The Crippled God

Corabb leapt over the chained god.

Kolansii faces turned towards him — and then he was among them, his sword singing. The shield was torn from his left arm by an axe blade. A point bit deep into his side. Howling, he slashed open a shoulder, cutting through chain, the links scattering, and then drove another man to his knees on the backswing.

A heavy grunt from someone on his right — Shortnose had arrived, shield-bashing two foes, sending both to the ground. He’d collected up a Kolansii axe and now used it to dispatch the stunned soldiers.

More of the enemy rushed them.

The Crippled God was able to turn his head, was witness to the savage, desperate defence from these two Malazans. He watched the enemy driven back in one instant, then pushing closer in the next. The sweat of one of his protectors had splashed his face when the man had sailed over him, and those droplets now ran down in trickles, leaving tracks that felt cool as tears.

It seemed that there would be no reinforcements to this modest engagement — the enemy was upon them on all sides. They had finally come within sight of his chained body — and now the Forkrul Assail understood the purpose behind all this. The Crippled God could feel the Assail’s hunger.

I am almost all here, within this bag of skin. And I remain in chains.

He can wound me. He can feed on my power for all time — and none could challenge him. He will unleash my poison upon the world.

The Malazan with the cut-off nose-tip staggered, pierced through by a sword, and then another. Only to then straighten, his axe lashing out. Bodies reeled, toppled in welters of gore. He stumbled forward, and the Crippled God saw his face in profile — and saw the man’s smile as he fell face first on to the ground.

Leaving but one defender, harried now by three Kolansii, with a fourth and fifth soldier appearing from behind them.

His lone stalwart marine cut one down with his singing blade. And then another — crippled by a thigh chopped down to the bone.

The axe that caught the marine was swung from the shield side — but the Malazan held no shield, could not block the swing. It cut clean through his left shoulder, severing the arm. Blood spraying, the man stepped back, his torso held pitched to one side, unbalanced. A second swing slashed through half his neck.

Somehow, the marine found the strength to drive the point of his sword into his killer’s throat, the tip bursting out below the back of the skull. The thrust toppled him forward, into the dying man’s arms. They fell as one.

Even as the remaining two Kolansii moved towards the Crippled God, weapons lifting, quarrels flashed in the air, knocked both men down.

The god heard the scuff and thump of boots, and then someone landed and slid up against him, and he turned his head to the kneeling saviour, looked up into Captain Fiddler’s eyes.

‘They reach you, Lord?’

The Crippled God shook his head. ‘Captain, your soldiers …’

As if the word alone wounded him, Fiddler looked away, and then scrambled back on to his feet, cranking back the claw on the crossbow, his eyes fixing on the breach. Those eyes then went wide. ‘Hedge!’ he screamed.

Hedge fell against the hacked bodies of Sweetlard and Rumjugs. The trail just below where the two women had fought was jammed with corpses — but beyond them he could see more Kolansii soldiers, dragging the way clear. They’d be through in moments.

Too many. Fuck.

How long had they been fighting? He had no idea. How many waves of attacks? It seemed like hundreds, but that wasn’t possible — they still had daylight above them. Dying daylight, aye, but still …

Eyes on the mass of enemy below, an enemy heaving ever closer, he drew round the satchel he had collected from the mound of gear close to the feet of the Crippled God. Drew out the cusser. Always keep one. Always.

Sapper’s vow. If you’re going down, take the bastards with ya.

He lifted it high.

Behind him he heard Fiddler shriek his name.

Aw, shit. Sorry, Fid.

Hedge plunged down the trail, rushing the mob of Kolansii.

And then heard someone behind him, and whirled. ‘Fiddler, damn you! No! Go back!’

Instead, his friend tackled him. Both went down, the cusser flying from Hedge’s hand.

Neither man ducked for cover, instead turning to watch the munition take its leisurely, curving path down to the press of soldiers — and all those bobbing iron helms.

It struck one of those helms clean as a coconut falling from a tree.

Burst open to spill insensate carmine powder.

The two sappers stared at each other, faces barely a hand’s width apart, and in unison they cried, ‘Dud!’

And then a Malazan slammed down beside them in a clatter of armour — a man if anything shorter than Reliko, yet pale and thin, his ears protruding from the sides of his narrow head. He faced them and offered up a yellow, snaggle-toothed smile. ‘Got your backs, sirs. Get on wi’yee now!’

Fiddler stared at the man. ‘Who in Hood’s name are you?’

The soldier gave him a hurt look. ‘I’m Nefarias Bredd, sir! Who else would I be? Now, get back up there — I’ll cover yee, aye?’

Fiddler turned and dragged Hedge back on to his feet, pulling him up the trail. As they scrabbled to the edge, hands reached down and dragged them up. The faces of the marines now surrounding them — Tarr, Bottle, Smiles and Koryk — were the palest he had ever seen. Deadsmell arrived and fell to his knees beside the prone bodies of Rumjugs and Sweetlard, looked up and muttered something to Tarr.

Nodding, Sergeant Tarr pushed Hedge and Fiddler from the edge. ‘We got this breach taken care of, sirs.’

Fiddler grasped Hedge’s arm, yanked him as he dragged him away.

‘Fid-’

‘Shut the fuck up!’ He rounded on Hedge. ‘You thought to just do it all over again?’

‘It looked like we was finished!’

‘We ain’t never finished, damn you! We drove ’em back again — you hearing me? They’re pulling back — we drove them back again!’

Hedge’s legs suddenly felt watery beneath him. He abruptly sat down. Gloom was settling round them. He listened to gasping breaths, cursing, ragged coughs. Looking about, he saw that the others within sight were also down on the ground, too tired for anything more. Heads fell back, eyes closed. His sigh was a rasp. ‘Gods, how many soldiers you got left, Fid?’

The man was now lying beside him, back propped against a tilted stone. ‘Maybe twenty. You?’

A shudder took Hedge and he looked away. ‘The sergeants were the last of ’em.’

‘They ain’t dead.’

‘What?’

‘Cut up, aye. But just unconscious. Deadsmell figures it was heat prostration.’

‘Heat- Gods below, I told ’em to drink all they had!’

‘They’re big women, Hedge.’

‘My last Bridgeburners.’

‘Aye, Hedge, your last Bridgeburners.’

Hedge opened his eyes and looked over at his friend — but Fid’s own eyes remained shut, face towards the darkening sky. ‘Really? What you said?’

‘Really.’

Hedge settled back. ‘Think we can stop ’em again?’

‘Of course we can. Listen, you ain’t hiding another cusser, are you?’

‘No. Hood take me, I been carrying that one for bloody ever. And all that time, it was a dud!’