The Crippled God (135 page)

Precious Thimble’s face twisted. ‘
I don’t know!
’ she cried, pulling herself away.

Faint turned, scanned the mass of troops – where was he, then?
That strange boy? But the dust was rising in walls, slipping across like curtains in the hesitant wind tracking the length of the valley. She looked to the prince’s command position – off to her left – but saw only mounted messengers, signallers and the prince’s staff. Her eyes narrowed on Atri-Ceda Aranict. ‘Precious – come with me.’

She set out.

The ghost of Sweetest Sufferance was suddenly walking at her side. ‘
You should listen to the witch, love
.’

Faint glared at the ethereal form, and then shot a look back over one shoulder – to see Precious trailing half a dozen paces behind, walking like a drunk. ‘Sweetest,’ Faint whispered, ‘how can I listen to her? She’s talking nonsense!’

‘
I’m just saying, her ideas are intriguing. Maybe she’s on the right track – I doubt that boy’s even got a belly button. Have you looked? He’s probably old enough for a roll in the grasses, a little schooling from Mistress Faint – what do you think? Can I watch? Just to see if he’s got one, of course
.’

Breath hissed from between Faint’s teeth. ‘Gods below. I can’t even see the runt. Besides, in case you hadn’t noticed, this whole valley is about to erupt in a bloodbath – and you want me to tickle his damned sack?’

‘
Never mind the whole belly thing, then. It was just a thought. I’m sure he’s got one. Everyone does. Precious is panicking, that’s all. When the Forkrul Assail unleash Akhrast Korvalain, when they awaken that deadly voice, well, who’s here to fight against that? Yon Atri-Ceda and Precious herself, and that’s it. Is it any wonder she’s gibbering?
’

‘Stop talking, Sweetest.’ Faint was almost upon the Atri-Ceda – the woman was standing on the very edge of the descent into the valley, dragging on a rustleaf stick as if it held the blood of immortality and eternal youth. And for all Faint knew, maybe it did.

‘Atri-Ceda.’

Aranict turned, and almost immediately her eyes shifted past Faint, fixing on Precious Thimble. ‘Greetings, witch. Be so good as to awaken a circle round us – and I would ask that you add your talents to my efforts in the defence to come.’ She pulled hard on the stick. ‘Failing that, we fall that much sooner.’

Precious Thimble made a whimpering sound.

Aranict’s expression darkened. ‘Courage, child. Where is your boyfriend? We will need him here – he possesses a natural disinclination to sorcerous attacks.’

Licking dust-dry lips, Faint cleared her throat. ‘Atri-Ceda, your words do not elicit confidence over the outcome of this battle.’

Lighting another stick, Aranict waved one hand, as if distracted. Sending a blast of smoke into the air she said, ‘I would advise that
you run, but then there is nowhere to run to.’ She pointed with a hand visibly trembling. ‘See the prince – down there, on the horse behind the last ranks? That is the man I love, and he is about to die. Precious – listen to me. Defend this position with all that is within you, because all my power will be down there, with him. Once the Pure finds me, he will make every effort to shred me alive.’

Faint took a step back, appalled by the heart-rending rawness of the woman standing before her, so much exposed, so much ripped open for all to see.
And yet … and yet … if I could find a love like that. If I could find such a love
. ‘Aranict,’ she now said in a soft voice – and something in the tone drew the Atri-Ceda round. ‘If I may, I will stand with you.’

She saw Aranict’s eyes widen, and then flit away – as if she could no longer bear to see what was there in Faint’s own face. The Atri-Ceda stared north. ‘He’s not yet touched on his power. But it’s only a matter of time.’

‘He may not have to,’ Faint said, following Aranict’s gaze. ‘I don’t know much about battles, but I can’t see us winning this one.’

‘We’re not here to win,’ Aranict replied. ‘We’re just here to take a long time to die.’

Precious Thimble moved past Faint then, mumbling chaining words under her breath. And there, three paces to the right, stood Amby Bole, his face a stone mask, his hands clenched into scarred fists.

And the ghost of Sweetest Sufferance spoke. ‘
Faint, I hear an echo of … of something
.’

‘It’s nothing,’ Faint muttered in reply.
Nothing but the sound of all that we are about to lose. What is that sound like? When you hear it, you will know
.

Brys Beddict rode hard along the back of the reserve line. He wanted his soldiers to hear the hoofs of his horse behind them, wanted them to know he was there. So that they would understand that wherever they hesitated, he would ride to them; when they needed the strength of a commander’s will, he would find them. Riding parallel to the ranks, he scanned the formations. Companies held tight in their rectangles, with broad avenues between them. Their discipline remained strong, resolute. There would be nothing subtle in the assault to come, and they had not yet wavered.

Horns sounded from the front ranks, to mark the last fifty paces from the enemy’s forward earthworks. That forlorn cry sang through Brys and he almost faltered.
Is she alive? Do we give our lives to a cause already lost? Is my last gesture to be an empty one? Oh, beloved brother – I could do with some encouraging words right now
.

Better yet, make me laugh. What more fitting way to meet that
moment when you fall to your knees than with sweet, unchained laughter? The kind that lifts you into the air, high above the grim violence of the land and all its sordid cruelty?

He was riding inward along the line, now, the ranks on his left, and in moments he would come into the clearing opposite the Perish-held centre, and before him, across the gap, he would see the Evertine Legion closing with the Kolansii lines.
Queen Abrastal, such a noble ally you have become. If my brother could but know of this – if your husband could witness this … some futures hold such promise as to convince you they can be nothing more than dreams, delusions built on wishful thoughts
.

You walk the steps of your life, and always that dream beckons, that dream waits. You don’t know if it can ever be made real. You don’t know that, even should you somehow stumble upon it, you won’t find it less than it was, less than it could have been – if only you could have kept that distance, kept it just outside arm’s reach. For ever shining. For ever unsullied by the all-too-real flaws of your own making
.

Aranict. How could you have given me such a thing? How could you have let me take it close, feel it here in my arms, so warm, so solid?

When those dreams in that unreachable future suddenly rise up around you, how can you not be blinded to their truths? All at once, it is here. All at once, you are living in its very midst. Why then must you seek to pull away?

He rode on, waiting for the roar of clashing weapons, waiting for the awakening of the power of the Forkrul Assail –
and I must answer it, in the only way I know how. And when I am done, I know, there will be nothing left of me
. For so long, he had not understood what he was meant to do, but now, with energies crackling the air, it had all come clear.

Aranict, my love, you now hold the best in me. I pray that, for you, it is enough
.

He bolted into the gap, sawed on the reins of his mount, and swung round to face the massive earthen fort where waited the Perish Grey Helms. But he could see nothing of what was happening behind the banked walls of earth.

In the centre of the maze of trenches and berms there was a broad marshalling area of packed earth cut with narrow slits to gather the blood of the wounded who would be brought here during the battle. Cutters waited standing close to stretchers, their faces smeared with ash to keep sweat from dripping into open wounds. Their sawing and cutting tools were laid out on skins beside leather buckets of steaming water. In all the trenches that Krughava could see into, her
blessed soldiers stood with their eyes fixed on her as she made her way towards the centre, where waited Shield Anvil Tanakalian and, a dozen paces behind him, a young woman whom Krughava had never seen before.

There was something strange about her eyes, but the Mortal Sword could not yet determine what gave them such a disquieting regard. She was barely into womanhood, dressed in ragged deerskins, her hair long and ropy with filth, and the smile curving her lips looked faintly ironic.

Krughava ascended a ridged ramp and stepped out on to the hard ground. She set her helm down, and drew off her gauntlets.

Tanakalian spoke, ‘It is our hope, Krughava, that you have come seeking to return to the fold. That you will fight with us on this day. That you will lead us in battle.’

She drew herself up, settling one hand on the pommel of her sword. ‘Yes, I would lead the Grey Helms in battle, Shield Anvil Tanakalian. But not against the Letherii or Bolkando. Rather, I would our soldiers quit these trenches.’ She lifted her gaze, studied the avenues leading back up the slope, and scowled. ‘Do you not see what they have done? The Assail have made the Grey Helms a forlorn hope.’

Tanakalian sighed, tilting his head as he regarded her. ‘There is another way of seeing our position here, Krughava. Simply put, Brother Diligence does not trust us – and you would prove to him that the Perish are as treacherous as he suspected.’

‘Treachery? Now, that is a curious thing, Shield Anvil. I am not surprised the Assail does not trust you, given your precedents.’

The Shield Anvil’s face flushed. ‘The betrayal was yours, not mine – but have we not already been through all of this? The Grey Helms heard your arguments. They heard mine. They voted.’

Krughava looked round. Hard expressions, unyielding, on all sides. ‘On this day, brothers and sisters, our allies will seek to break the tyranny of the Forkrul Assail. But that is not the only reason for this war – indeed, it is the least of them. Hear me, all of you! Long ago, a foreign god was brought down to this earth. He was torn to pieces, but they would not let him die – no, instead they chained him, as one would bind a wild beast.
As one might chain a wolf
. And so bound, so caged, that god has known nothing but unending pain and anguish. The gods feed upon him! The wretched among us mortals sip his blood in prayer! And these Forkrul Assail, they hold his heart in their cold, cruel hands!

‘My brothers and sisters! On this day we shall seek to shatter those chains. We shall seek to free the Fallen God! But more than that, we shall endeavour to return him to his realm!’ She pointed upslope. ‘And yet, where do you stand? Why, you stand at the side of torturers, and
all the words of justice they so eagerly whisper in your ears – they are nothing but lies!’

The young woman came forward then, and Krughava saw now what gave her gaze such strangeness.
Wolf eyes. One silver, one amber. Blessed Throne – she is our Destriant! The Wolves of Winter look out from those eyes!
Where had she come from?

The Destriant spoke in the Letherii trader tongue, ‘Mortal Sword, we are stirred by your words. But then, what do we know of mercy? We who have never felt its gentle touch? We who are hunted and ever hunted down? Shall I tell you of the memories rushing through me now? Will you hear my words?’

Krughava felt the blood draining from her, the heat of her passion stealing away. Beneath her heavy armour, she was suddenly cold.
This woman is my foe. Tanakalian is as nothing compared with her
. ‘Destriant, I will hear your words.’

The young woman looked round. ‘In your mind, see a herd – so many! Great, strong beasts – and they see us, they see us running beside them, or standing off in the distance. They see our shaggy heads sink low. Yet to all their nervous attention we are indifferent. Our eyes study the beasts. We seek scents on the wind. And when at last we drive that herd into flight, whom do we single out? Which of these great, terrible animals do we choose?’

Tanakalian answered with unfeigned excitement. ‘Destriant Setoc, the wolves ever choose the
weakest
among the herd. The old one, the
wounded
one.’

Krughava stared at Setoc. ‘The Wolves would feed on this day, Destriant? Upon the heart of the Crippled God?’

Setoc gestured, a loose wave of one hand. ‘Tell your allies – ignore us in this battle. We’ll not leave this nest. And when this day is done, we shall see who remains standing. It does not matter which of you has won – for you will be bleeding, your head will be hanging. You will be on one knee.’

‘And then shall the Grey Helms strike!’ cried out Tanakalian. ‘Can you not see the truth of this, Krughava? Are you so blind as to still hold to your foolish conceit?’

Krughava was silent. After a long moment, wherein the only sounds came from the advancing armies on the plain, she approached the Shield Anvil, halting only when she stood directly before him. ‘Tankalian,’ she said in a low rasp, ‘we are not wolves. Do you understand? When we act, we are privileged, or cursed, to know the consequences – the Wolves of Winter are not. They have no sense, no sense at all, of the future. There can be no worship of the Wild, Shield Anvil, without the
knowledge of right and wrong
.’

Tanakalian shook his head, avid pleasure gleaming in his eyes. ‘You
have lost this, Krughava. You cannot win – it is not just me any more, is it? Not even just the Perish. Now, you face a Destriant, and through her, our very gods.’