The Crippled God

words from long ago. When she spoke of being unwitnessed. They do not, I feel, quite understand her — nor do I — and yet, when I hear them, when I see what stirs in their eyes … the word awakens something in them. Perhaps it is no more than defiance. But then, is not defiance mortality’s most powerful proclamation?’

There was silence for a time, barring the faint moan of the morning wind.

Finally, Beroke said, ‘Unwitnessed. Then let us make this our cause, too.’

‘One none of us understands?’ demanded Thenik.

‘Yes. One none of us understands.’

‘Very well. Nom Kala, your words awaken in me … defiance.’ Thenik turned to Urugal. ‘We have been ghosts among them. We have given them so little, because we had so little to give. This day, let us give to her all that we have left.’

‘The Fallen One,’ said Beroke, ‘has placed his trust in her. His faith. Urugal, I honour you. My kin, I honour you all.’ The T’lan Imass paused, and then said, ‘One must be sacrificed. The interference of Akhrast Korvalain remains and will do so until the last of the Forkrul Assail falls. But the sundering of the Vow, by one of us here, will grant us what we seek. I volunteer to be that sacrifice.’

‘Soft-Voice,’ said Urugal, ‘you are most formidable in battle. One of lesser use should be the one to sunder the Vow. It shall be me.’

‘You are both incorrect,’ said Thenik. ‘I am well-named the Shattered. There must be no sentimentality to this decision. Nor obstinate courage — after all, does any of us here not possess that? Beroke. Urugal. Kahlb and Halad. Nom Kala of the wise words. Kalt Urmanal of Trell blood. I shall open the way for you all, in the name of defiance. The discussion ends.’

The T’lan Imass were silent.

And in silence they fell to dust.

The enemy had been sighted. The enemy was closing. Lostara Yil stood with the Adjunct in Tavore’s tent, watching as the woman prepared for battle. The Adjunct had selected a standard issue long sword from the depleted stores. Its last wielder had scorched uneven patterns down the length of the leather-backed wooden scabbard. An eye bereft of talent but possessed of boundless discipline and patience. Not an artist. A soldier.

The captain had enquired of Tavore about her selection of this particular weapon — was it the scabbard’s elaborate pattern that caught her interest? The well-honed blade edges? The solid-looking cross-hilt and firm grip? — and had earned nothing more than a blank look in reply. And Lostara understood, when Tavore had a moment later glanced back at the scabbard, that the Adjunct had not even noticed any of these details.

Her coat of chain waited on the wooden chest that had held it, with the leather-cuffed gauntlets folded over the glistening iron links. The plain shirt Tavore was now wearing was worn through in places, revealing pale, almost bloodless skin and the ripples of bone so close beneath it. Her iron helm with its grilled cheek-guards sat waiting on the map table.

Tavore finished binding her boot laces, and then walked to stand before a small wooden box beside the helm, one that bore a silver-inlaid family crest of House Paran. The fingertips of her right hand settled upon the lid, and then the Adjunct closed her eyes for a moment.

Lostara suddenly felt an intruder on this, Tavore’s private readying for what was to come, and almost turned to leave before recalling that the Adjunct had ordered her to attend her preparations, to help with the chain coat and its fastenings.

The lid creaked as Tavore opened it, startling Lostara.

Reaching inside, she drew out a necklace — a simple leather string and an eagle’s talon of brass or gold. Then she turned to the captain. ‘Would you tie this for me, please?’

But Lostara simply stared at the talon.

‘Captain.’

She looked up, met Tavore’s eyes.

The Adjunct sighed. ‘I am a child of the Emperor — what more is there for you to understand, Lostara Yil?’

‘Nothing, Adjunct.’ She moved forward, took the necklace in her hands. As she stepped close, drawing it up round Tavore’s neck, Lostara caught a faint scent of perfume from the woman’s thin, straight hair and her knees came close to buckling, a rush of ineffable sorrow taking hold of her.

‘Captain?’

‘A moment — sorry, sir.’ She struggled to tie the knot, but it was harder than it should have been, as her vision wasn’t clear. ‘Done.’

‘Thank you,’ Tavore replied. ‘Now, the chain.’

‘Of course.’

Banaschar stood holding the reins of the Adjunct’s horse. A Khundryl breed, tough and stubborn, but it was gaunt, aged by suffering, its coat matted and dull. Even the Burned Tears had, in the last days on the desert, failed in their diligence. This beast had no running left in it — the damned thing might well collapse beneath Tavore as she rode out to address her army.

Address her army. Is this truly the Adjunct? When did she last speak to all of her soldiers? Now I remember. On the ships. Confusing words, the awakening of an idea few could even grasp.

Will she manage better this time?

He realized that he was nervous for her — no, he was sick with anxiety. So I stand here holding the reins of her horse, outside her tent. I am … gods, the word is pathetic. But what does it matter? I am also priest to a god about to die on him.

I once vowed that I would meet this day cold sober. What a miserable vow to make.

The tent flap was drawn back and Captain Lostara Yil stepped outside, looked round until she saw Banaschar, and then gestured.

He led the beast forward by the reins.

The Adjunct stepped into view. Met his eyes and nodded. ‘Demidrek. You have stood here for some time, I should think — I was expecting one of my aides to attend to this, and they’re used to standing around and waiting. My apologies.’

He blinked. ‘Adjunct, you misunderstand. I drove the poor man away.’ He handed her the reins. ‘I am and always will be honoured, Tavore Paran.’

‘If I could,’ she said, ‘I would order you away from here.’

‘But I am not one of your soldiers to be bullied around,’ he said, smiling. ‘So I will do as I damned well please, Adjunct.’

She studied him, and then said, ‘I wonder.’

‘Adjunct?’

‘Is this not the true purpose of a priest? To take faith from the one hand and place it into the next? To stand between a god and one such as myself?’

His breath caught. ‘A few remain,’ he managed. ‘Most go through the motions, but see themselves as privileged … from both sides. Closer to their god than to their unordained flock.’

‘But that is not you, is it?’

‘Adjunct, I am kneeling beside you.’

There was the flicker of something in her eyes, something raw swiftly suppressed, and then she was setting a boot in the stirrup and drawing herself into the saddle.

Banaschar stepped back. Looking away, he saw rank upon rank of soldiers turned, facing them, and now they slowly shifted as Tavore trotted her mount forward. She reached the southwest corner of the formation before wheeling inward to pass along the back line. She rode straight in her saddle, a figure in tattered chain, upon a starved, dying horse.

The image seemed to sear itself in Banaschar’s mind.

Reaching the far end, she swung round the corner — making her way up to face the front of the three, much-reduced, legions. She would speak to her soldiers now. And, much as he yearned to hear her words, he knew that they were not for him.

Chest aching, the priest turned away.

As she rode towards the head of her forces, Tavore could see the dust cloud from the approaching army, and