered to one side, like a broken man. Shaking his head, he sank down, one hand groping for the edge of the dais.

  And she knew then. She had won.

  Back ten paces.

  In the space left by their retreat from the breach, bodies made a floor of trampled, bloody flesh, shattered spears, broken swords. Here and there, limbs moved, hands reaching, feet kicking, legs twitching. Mouths in smeared faces opened like holes into the Abyss, eyes staring out from places of horror, pain, or fading resignation.

  Sharl, who had failed in keeping her brothers alive, and who had, thus far, failed in joining them, stood beside Captain Brevity. She held a sword, the point dug into a corpse under her feet, and knew she would not be able to lift it, not again. There was nothing left, nothing but raging agony in her joints, her muscles, her spine. Thirst clawed at her throat, and every desperate breath she drew deep into her lungs was foul with the stench of the dead and the dying.