The Crippled God

A knotted rope slithered down the steep ramp side. She took hold of it, and began climbing.

Precious Thimble drew closer to Faint’s side. They remained on the valley’s ridge, watching the ranks of Letherii marching down into the basin. Far to their right the Evertine Legion and its auxiliaries were doing the same. All that marching, for this. This and only this. I’ll never understand soldiers.

‘Faint?’

‘What is it, Precious? You’re going to tell me that you can use all this power, to carve us out a gate back home?’ She glanced over, studied the pale, round face. ‘No, I thought not.’

‘What can you feel?’

Faint shrugged. ‘My skin is crawling, and I’m no mage.’

‘Exactly! You have no idea how this is feeling! Even Amby Bole is a mass of nerves, though he won’t talk to me any more. I think he’s become unhinged-’

‘He never was hinged in the first place,’ Faint cut in. ‘So, what do you want from me?’

‘That boy.’

‘What boy?’

‘The one half swallowed up by that giant lizard — who did you think I was talking about?’

Faint twisted kinks from her back, wincing. ‘Fine. What about him? I’ll grant you he’s cute enough, but-’

‘You think all this sorcery that’s making us sick is coming from the Assail? You’re wrong.’

‘What?’ Faint stared at Precious. ‘Him?’

‘It’s only making us sick because he doesn’t know what to do with it.’

‘He’s Malazan, isn’t he?’

‘I don’t think he’s anything.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

But the witch’s eyes were wide, staring at seemingly nothing. ‘Can an idea find flesh? Bone? Does it have a face — is that even possible? Can people build a saviour, with handfuls of clay and withered sticks? If their need for a voice is so terrible, so … demanding — can a people build their own god, Faint? Tell me — have you ever heard such a thing? Has anyone ever even thought it?’

Faint reached out, pulled Precious Thimble round to face her. ‘What in Hood’s name are you talking about? What do you see in that boy?’

Precious Thimble’s face twisted. ‘I don’t know!’ she cried, pulling herself away.

Faint turned, scanned the mass of troops — where was he, then? That strange boy? But the dust was rising in walls, slipping across like curtains in the hesitant wind tracking the length of the valley. She looked to the prince’s command position — off to her left — but saw only mounted messengers, signallers and the prince’s staff. Her eyes narrowed on Atri-Ceda Aranict. ‘Precious — come with me.’

She set out.

The ghost of Sweetest Sufferance was suddenly walking at her side. ‘You should listen to the witch, love.’

Faint glared at the ethereal form, and then shot a look back over one shoulder — to see Precious trailing half a dozen paces behind, walking like a drunk. ‘Sweetest,’ Faint whispered, ‘how can I listen to her? She’s talking nonsense!’

‘I’m just saying, her ideas are intriguing. Maybe she’s on the right track — I doubt that boy’s even got a belly button. Have you looked? He’s probably old enough for a roll in the grasses, a little schooling from Mistress Faint — what do you think? Can I watch? Just to see if he’s got one, of course.’

Breath hissed from between Faint’s teeth. ‘Gods below. I can’t even see the runt. Besides, in case you hadn’t noticed, this whole valley is about to erupt in a bloodbath — and you want me to tickle his damned sack?’

‘Never mind the whole belly thing, then. It was just a thought. I’m sure he’s got one. Everyone does. Precious is panicking, that’s all. When the Forkrul Assail unleash Akhrast Korvalain, when they awaken that deadly voice, well, who’s here to fight against that? Yon Atri-Ceda and Precious herself, and that’s it. Is it any wonder she’s gibbering?’

‘Stop talking, Sweetest.’ Faint was almost upon the Atri-Ceda — the woman was standing on the very edge of the descent into the valley, dragging on a rustleaf stick as if it held the blood of immortality and eternal youth. And for all Faint knew, maybe it did.

‘Atri-Ceda.’

Aranict turned, and almost immediately her eyes shifted past Faint, fixing on Precious Thimble. ‘Greetings, witch. Be so good as to awaken a circle round us — and I would ask that you add your talents to my efforts in the defence to come.’ She pulled hard on the stick. ‘Failing that, we fall that much sooner.’

Precious Thimble made a whimpering sound.

Aranict’s expression darkened. ‘Courage, child. Where is your boyfriend? We will need him here — he possesses a natural disinclination to sorcerous attacks.’

Licking dust-dry lips, Faint cleared her throat. ‘Atri-Ceda, your words do not elicit confidence over the outcome of this battle.’

Lighting another stick, Aranict waved one hand, as if distracted. Sending a blast of smoke into the air she said, ‘I would advise that you run, but then there is nowhere to run to.’ She pointed with a hand visibly trembling. ‘See the prince — down there, on the horse behind the last ranks? That is the man I love, and he is about to die. Precious — listen to me. Defend this position with all that is within you, because all my power will be down there, with him. Once the Pure finds me, he will make every effort to shred me alive.’

Faint took a step back, appalled by the heart-rending rawness of the woman standing before her, so much exposed, so much ripped open for all to see. And yet … and yet … if I could find a love like that. If I could find such a love. ‘Aranict,’ she now said in a soft voice — and something in the tone drew the Atri-Ceda round. ‘If I may, I will stand with you.’

She saw Aranict’s eyes widen, and then flit away — as if she could no longer bear to see what was there in Faint’s own face. The Atri-Ceda stared north. ‘He’s not yet touched on his power. But it’s only a matter of time.’

‘He may not have to,’ Faint said, following Aranict’s gaze. ‘I don’t know much about battles, but I can’t see us winning this one.’

‘We’re not here to win,’ Aranict replied. ‘We’re just here to take a long time to die.’

Precious Thimble moved past Faint then, mumbling chaining words under her breath. And there, three paces to the right, stood Amby Bole, his face a stone mask, his hands clenched into scarred fists.

And the ghost of Sweetest Sufferance spoke. ‘Faint, I hear an echo of … of something.’

‘It’s nothing,’ Faint muttered in reply. Nothing but the sound of all that we are about to lose. What is that sound like? When you hear it, you will know.

Brys Beddict rode hard along the back of the reserve line. He wanted his soldiers to hear the hoofs of his horse behind them, wanted them to know he was there. So that they would understand that wherever they hesitated, he would ride to them; when they needed the strength of a commander’s will, he would find them. Riding parallel to the ranks, he scanned the formations. Companies held tight in their rectangles, with broad avenues between them. Their discipline remained strong, resolute. There would be nothing subtle in the assault to come, and they had not yet wavered.

Horns sounded from the front ranks, to mark the last fifty paces from the enemy’s forward earthworks. That forlorn cry sang through Brys and he almost faltered. Is she alive? Do we give our lives to a cause already lost? Is my last gesture to be an empty one? Oh, beloved brother — I could do with some encouraging words right now.

Better yet, make me laugh. What more fitting way to meet that moment when you fall to your knees than with sweet, unchained laughter? The kind that lifts you into the air, high above the grim violence of the land and all its sordid cruelty?

He was riding inward along the line, now, the ranks on his left, and in moments he would come into the clearing opposite the Perish-held centre, and before him, across the gap, he would see the Evertine Legion closing with the Kolansii lines. Queen Abrastal, such a noble ally you have become. If my brother could but