The Crippled God

ribs, the fingers stabbing through to sink deep. She pushed him back, her hand reappearing in a welter of blood, fingers clutching half a lung.

Another push sent him on to his back.

Calm dropped down over him, hands closing on his throat.

Mappo stared up at her. Lies. I was nothing. Throwing away my life. They gave me a purpose — it’s all anyone needs. A purpose. She had stolen his breath and his chest raged with fire. His body was broken, and now the end was upon him.

Icarium! She’s done something to you. She’s hurt you.

Darkness closed around him. I tried. But … too weak. Too flawed.

They all hurt you.

I was nothing. A Trell youth among a dying people. Nothing.

My friend. I am sorry.

She crushed his windpipe. She crushed every bone in his neck. Her fingers pushed through wrinkled, slack skin — skin that felt like worn deerhide — and the blood welled out.

His dead eyes stared up at her from a blackened face, a face now frozen in a peculiar expression of sorrow. But she would give that no thought. Just one more warrior cursed to fail. The world was filled with them. They littered battlefields. They marched into the fray beating time with swords on shields. But not for much longer.

He is mine. I will awaken him now — I will free him to kill this world.

A sound to her left, and then a voice. ‘That’s not nice.’

She twisted, to fling herself away, but something massive slammed into the side of her head, hard enough to lift her from the ground, spin her in the air.

Calm landed on her right shoulder, rolled and came to her feet. Her face — her entire head — felt lopsided, unbalanced.

The backswing caught her left hip. Shards of jagged bone erupted from her pelvis. She folded around the blow, pitched headfirst downward, and once more landed hard. Fought to her knees, stared up with her one working eye to see a Toblakai standing before her.

But you freed me!

No. You’re not him. That was long ago. Another place — another time.

‘I don’t like fighting,’ he said.

His next swing tore her head from her shoulders.

‘Brother Grave?’

‘A moment.’ The Forkrul Assail stared at the distant knot of hills. This is where the cloud of birds descended. I see … shapes, there, upon the flanks of the Elan barrow. He spoke to the High Watered at his side. ‘Do you see, Haggraf? We will now encircle — but maintain our distance. I want us rested before we strike.’

‘Perhaps we should await the heavy infantry, Pure. They have prepared for us on that barrow.’

‘We will not wait,’ Grave replied. ‘That hill is not large enough to hold a force of any appreciable threat. Before dawn, we shall form up and advance.’

‘They will surrender.’

‘Even if they do, I will execute them all.’

‘Pure, will you make them kneel before our blades?’

Brother Grave nodded. ‘And once we are done here, we shall return to Brother Aloft and Sister Freedom — perhaps the enemy they have now found will prove more of a challenge. If not, we will form up and march our three armies north, to eliminate that threat. And then … we shall retake the Great Spire.’

Haggraf strode off to relay the orders to the company commanders.

Brother Grave stared at the distant barrow. At last, we will end this.

Vastly Blank stepped down from the boulder, and then sat to adjust the leather bindings protecting his shins.

Fiddler frowned down at the heavy, and then across at Badan Gruk.

The sergeant shrugged. ‘Just our luck, Captain, that it’s him got the best eyes here.’

‘Soldier,’ said Fiddler.

Vastly Blank looked up, smiled.

‘Captain wants to know what you saw from up there,’ Badan Gruk said.

‘We’re surrounded.’ He began pulling at a torn toenail.

Fiddler made a fist, raised it for a moment, and then let his hand fall to his side again. ‘How many?’

Vastly Blank looked back up, smiled. ‘Maybe three thousand.’ He brought up most of the nail, which he’d prised off, and squinted at it, wiping the blood away.

‘And?’

‘Banded leather, Captain. Some splint. Not much chain. Round shields and spears, javelins, curved swords. Some archers.’ He wiped more blood from the nail, but it was still mottled brown.

‘They’re getting ready to attack?’

‘Not yet,’ Vastly Blank replied. ‘I smell their sweat.’

‘You what?’

‘Long march.’

‘Best nose, too,’ Badan Gruk offered.

Vastly Blank popped the nail into his mouth, made sucking sounds.

Sighing, Fiddler moved away.

The sky to the east was lightening, almost colourless, with streaks of silver and pewter close to the horizon. The sound of the Kolansii soldiers was a soft clatter coming at them from all sides. The enemy taking position, readying shields and weapons. Ranks of archers were forming up, facing the hill.

Sergeant Urb heard Commander Hedge talking to his own dozen or so archers, but couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. Shifting his heavy shield, he edged closer to where Hellian sat. He couldn’t keep his eyes from her. She is so beautiful now. So pure and clean and the awful truth is, I liked her better when she looked like a bird that’s flown into a wall. At least then I had a chance with her. A drunk woman will take anyone, after all, so long as they clean up after them and take care of them, and got the coin for more to drink.

‘Take cover — they’re drawing!’

He worked his way back under his shield.

He heard Fiddler. ‘Hedge!’

‘After the first salvo!’

Distant thrums. Hollow whistling, and suddenly arrows thudded the ground and snapped and skidded on rock. One pained howl and a chorus of curses.

Urb looked across at her to see if she was all right. Two arrows were stuck in her shield and there was a lovely startled look on her face.

‘I love you!’ Urb shouted.

She stared at him. ‘What?’

At that moment a thick rushing sound filled the air. He saw her flinch back down, but these weren’t arrows. He angled himself up, saw a band of enemy archers on the ground, writhing, and, pelting back towards the barrow, one of Hedge’s Bridgeburners, his shoulders covered in turf, his uniform grey and brown with dirt.

Dug a hole, did he? Hit the archers with some gods-awful grenado.

Hedge shouted, ‘Archers down!’

‘Gods below!’ someone bellowed. ‘What was that blue stuff? They’re rotting to bones!’

Looking over, Urb saw the accuracy of that assessment. Whatever had splashed all over the archers had dissolved their flesh. Even the bones and quivers filled with arrows were nothing but paste.

Now an officer was stepping out from the ring of Kolansii infantry — tall, white-skinned.

Corporal Clasp crawled up beside him. ‘That’s one of those Fuckeral’s, isn’t it?’

‘You!’ shouted Hellian, pointing a finger at Urb. ‘What did you say?’

The Forkrul Assail then roared — impossibly loud, the sound hammering against the hillside. Urb was driven into the ground by the concussion. He clawed at his ears. A second roar-