The Crippled God

irony in the whole mess: the Tiger of Summer is doomed to hunt the perfect war, but never find it. See how his tail lashes.’

No, I see that. For the true visage of war, best turn to the snarling jaws of wolves. ‘Setoc,’ he said in a murmur.

‘She has dreams of her own, I’m sure,’ Gruntle said.

‘Traditional wars,’ Mappo mused, ‘are fomented in the winter, when the walls close in and there is too much time on one’s hands. The barons brood, the kings scheme, raiders plot their passages through borderlands. The wolves howl in winter. But come the season’s turn, summer is born to the savagery of blades and spears — the savagery of the tiger.’ He shrugged. ‘I see no conflict there. You and Setoc, and the gods bound to you, you all complement one another-’

‘It is more complicated than that, Trell. Cold iron belongs to the Wolves. Trake is hot iron, a fatal flaw to my mind. Oh, we do well in the bloody press, but then you must ask, how in Hood’s name did we get into such a mess in the first place? Because we don’t think.’ Gruntle’s tone was both amused and bitter.

‘And so your dreams visit visions upon you, Mortal Sword? Troubling ones?’

‘No one remembers the nice ones, do they? Yes, troubling. Old friends long dead stalk the jungle. They walk lost, arms groping. Their mouths work but no sound reaches me. I see a panther, my mistress of the hunt, in these dreams, by the way — she lies gored and bloody, panting fast in shock, dumb misery in her eyes.’

‘Gored?’

‘Boar’s tusk.’

‘Fener?’

‘As the god of war, he was unchallenged. Vicious as any tiger, and cunning as any pack of wolves. With Fener in the ascendant, we knelt with heads bowed.’

‘Your mistress lies dying?’

‘Dying? Maybe. I see her, and rage fills my eyes in a flood of crimson. Gored, raped, and someone will pay for that. Someone will pay.’

Mappo was silent. Raped?

Gruntle then growled as befitted his patron god, and Mappo’s nape-hairs stiffened at the sound. The Trell said, ‘I will part this company on the morrow.’

‘You seek the battlefield.’

‘Which none of you need witness, I think. He was there, you see. I felt him, his power. I will find the trail. I hope. And you, Gruntle? Where will you lead this troop?’

‘East, a little south of your path, but I am not content to walk at the side of the Wolves for much longer. Setoc speaks of a child in a city of ice-’

‘Crystal.’ Mappo briefly closed his eyes. ‘A crystal city.’

‘And Precious Thimble believes there is power there, something she might be able to use, to take the Shareholders home. They have a destination, but it is not mine.’

‘Do you seek your mistress? There are no jungles east of here, unless they exist on the far coast.’

Gruntle started. ‘Jungles? No. You think too literally, Mappo. I seek a place at her side, to fight a battle. If I am not there, she will indeed die. So my ghosts tell me in their haunting. It is not enough to arrive too late, to see the wound in her eyes, to know that all that you can hope to do is avenge what was done to her. Not enough, Trell. Never enough.’

The wound in her eyes … you do this all for love? Mortal Sword, do your ribs ache? Dose she haunt you, whoever she was, or is Trake simply feeding you the ripest meat? It is not enough to arrive too late. Oh, I know the truth of that.

Violated.

Raped.

Now comes the dark question. Who profits from this?

Faint huddled under her furs, feeling as if she’d been dragged behind a carriage for a league or two. There was nothing worse than cracked ribs. Well, if she’d sat up only to find her severed head resting on her lap, that would be worse. But probably painless, all things considered. Not like this. Miserable ache, a thousand twinges vying for attention, until everything turns white and then red and then purple and finally blissful black. Where’s the black? I’m waiting, been waiting all night.

At dusk Setoc had drawn close to tell her that the Trell would be leaving on the morrow. How she knew was anyone’s guess, since Mappo wasn’t in any mood to talk, except to Gruntle, who was one of those men it was too easy to talk to, a man who just invited confession, as if giving off a scent or something. Hood knew, she wanted to-

A spasm. She stifled a gasp, waited out the throbs, and then sought to shift position once more, not that one was more comfortable than any other. More a matter of duration. Twenty breaths lying this way, fifteen that way, and flat on her back was impossible — she’d never imagined how the weight of her own tits could crush the breath from her, and the gentle sweep of the furs threatened to close like a vice when she thought of settling her arms. It was all impossible, and come the dawn she’d be ready to snap off heads.

‘Then Gruntle will leave us too. Not yet. But he won’t stay. He can’t.’

Setoc had a way with words, the heaps of good news she stacked like the coins of a private treasure. Maybe the grasses whispered in her ears, as she lay there so gentle and damnably asleep, or the crickets and just listen to them — no, that was her spine crackling away. She fought back a moan.

So, before long, it would be the Shareholders and the barbarian, Torrent, along with the three runts and Setoc herself. She didn’t count Cartographer, the wolf or the horses. Not for any particular reason, even if only the horses were actually alive. I don’t count them, that’s all. So, just them, and who among them was tough enough to fight off the next attack from that winged lizard? Torrent? He looked too young, with the eyes of a hunted hare.

And only one Bole left, and that’s bad. Poor boy’s miserable. Here’s the deal, let’s not bury any more friends, shall we?

But Precious Thimble was adamant. Raw power waited in the east. She thought she could do something with it. Open a warren, get the Hood out of here. Can’t argue with that. Wouldn’t want to. Sure, she’s just a cherry of a lass is our Precious. And if she’s now regretting her tease, why, that will make her more careful from now on, which isn’t a bad thing.

A roll with Gruntle would be delicious. But it’d kill me. Besides, I’m all scarred up. Lopsided, hah. Who’d want a freak, except out of pity? Be rational, and don’t shy from its jagged edge. Your days of crooking a finger to get a tumble are done. Find some other hobby, woman. Spinning, maybe. Butter churning — is that a hobby? Probably not.

You can’t sleep through this. Face it. It’ll be months before a decent night … sleeping. Or otherwise.

‘Gruntle thinks he’s going someplace to die. He doesn’t want us to die with him.’

That’s nice, Setoc, thanks for that.

‘In the Crystal City there is a child … beware the opening of his eyes.’

Listen, sweetie, the little one right here needs his butt wiped and the twins are pretending not to notice but the smell’s getting a tad rank, right? Take this handful of grass.

Life was so much better on the carriage, off delivering whatever.

Faint grunted and then flinched at the pain. Gods, woman, you’re completely insane.

Let me dream of a tavern. Smoky, crowded, a perfect table. We’re all sitting there, working out the shakes. Quell duck-walks to the loo. The Boles make faces at each other and then laugh. Reccanto’s broken a thumb and he’s putting it back in place. Glanno can’t see the barman. He can’t even see the table in front of him. Sweetest Sufferance is looking like a plump cat with a rat’s tail hanging from her mouth.

Another pitcher arrives.

Reccanto looks up. ‘Who’s paying for this?’ he asks.

Faint cautiously lifted one hand, moved it up to brush her cheeks. Blissful black, you seem so far