The Crippled God

But we’re not content with just the weak among you, or the wounded. We kill every damned one of you. It may be the only game you know, but hear my words. You’re not good enough at it!’ She advanced on Setoc now, and saw the Destriant flinch back. I have found my moment. I see the comprehension in her eyes — the Wolves of Winter have heard me. They finally understand. ‘Let me show you another way! Let me be your Mortal Sword once again!’

But it was not the wolf gods who understood. It was only Setoc, and in the moment before the wolf gods poured through her, she spun round in her mind. NO! Heed her words! Can you not see the truth — you cannot hunt here! But then they were upon her, tearing her apart in their frenzy to reach through, to close jaws on the hated human.

No! I loved you! I wept for you!

She screamed, and it was the last sound Setoc ever made.

Krughava’s eyes widened upon seeing the woman’s face transform into something unhuman. The flesh of her arms burst as the bones seemed to twist their way free, black tendons writhing like serpents. Her body stretched, the shoulders hunching. The eyes flared. Shrieking, she launched herself at the Mortal Sword.

Fangs — welters of boiling blood and thick saliva — a sudden burgeoning of mass, black-furred, looming huge before her — and then a figure slipped past Krughava — Tanakalian, forgotten Tanakalian, his knife flashing, the blade plunging deep into Setoc’s chest.

A deafening howl thundered, staggering Krughava back.

Blood sprayed from Setoc’s eyes — she leapt away from the knife, suddenly flailing, groping blind. Another howl sounded, battering the air. Dark blood spilling down from her mouth and nose, the woman fell on to her back on the earthen steps, and then curled up like a child.

Krughava stumbled forward. ‘Tanakalian! What have you done?’

He had been thrown to the ground by that terrible death cry, but now he clambered back to his feet, the knife still in his hand. The face he turned to Krughava horrified her. ‘This was supposed to be my day! Not yours! Not hers! I am the hero! I am!’

‘Tanak-’

‘This is my day! Mine!’ He rushed her.

She threw up an arm, but the gore-smeared blade slipped beneath it, punched hard, stabbing through her neck from one side to the other.

Krughava fell back, struggling to stay on her feet, and then pitching round to land hard on one knee. The side of her face where the hilt had struck throbbed — she could feel that. One hand reached up, collided with the leather-bound grip. The knife was still stuck through her throat, and her lungs were filling with blood. She opened her mouth, but could draw no breath.

Tanakalian was shrieking. ‘They were coming through! I couldn’t allow that! The Assail! The Assail! He would have taken them! He would have killed them!’

She fought back to her feet, dragged free her sword.

Seeing her, he backed away. ‘I saved our gods!’

You fool — you killed one of them! Did you not hear it die? The world was growing black on all sides. Her chest was heavy, as if someone had poured molten lead down into her lungs. Blessed Wolves! I did not intend this! Foul murder! This day — so sordid, so … human. Rearing upright, blood pouring down her chin, Krughava advanced.

Tanakalian stared at her, frozen in place. ‘We needed her out of the way! Don’t you see? Don’t you-’

Her first swing smashed into his right side, shattering ribs, slicing through the lung before jamming halfway through his sternum. The blow lifted him from the ground, flung him three paces to the right.

Astonishingly, he landed on his feet, scattering the cutters — blood and unidentifiable pieces of meat were spilling from the enormous cut in his chest.

Krughava closed again. Enough for one more. Enough- Her second swing took off the top half of his head, the blade slicing across just beneath his eyes. The broken bowl spun over the slick back of her blade, then off to one side, loosing the brain it held and with it both eyes, swinging on their stalks. What remained of Tanakalian then pitched forward, landing on his chin.

She sank down on to her knees. All breath was gone. The world roared in her skull.

Someone was at her side, fumbling with the knife still thrust through her neck. She feebly pushed the hands away, and then fell forward. Her face settled against the hard clay — and there, a gouged furrow, no wider than a knuckle, running out from under her eyes. She watched it fill with blood.

I wanted … I wanted a better … a better death … But then, don’t we all?

Two thunderous howls erupted in quick succession from the Perish position, their ferocity plunging Brys Beddict’s horse into a blind panic. He was almost thrown from the lunging, terrified animal, but then he managed to set his heels in the stirrups, drawing tight the reins.

The horse bucked, and then, unexpectedly, it ran straight towards the fort’s high bank.

He looked to the top edge of the high banked wall — but he could see no Perish soldiers watching him, no one preparing for his arrival — he saw no one at all.

Brys eased the reins — there was no fighting this bolting beast, not yet. He rose in the saddle as the animal tackled the slope. The ascent was steep, uneven, and the straining effort burned out the horse’s fear as it lunged upward.

Reaching the top of the berm, Brys checked his mount’s advance, pulling on the reins hard enough to make the animal rear once more. His heels took his own weight as he shifted to take the movement, his eyes already studying the array of faces, turned now towards him.

Where was Krughava? Where were all the officers?

He saw the nearest Grey Helms — almost directly below in the first trench — reaching for their pikes. Swearing, Brys wheeled his horse round while it still stood high on its hind legs, sent it stumbling back down the slope. Stones and clouds of dirt followed the frantic descent. Gods, they could have ended this for me right then!

Wasn’t anyone watching? No, they had all been facing the other way. I caught them completely by surprise — what was happening in that camp?

He suspected that he would never know. He was riding across level ground again, his horse’s hoofs kicking through the dusty plough tracks — and ahead and to his right, his Letherii soldiers had reached the first of the earthworks. Behind the companies, crews swarmed to position the heavy onagers, driving wedges beneath the front runners to lift the arc of fire.

The enemy had begun releasing their own salvos of heavy bolts from raised fortlets flanking the trenches. Those deadly quarrels tore deep gashes into the advancing ranks.

His soldiers had begun dying. Because I asked them to. Dying, in the name of a failed wish. I have brought them to this.

But … why? Why do they follow? They are no more fools than I am. They know — my title means nothing. It is an illusion. No, worse, a delusion. Nobility is not something you can wear, like a damned cloak of jewels. You can’t buy it. You can’t even be born into it. The nobility we talk about is nothing but a mockery of all that it used to mean.

By no measure am I noble.

Why do you follow?

Gods, why do I presume to lead? Into this?

Brys Beddict drew his sword, but the taste of ashes filled his mouth. So many conceits, gathering here, crowding this moment and all the moments to come. Now then, shake yourself awake, Brys. The time has come … to find us a name.

He twisted his horse round, headed for the nearest avenue between companies, and rode to meet the enemy.

High Cutter Syndecan was still kneeling beside the body of Krughava, staring down into her pale, lifeless visage. In the clearing behind him all the officers and veterans had gathered, and the arguments were raging fierce on all sides. Horror, shock and confusion — the Perish was moments from tearing itself apart.

Syndecan was the eldest among them all. A veteran of many campaigns, a soldier in the long, hopeless battle that was staunching wounds, breathing life into dying lungs. And, once more, he could only sit, silent, looking down