The Crippled God

not curse me.

The sorrow of the ages closed around him. This was one river from which there could be no escape. Do not grieve. We all must come to this place.

My friends, it is time to leave-

Impossibly, he felt hands close from behind, hard as iron over his shoulders. And a harsh voice hissed in his ear. ‘Not so fast.’

Faint stood close to Aranict. The Atri-Ceda was standing, head bowed, her arms out-thrust — but her hands and forearms had vanished inside a billowing, grey-brown cloud, and water was streaming down from her elbows. The air around her was rank, thick with the decay of tidal flats.

Faint could see the veins standing out on Aranict’s taut neck, could see the muscles of her shoulders straining. And the Atri-Ceda was slowly being pulled forward — whatever was inside that swirling cloud was seeking to drag her into its maw.

Off to one side, Precious Thimble was on her knees, shrieking without surcease.

They had seen Brys Beddict, there atop the first earthen embankment — they had seen the standing stones rise from the ground around him, pushing upward through dirt and rocks, almost black with slime and filth. They had seen the prince’s armour and clothing disintegrating, and then on the man’s pallid skin dark swarms — tattoos, runes — emerging only to be torn free, spinning wild around him, and then rushing across, hammering into the Forkrul Assail.

And then, as if within a whirlwind, Brys Beddict vanished inside swirling gloom that was so thick as to be impenetrable. It spread out, devouring the huge menhirs.

Aranict now began howling — she was being pulled forward — and Faint suddenly understood. She has him. She has hold of the prince! Gods below-

Faint staggered towards the Atri-Ceda — but something resisted with devastating pressure, bitter cold, and she was flung back, gasping, spitting out blood. On her hands and knees, she lifted her head and looked across.

Most of Aranict’s arms had disappeared inside the cloud. And now Faint could make out words in the Atri- Ceda’s cries.

‘Mael! Damn you! Help me!’

Faint crawled over to Precious Thimble. ‘Stop that screaming, witch! Look at me! No, here, look at me!’

But the eyes that fixed on Faint belonged to a mad woman. ‘I can’t help her! Can’t you see that? She’s gone too far — too deep — how is she even alive? It’s impossible!’ Precious Thimble pulled away, scrabbling like a crab. ‘He’s lost! He’s for ever lost!’

Faint stared at the witch, as the words slowly sank deep. But that’s not fair. Not a love like that — no! You can’t take it away — don’t you dare kill it! ‘Precious! What can I do? To help? Tell me!’

‘Nothing!’

Go to Hood then.

She spun round, drawing a dagger. Mael’s an Elder God — but Aranict must understand this. He cannot answer this prayer, not the way it is now. I won’t stand here to see this love die. I won’t. The blade cut a glistening slash along her left arm, and then, fumbling to take the knife in her left hand, she carved deep diagonally across her right forearm. Forcing herself forward, she reached for Aranict.

Mael — take my blood in offering. Just fucking take it!

The pressure sought to rebuff her, but she pushed harder — and then she was through, floundering, unable to breathe, the cold crushing her — she saw her blood billowing out as if under water, saw it spin on currents — so much of it — she almost lost sight of Aranict.

Desperate, feeling her bones cracking, Faint pushed closer, reached out and took the Atri-Ceda into an embrace.

Mael … don’t you dare … don’t you dare tell me this is not enough.

Precious Thimble had stared, disbelieving, as Faint struggled to reach Aranict. Her blood was a thick billowing cloud streaming out from her, curling round to whirl into the dark cloud. There seemed to be no end to it.

Someone had taken hold of the witch — strong arms closing round her, lifting her from the ground. Twisting now, she looked up.

Amby Bole’s face was almost unrecognizable. ‘This is bad magic,’ he said.

‘Save Faint! Save her!’

But the man shook his head. ‘No one can live in there.’

‘Save her, Amby! For my love — save her!’

His frown deepened, his eyelids suddenly fluttering, and he met her eyes. ‘What?’

‘You want me? I’m yours, damn you — just save Faint!’

Bole threw her down, visage darkening. ‘All the fun ended with you! I don’t want you, witch! I don’t ever want to see you again!’

Precious stared up at him, and then she snarled. ‘I will chase you, Amby! I’ll hunt you down, no matter where you go! Year after year, I will follow you, I swear it! There’s nowhere you can run to — you understand me? Nowhere!’

‘I hate you!’

‘The only place you could hope to escape me — is there!’ and she pointed at that billowing cloud of blood now obscuring Faint and Aranict.

Amby made an animal cry, spun and ran heavy-footed — straight into the crimson cloud.

Precious Thimble fell back. Gods below but that man is stupid!

‘Hold on, my love,’ whispered a voice close to Faint’s ear. ‘Some laws even an Elder God cannot easily defy. But he’s trying.’

Faint felt the life leaving her. She was lying against the legs of Aranict — she could feel them cold as bars of ice. Were her eyes open? All she could see was the redness of her own blood. ‘Sweetest, is that you?’

‘Always knew you had a romantic streak. What a thing to do!’

‘I’m dying.’

‘Looks like it. Regretting your moment of madness?’

Faint shook her head — or tried to. ‘Only if it fails.’

‘Well, how often do we regret successes?’

‘Is it enough, Sweetie? It’s all I have.’

‘You’re in water, fool, of course it looks like a lot — and if you stay in here any longer you’ll bleed out for sure. Now, wish I could help you — wish I could help both of you, but I’m just a ghost. Well, not even that. Could be I’m just a voice in your head, Faint, born out of some bizarre misguided guilt.’

‘Oh, thanks for that.’

A foot slammed into the side of her head, half stunning her, and she struggled feebly as hands groped across her body, briefly closing on one of her tits before moving on — and then back again for a second squeeze.

Abruptly someone was lifting her from the muddy silts, throwing her over one bony shoulder. She felt one hand clutch and then leave her thigh, felt the fingers brush her knee as the arm reached out.

A deep grunt seemed to thrum through Faint, and she felt the stranger’s feet slip suddenly, as if pulled by some inexorable pressure — and then the heels planted firm, and — impossibly — she felt him heave back against the current. One step, and then another. Another …

Amby Bole reappeared from the crimson cloud, Faint hanging limp over one shoulder. His other arm was stretched back behind him, and Precious saw him strain, saw him leaning hard, and then out from the cloud emerged Aranict, held by the back of her collar, and after her — the naked form of Brys Beddict.

The cloud erupted, burst apart in a welter of icy water.

The four figures fell to the ground, Faint rolling out almost to the witch’s knees. Precious Thimble stared down, saw the blood still pumping from the woman’s slashed arms. She closed trembling hands on both wrists, healing spells tumbling out on her breath.

Soldiers were rushing up. Shouts filled the air.

Precious Thimble’s hands tightened on the wounds, but now there were only scars beneath her palms, and she could feel Faint’s pulse. But … gods, it’s there — I can feel it. It’s … faint. A sudden