The Crippled God

‘The girl. Setoc, with the wolf eyes. Gone.’

She stared up at Amby, frowning. And then said, ‘Oh.’

‘I don’t think she’s coming back.’

‘No, Amby, I don’t either.’

He moved back as she sat up. Her chest ached, her ragged scars itched. She was filthy and the taste in her mouth was thick with the rancid meat they’d eaten the night before. Amby stood like a man lost in the company of anyone but his brother — just a glance nearly broke her heart.

She looked past him. Sweetest Sufferance was still asleep, her rounded form swathed in blankets. Precious Thimble sat near the ashes of the night’s fire, eyes fixed dully on Amby.

She’d heard tales of horror, amongst the shareholders who’d signed out and now sat in taverns waiting to die. They’d drink and tell of missions that had ended in disaster. A dead mage, lost in unknown lands, no way home. The few lucky ones would find a place to book passage, or perhaps another Trygalle carriage would find them, half starved and half mad, and these ones would come home broken, their eyes empty.

She stared up at the morning sky. Was the flying lizard still up there? Did it mock them with its cold eyes? She doubted it. If we make it out of this, it will be a miracle. The longest tug of the Lady’s luck this world has ever seen. And let’s face it, things don’t work out that way. They never do.

‘I smelled smoke,’ said Amby.

‘When?’

He shrugged. ‘Dawn. The wind had yet to turn. Was running before the sun.’

East. She stood, studied the rumpled wastes. Was that a faint haze? No, that veil was too big. A cloud. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it’s where we were headed, more or less.’

If the man wanted to smell things, fine. Made no difference.

‘We need water,’ Amby said.

Sighing, Faint turned and approached Precious Thimble. The young witch would not meet her eyes. Faint waited for a moment, and then said, ‘Can you conjure water?’

‘I told you-’

‘Yes, the land’s mostly dead. Still. Can you?’

‘There’s no point in trying.’

‘Try anyway.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘Who left you in charge?’

‘You’re a shareholder in the Trygalle. I have seniority here, Precious.’

‘But I’m-’

‘So far,’ Faint cut in, ‘you’re nothing. Show us some magery and that might drag you up a notch or two. Open us a gate home and I’ll personally crown you empress. But until then, Precious, I’m in charge.’

‘It hurts.’

‘What does? Listen. People die.’

But she shook her head. ‘Magic. Here. The ground … flinches.’

‘Precious, I don’t care if it howls. Just get us some water.’

‘It doesn’t want us here. It doesn’t want anyone here.’

‘Too bad.’

Precious shivered. ‘There’s something … If it’s a spirit — even the ghost of one. Maybe …’

‘Get started on it.’ Faint walked over to Sweetest Sufferance. ‘Hood’s breath, wake up.’

‘I’m awake, cow.’

Well, turned out everyone felt as miserable as she did.

‘Hungry,’ said Precious Thimble.

Gods below. Faint looked to the east again. Cloud or smoke? Nearby, Amby made a groaning sound. She glanced over. Something was wrong with his face — mud streaks? Tears? No, too dark. She stepped closer. What, is that blood?

Nearby, the packhorse tore free of the stake tethering it and lunged away, hoofs thundering.

A rattling sound erupted from Sweetest Sufferance. Faint spun. ‘Sweetie?’

The blanket-swathed form was twitching.

‘Hungry,’ said Precious Thimble again.

Spasms surged through Sweetest Sufferance, her limbs jumping. She kicked her way clear of the blankets, rolled on to her back. Her eyes were opened wide, filling with blood. Her face was visibly swelling. Flesh split.

‘In here?’ asked Precious Thimble.

Faint whirled to the witch — saw the strange tilt to her head, the drool slicking her chin. Her eyes were glazed. She rushed over. ‘Get it out! Precious! Send it away!’

Sweetest Sufferance jerked upright, blood draining down from her fingertips. Bony projections had pushed through her face, closing the space for her eyes, her mouth. Her entire body shook as if something was inside, trying to escape. Tearing sounds burst from under her clothing as more bones thrust past skin, pushed at her sodden clothing.

The ground beneath the woman seemed to be cracking open.

Numb with horror, Faint backed up a step. Shock stole her will. ‘Precious — please-’

Amby suddenly howled and the cry was so raw it jolted Faint awake. Twisting round once more, she rushed to Precious Thimble. Struck the woman in the face, a vicious slap, as hard as she could manage. The young witch’s head rocked. Amby screamed again.

Faint glanced back at Sweetest Sufferance — but the woman was mostly gone, and in her place, rising up from the broken earth below, was a stained wrist thick as the bole of an ancient tree. The hand had pushed its fingers through the woman’s body, as if fighting free of an ill-fitting glove. Gore-streaked nails clawed at the air.

The ground tilted beneath Faint, almost pitching her from her feet.

Amby staggered up to Precious Thimble — his face a mask of blood — and when his fist struck her face her entire head snapped back. She toppled. Bawling, he took her in his arms and began running.

The arm was reaching higher, the remnants of Sweetest Sufferance’s body still clinging to the grasping hand. Blood was burning away, blackening, shedding in flakes, revealing a limb of purest jade.

Faint staggered back. A mound was rising — an entire hill — splitting the hard ground. The tree at the spring thrashed, and on its long-dead branches green suddenly sprouted, writhing like worms. Jade fruit bulged, burgeoned in clusters to pull the branches down.

Rock exploded from a ridge fifty paces to the south. High grasses waved like jade flames. A vast, gleaming boulder rocked into view — a forehead — oh, gods below, oh, Hood. Beru — please-

Draconus turned round, his eyes black as pools of ink. ‘Wait here,’ he said.

Ublala opened his mouth, but the ground was shaking, rolling like waves rushing in from somewhere to the north, and he forgot what he wanted to ask. He turned to his beloved.

Ralata was awake, crouched low on the balls of her feet. Terror filled her face as she stared past Ublala.

He turned back in time to see Draconus drawing his sword. Blackness poured from the long blade like wind- whipped shrouds, billowing out, twisting to close around the man like folding wings. Draconus disappeared inside the darkness, and the inky cloud spiralled higher, growing in size. In moments it towered over them, and then those black wings unfolded once more.

The apparition rose into the sky, enormous wings of inky smoke thundering the air.

Ublala stared after it. His mace was in his hands for some reason, and the skystone head steamed as if dipped in a forge.

He watched the huge thing fly away, northward. Not a dragon. Winged darkness. Just that. Winged darkness.

He licked his lips. ‘Draconus?’

The brow ridges lifted clear of the shattered bedrock. Eyes blazed like emerald beacons. A second hand had thrust free, thirty paces to the west. Faint stood as if rooted to the shaking ground, as trapped as the rattling tree. Her thoughts had fled. A pressure was building inside her skull. She could hear voices, thousands, tens of thousands of voices, all speaking in a language she could not understand. They were rising in alarm, in fear, in panic. She