The Crippled God

  How much noise? Oh, who cares?

  Leaving the daggers where they were, the assassin drew his two long knives, slashed the flap’s draw strings, and then bulled through.

  He clearly caught the Pure by surprise – nothing stealthy or subtle in this approach after all – and collided hard with the Forkrul Assail. One long knife plunged deep directly beneath the heart. The other, moving up to slash across the throat, was blocked by a forearm hard as iron. Even as the Assail stumbled back, his hands lashed out.

  The first blow caught Kalam high on his right shoulder, spinning him off his feet. The second one slammed into his chest on the left side, crushing chain, breaking at least two ribs and fracturing others. The impact flung the assassin backwards. He rebounded from the tent wall to the left of the entrance.

  Half stunned with pain, Kalam watched the Assail pull the long knife from his chest and fling it away.

  ‘Oh,’ he gasped, ‘did I make you mad?’

  Snarling, the Assail advanced on him.

  The ground disappeared beneath his feet. With a howl, the Pure plunged from sight. There followed a thud.

  Quick Ben materialized just on the other side of the hole. Drew out a small round ball of black clay. Leaned over to peer down. ‘Compliments of the marines,’ he said, and dropped the ball.

  The wizard had to lunge backward as a gout of fire shot from the hole, and all at once the tent ceiling was aflame, and Quick Ben was nowhere to be seen.

  Swearing, Kalam retrieved his long knife – he’d somehow held on to the other one – and leapt for the entrance.

  Rolling clear, groaning at the blinding agony exploding in his chest, he staggered to his feet. On all sides, Perish soldiers were rushing to the burning tent. He saw them drawing their swords.

  ‘Quick Ben! I’m invisible, right? Quick Ben!’

  He heard a hiss: ‘Sheathe that damned knife!’

  Hood’s breath! Kalam spun and ran from the nearest attacker. Slammed the knife back into its scabbard. ‘Try again!’ he bellowed.

  He stumbled, fell with a grunt. There was blood in his mouth. Not good.

  A hand settled on his back. ‘Don’t move,’ came Quick Ben’s whisper.

  The Perish were retreating now from the raging flames, and the fire was almost close enough to reach out and touch, but Kalam felt no heat. ‘Can we talk?’ he asked.

  ‘Now we can, aye.’

  ‘You said a sharper!’

  ‘I changed my mind. Needed to make certain. Besides, the sharper’s pretty loud.’

  ‘A Hood-damned burner, though? Now that’s keeping things nice and quiet! Any more Pures?’

  ‘No. Shh – something’s close. Tracking us.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘I wanted to go after the Perish commander – Krughava or whoever it is.’

  ‘You’re bubbling blood with every breath, Kalam. You’re in no shape for anything.’

  ‘Stabbed the bastard in the heart and it didn’t do a damned thing.’

  ‘I’m sure it did. But they’ve got two hearts.’

  ‘Thanks for telling me.’ Kalam grimaced, fought down a cough. ‘These are the Perish, aren’t they?’

  ‘Aye. Now, be quiet, and let me drag you away. That fire’s starting to burn through what I threw up around us.’

  But the mage dragged Kalam for only two tugs before the assassin felt Quick Ben’s hands suddenly grip tight. ‘Shit, it’s here.’

  Blinking, Kalam twisted, looked round. ‘I don’t see—’

  ‘Smells like an enkar’l, feels like a Toblakai.’

  Not a chance – oh, gods below, what’s it doing here? He could feel it now. A massive, looming presence. ‘What’s it doing?’ he hissed.

  ‘Er, sniffing you.’

  Kalam felt his skin crawl. ‘Why can’t I see it?’

  ‘Because it doesn’t want you to.’

  The assassin almost shouted when a sharp talon tracked gently across one cheek, ending up directly beneath an eye. He forced himself to lie perfectly still.

  ‘A servant of the Wolves, I think.’

  Aye. Don’t tell me what I already know.

  Then the hand pressed down on Kalam’s chest, directly over his shattered ribs. But there was no pain, just a sudden heat. A moment later the hand was gone. And then—

  ‘Hood take me,’ Quick Ben muttered a few heartbeats later. ‘Gone. Never seen the like. It fucking healed you, Kalam. Why did it do that?’

  Feeling shaken, fragile, as if he’d inhaled a fist and had only just now coughed it back out, the assassin slowly regained his feet. There was chaos on all sides of the burning tent, and he saw a Perish officer, one of Krughava’s ship commanders. He was standing staring at the tent with an odd, almost satisfied expression on his lean face.

  ‘Ready to try for him?’ Quick Ben asked.

  Kalam shook his head. ‘No. We don’t touch the Perish.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Unless you want that thing to come back, a whole lot madder.’

  ‘Good point.’

  ‘You’re sure there aren’t any more Pures?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Time to go, then.’

  They set out, winding unseen through the crowd of soldiers. At the skirting wall, the assassin paused and glanced back. And nodded. ‘Always an even trade …’ Not that I can remember what I did to make him so happy.

  In his tent, Paran slowly sat back, carefully setting down the wooden card. He could have pulled them out, right at the moment the demon closed on them. But something had held him back. That was a chosen servant of the Wolves of Winter. I felt its anger, and then I felt its … what was it? Solicitude? I didn’t know they could even feel things like that.

  He straightened, walked over to the stick, took it in his hand, and pulled it from the ground. The balls on the string snapped after it.

  A thunderous concussion in the confines of the tent, clouds of dust, and Quick Ben and Kalam staggered into view. The wizard’s expression twisted with outrage. He glared across at Paran. ‘That was a little late, High Fist! We were already halfway back.’

  Paran waved at the dust. He could hear footsteps from beyond the flap and called out, ‘Everything’s fine!’

  From outside, a soldier’s voice hissed, ‘Hear that, Gebbla? When a High Fist farts the whole world shakes!’

  ‘Shh, y’damned idiot!’

  The footsteps retreated.

  Paran sighed. ‘I got impatient waiting for you. Sorry. I didn’t know retrieving you was going to be so messy.’

  ‘It was for emergencies, sir. I feel like I’ve been pulled inside out.’

  ‘Aye to that,’ Kalam growled, moving over to sit down heavily on the chest. The stout legs snapped and the chest thumped down hard. The assassin winced. ‘Just what my old bent spine needed, gods below.’ He started pulling off his gloves.

  ‘My sister’s allies, then – am I correct, Kalam?’

  ‘Good guess.’

  ‘Allies no longer,’ said Quick Ben, and now he was the one pacing in the confines of the tent. ‘But that was Erekala, not the Mortal Sword. Didn’t see the Shield Anvil either. This force is the one that came from the sea. The soldiers left to travel with the fleet.’

  ‘So it could be that Krughava has no idea they’ve turned,’ Kalam said.

  ‘That alliance always had me nervous,’ Quick Ben said. ‘Fanatical worshippers of a world without humans – how does that make any sense? Even if Krughava hasn’t turned, it’s only a matter of time – all they have to do is follow their faith to its logical conclusion. I warned Tavore—’

  ‘Now you’re lying,’ Kalam said in a growl.

  The wizard turned on him. ‘How would you know?’

  ‘Just guessing. Because I know you, remember? You’re just mad at yourself because you never anticipated this happening.’

  ‘Fine. Have it your way then. The point is, Tavore is in trouble. She could get backstabb
ed at any time, and there’s no way we can warn her.’

  ‘Maybe there is,’ Paran said. ‘Once we get through this pass, I want you and Kalam riding ahead, fast as your horses can take you. Find my sister.’

  ‘Did you see those defences, sir?’ Kalam demanded. ‘How do you hope to get the Perish to surrender? They can stop the Host right here, right now.’

  But Paran was frowning. ‘Why didn’t that demon tear you to pieces, Kalam?’

  The assassin looked away, shrugged. ‘Met it before. Did it a favour. Maybe. I think. Can’t remember exactly. But it was back in Seven Cities, the middle of the Whirlwind. Things happened.’

  ‘You weave a fine tale, Kalam,’ Quick Ben observed.

  ‘I leave the endlessly flapping mouth to you, wizard.’

  ‘Clearly a wise decision. But next time, just summarize.’

  Six High Watered officers stood uneasily before Erekala, twenty paces behind them the blackened stain and charred wreckage of the Pure’s tent, from which embers still blinked open and closed like glowing eyes amidst the ashes, and smoke lifted its black pall.

  The times the Perish commander had had occasion to engage with these mixed-bloods, they had looked upon him with disdain. Now such superiority had been swept away, in a conflagration of fire. Brother Serenity was dead. But uttering that statement was akin to stating the impossible. One rank below Reverence and Diligence, Serenity’s power had been immense, matched only by that of Calm – or so Erekala had been led to believe.

  And Serenity has this night fallen to two Malazans. And come the dawn, we shall face in battle eight thousand more. But did the Pure Brother heed my caution? He did not. ‘We have found blood trails leading out from the Pure’s tent,’ he now said. ‘It is fair to assume that Brother Serenity fought hard against his assailants; indeed, that he might have seriously wounded them, perhaps even killed one.’

  But he could see no effect from these words. Sighing, Erekala continued, ‘Will you elect one among you to assume command of the Shriven? Alternatively, you can place yourselves under my command. Dawn is fast approaching, sirs, and we shall soon be locked in battle.’

  One of the officers stepped forward. ‘Sir, in all matters tactical, Brother Serenity instructed us to obey your commands.’

  Erekala nodded. ‘As you have done.’

  ‘Sir,’ the officer began, and then hesitated.

  ‘Speak your mind.’

  ‘The Pures have felt Brother Serenity’s death. They are wounded, confused, and from them we receive no guidance. Indeed, Akhrast Korvalain itself has been damaged here.’

  ‘Damaged?’ This was unexpected. ‘How so?’

  ‘Another Hold manifested here, last night.’

  ‘Indeed?’ He scanned the faces before him. ‘Perhaps you too readily discounted the efficacy of seven thousand Perish praying to their gods.’

  ‘We do not speak of the Beast Hold, sir.’

  Erekala was silent, for now he was the one left shaken. In a quiet voice he asked, ‘And have you identified the intruder, sir?’

  ‘Not us, Commander. Sister Reverence, however – from the storm of her thoughts, we sense her … recognition.’

  ‘Go on.’

  The man shook his head. ‘This is all we have, sir.’

  ‘Is it now your thought that another ancient Hold has set itself against Akhrast Korvalain?’

  ‘We would know more of these Malazans, sir.’

  Erekala frowned. ‘Have you become uncertain regarding my preparations here?’

  ‘No, Commander. Today, the enemy shall be savaged, possibly shattered. But we seek to understand – are these Malazans nothing more than humans?’

  ‘No different from us Perish, you mean?’

  ‘Then … do they too serve an Elder God?’

  ‘The Malazan Empire long ago outlawed cults of war in its military … but that is not to say that there are no secret believers among the ranks.’ He studied the faces arrayed before him. ‘Has it not occurred to the Forkrul Assail that, in so forcefully asserting the power of Akhrast Korvalain, they would invite the attention of the other Elder Holds?’

  ‘It was our understanding that across most of this realm the Holds were abandoned, giving way to a younger ascendancy.’

  Erekala cocked his head. ‘And was this the case for the Perish?’

  At last, a faint sneer from the officer. ‘You were judged an aberration.’

  The commander smiled. ‘We can resume this discussion at a later time. You will descend among the Shriven and take command of your companies.’

  The officers saluted.

  Watching them march off, Erekala gestured to one of his aides. ‘Sister Staylock, make the soldiers aware that we may face more than one enemy this day.’

  The young woman frowned. ‘Sir?’

  ‘And then assure them that the Wolves shall guard us against all threats.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  Alone once more, Erekala made his way to the viewing platform he’d had raised fifty paces to the left of the gate. From there, he would have an unobstructed view of the enemy assault upon his defences. Malazans. To utter the name alone is sufficient to pale the most hardened soldier – especially among those who have faced them. What is it about these foreigners, these blades of empire, that so sets them apart?

  As he reached the ladder, he paused, recalling all that he had seen of that terrible withdrawal from Malaz City. Adjunct Tavore, did you know you would come to this land to find other Malazans awaiting you? Are they your allies, or some other gambit orchestrated by Empress Laseen? Are they hunting you? Or is this simply another invasion? A sudden chill tracked through him. If allies … then all of this must have been planned. The thought frightened him.

  He quickly climbed upward. Reaching the platform – the smell of fresh pine sharp in the air – he crossed the raw wooden boards to the rail facing north. The sky was lightening around him, although the approach to the pass remained in shadow. He could see enemy ranks now arrayed in five distinct wedges at the base. Can they not see what awaits them? Perhaps they will succeed in taking the first trench – but the second? It is impossible. The Grey Helms will not even draw weapons this day. His unease deepened. Call the Malazans every vile name there is, but do not call them fools.

  He stood, alone on the platform, and waited to see what would come.

  Grainy-eyed from lack of sleep, Ganoes Paran walked until he was opposite the disordered mob. This was always the problem, he reflected, when trying to manage four hundred sloppy, unruly marines. The hard eyes, the weathered faces, the sense that they were all half wild and straining at the leash. To make matters worse, this lot slouched before him on this chill morning were, one and all, sappers.

  Paran glanced back to the mass of wooden crates laid out behind him. There were no guards stationed around them. This entire gathering was taking place two hundred paces north of the camp’s edge. With good reason. He felt a trickle of sweat work its way down his spine.

  Facing the sappers once more, and with a glance at Noto Boil, and then Captain Sweetcreek who stood well off to one side, Paran cleared his throat, and began. ‘I am well aware of your frustration – I held you back from the keep defences, set you to doing repairs and nothing else. I dare say your swords are rusted in their scabbards by now …’ Paran paused, but saw no reaction from them, not a smile, not a nod. He cleared his throat again. ‘I decided that it would be to our tactical advantage to withhold you sappers, along with your particular … talents, for as long as possible.’

  There was not a sound from the assembled troops, and all eyes were fixed on Paran. He glanced again at Noto Boil. The man was standing a few paces behind and off to one side, fish-spine moving up and down in his mouth. Staring back at the sappers.

  Sighing, the High Fist resumed. ‘In retrospect, perhaps I should have delayed my raid on that Moranth warehouse, and not just for reasons of safety, though as I am sure you all know, the Moranth are very efficient and careful
when storing munitions. Nonetheless, transporting them in bulk and overland entails undeniable risks. Fortunately, here we are.’ And he gestured behind him. ‘And there they are.’

  He had been waiting for a heightening of tension, a stirring of anticipation. The first of broadening smiles, soldiers finally straightening to attention, even. Instead … Paran’s gaze narrowed. Nothing.

  I might as well be describing the weather. What’s wrong with them?

  Thought they respected me. Thought that maybe I’d finally earned the rank I was saddled with. But now … feels like it was all a sham.

  ‘You may be pleased to know that your waiting is at an end. This morning, you will avail yourselves of these munitions, and return to your squads. The marines will lead the assault. You are to break the defences and, if possible, advance to the second trench. This assault must be rapid and sustained …’ His words trailed away as he caught something at the corner of his eye.

  Standing in the front row off to his right, where the sun’s light slanted across unobstructed, a grizzled corporal, his broad, flat face seamed with scars visible even from where the High Fist stood. Paran squinted at the man. Then he gestured to Noto Boil. The cutter walked over, pulling the spine from his mouth.

  ‘Noto Boil,’ Paran said in a low tone.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Walk over to that corporal – that one there – and take a closer look, and then report back to me.’

  ‘Is this a test?’

  ‘Just do it.’

  The cutter reinserted the spine and then headed over to halt directly in front of the corporal. After a moment, he swung round and made his way back.

  ‘Well?’ Paran demanded.

  Noto Boil removed the spine. ‘The man is crying, High Fist.’

  ‘He’s crying.’

  ‘So it seems, sir.’

  ‘But … why is he crying?’

  Noto Boil turned back to regard the corporal once more. ‘Was just the one tear. Could be anything.’

  Swearing under his breath, Paran marched over to stand before the corporal. The marine’s stare was fixed straight ahead. The track of that lone tear, etching its way down from his right eye, was already dulled with grit and dust. ‘Something in your eye, Corporal?’