The Crippled God

by Steven Erikson

  ‘A thousand people can dream of war, but no two dreams are the same. Soon he will be gone, and Mappo, too. The boy will be upset.’

  The two horses shied suddenly, stumbling in their hobbles. Stepping past them, Torrent scowled. ‘This dawn,’ he said in a growl, ‘the hare is bold.’

  Precious Thimble bit back a shriek, clawed herself awake with a gasp. Traces of fire raced along her nerves. Kicking her bedding aside, she scrambled to her feet.

  Torrent and Setoc stood near the horses, facing north. Someone was coming. The ground underfoot seemed to recoil in waves sweeping past her, like ripples passing just beneath the surface. Precious struggled to slow her gasping breaths. She set out to join the warrior and the girl, leaning forward as if fighting an invisible current. Hearing heavy footfalls behind her, she glanced back to see Gruntle and Mappo.

  ‘Be careful, Precious,’ Gruntle said. ‘Against this one …’ He shook his head. The barbed tattoos covering his skin were visibly deepening, and in his eyes there was nothing human. He’d yet to draw his cutlasses.

  Her gaze flicked to the Trell, but his expression revealed nothing.

  I didn’t kill Jula. It wasn’t my fault.

  She spun back, pushed on.

  The figure striding towards them was withered, a crone swathed in snakeskins. As she drew closer, Precious could see the ravaged state of her broad face, the emptiness of her eye sockets. Behind her Gruntle unleashed a feline hiss. ‘T’lan Imass. No weapons, meaning she’s a Bonecaster. Precious Thimble, do not bargain with this one. She will offer you power, to get what she wants. Refuse her.’

  Through gritted teeth, she replied, ‘We need to get home.’

  ‘Not that way.’

  She shook her head.

  The crone halted ten paces away, and to Precious Thimble’s surprise it was Torrent who spoke first.

  ‘Leave them alone, Olar Ethil.’

  The hag cocked her head, wisps of hair drifting out like strands of spider silk. ‘There is only one, warrior. It is no concern of yours. I am here to claim my kin.’

  ‘Your what? Witch, there’s—’

  ‘You cannot have him,’ Gruntle rumbled, edging past Torrent.

  ‘Stay out of this, whelp,’ Olar Ethil warned. ‘Look to your god, and see how he cowers before me.’ She then pointed a gnarled finger at Mappo. ‘And you, Trell, this is not your battle. Stand aside, and I will tell you all you need know of the one you seek.’

  Mappo seemed to stagger, and then, his face twisting in anguish, he stepped back.

  Precious gasped.

  Setoc spoke. ‘Who is this kin of yours, witch?’

  ‘He is named Absi.’

  ‘Absi? There is no—’

  ‘The boy,’ snapped Olar Ethil. ‘The son of Onos Toolan. Bring him to me.’

  Gruntle drew his swords.

  ‘Don’t be a fool!’ the Bonecaster snarled. ‘Your own god will stop you! Treach will not simply let you throw away your life on this. You think to veer? You will fail. I will kill you, Mortal Sword, do not doubt that. The boy. Bring him to me.’

  The rest were awake now, and Precious turned round to see Absi standing between the twins, his eyes wide and bright. Baaljagg was slowly coming forward, closer to where Setoc stood, its massive head lowered. Amby Bole remained close to his brother’s barrow, closed in and silent, his once young face now old, and whatever love there had been in his eyes had vanished. Cartographer stood with one foot in the coals of the hearth, staring at something to the east – perhaps the rising sun – while Sweetest Sufferance was helping Faint to her feet. I need to try some more healing on her. I can show Amby I don’t always fail. I can – no, think about what is before us now! She gave Mappo what he wants, as easy as that. She bargains quick, she speaks true. Precious faced the Bonecaster. ‘Ancient One, we in the Trygalle are stranded here. I have not the power to take us home.’

  ‘You will not interfere if I bless you with what you need?’ Olar Ethil nodded. ‘Agreed. Collect the child.’

  ‘Don’t even think it,’ Gruntle warned, the look in his unhuman eyes halting Precious in her tracks. The barbs on his bared arms seemed to blur a moment, then grew sharp once again.

  The Bonecaster said, ‘The boy is mine, whelp, because his father belongs to me. The First Sword serves me once again. Would you truly desire to prevent me from reuniting the son with the father?’

  Stavi and Storii rushed closer, their questions tumbling together. ‘Father – he’s alive? Where is he?’

  Gruntle barred their way with a levelled cutlass. ‘Hold a moment, you two. Something is not right here. Wait, I beg you. Guard your brother.’ He turned back to Olar Ethil. ‘If the boy’s father now serves you, where is he?’

  ‘Not far.’

  ‘Then bring him to us,’ Gruntle said. ‘He can collect his children himself.’

  ‘The daughters are not of his blood,’ Olar Ethil replied. ‘I have no use for them.’

  ‘You? What of Onos Toolan?’

  ‘Give them to me, then, and I will see to their disposal.’

  Torrent spun round. ‘Slitting their throats is what she means, Gruntle.’

  ‘I did not say that, warrior,’ the Bonecaster retorted. ‘I will take the three, this I offer.’

  Baaljagg was edging closer to Olar Ethil, and she beckoned to it. ‘Blessed Ay, I greet you and invite you into my comp—’

  The huge beast lunged, massive jaws crunching as they closed round the Bonecaster’s right shoulder. The ay then spun, whipping Olar Ethil from her feet. Strips of reptile hide, fetishes of bone and shell flailed and snapped. The giant wolf did not release its grip, instead reared a second time, slamming Olar Ethil hard on to the ground. Bones splintered in its jaws, and the body struggled feebly, as would a victim stunned.

  Baaljagg tore loose its grip on her crushed shoulder and closed its fangs about her skull. It then whipped her into the air.

  Olar Ethil’s left hand was suddenly stabbing into the ay’s throat, punching through withered hide and closing on its spinal column. Even as the wolf flung her upward, she caught hold. The momentum from Baaljagg’s surge added force to her grip. A sudden, terrible ripping sound erupted from the ay, and like a serpent a length of the beast’s spinal column tore free of its throat, still clutched in the witch’s bony hand.

  The Bonecaster spun away from the ay, landing hard in a clatter of bones.

  Baaljagg collapsed, head lolling like a stone in a sack.

  Absi wailed.

  As Olar Ethil was picking herself up, Gruntle marched towards her, his two weapons readied. Seeing him, she flung the spinal column to one side.

  And began to veer.

  When he reached her, she was nothing but a blur, moments from expanding into something huge. He punched where her head had been a moment earlier, and the bell hilt of the cutlass cracked hard against something. The veering abruptly vanished. Reeling back, her face crushed, Olar Ethil sprawled on her back.

  ‘Spit on the tiger god,’ Gruntle said, standing directly over her. ‘Hood take your stupid veering, and mine!’ Clashing his blades together, he brought them down in an X pattern beneath her jaw. ‘Now, Bonecaster, I happen to know that if you hit even T’lan Imass bones hard enough, they shatter.’

  ‘No mortal—’

  ‘Piss on that. I will leave you in pieces, do you understand me? Pieces. How’s it done again? Head in a niche? On a pole? The crook of a tree? No trees here, witch, but a hole in the ground, that’s easy.’

  ‘The child is mine.’

  ‘He won’t have you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You just killed his dog.’

  Precious Thimble hurried forward, feeling half fevered, her knees wobbly beneath her. ‘Bonecaster—’

  ‘I am considering withdrawing my offers,’ Olar Ethil said. ‘All of them. Now, Mortal Sword, will you remove your weapons and let me rise?’

  ‘I haven’t decided.’

  ‘What must I promise? To l
eave Absi in your care? Will you guard his life, Mortal Sword?’

  Precious saw Gruntle hesitate.

  ‘I came to bargain with you all,’ Olar Ethil continued. ‘In faith. The undead ay was a slave to ancient memories, ancient betrayals. I will not hold it against any of you. Mortal Sword, look upon your friends – who among them is capable of protecting the children? You will not. The Trell waits only to hear my words whispering through his mind, and then he will quit your company. The Awl warrior is a pup, and a disrespectful one at that. The Jhag Bolead spawn is broken inside. I mean to bring to Onos Toolan his children—’

  ‘He’s a T’lan Imass, isn’t he?’

  The Bonecaster was silent.

  ‘It’s the only way he would still serve you,’ Gruntle said. ‘He died, just as his daughters believed, and you resurrected him. Will you do the same to the boy? The gift of your deathly touch?’

  ‘Of course not. He must live.’

  ‘Why?’

  She hesitated, and then said, ‘Because he is the hope of my people, Mortal Sword. I need him – for my army and for the First Sword who commands them. The child, Absi, shall be their cause, their reason to fight.’

  Gruntle, Precious saw, was suddenly pale. ‘A child? Their cause?’

  ‘Their banner, yes. You do not understand – I cannot hold on to his anger … the First Sword’s. It is dark, a beast unchained, a leviathan – he must not be unleashed, not this way. Burn’s dream, Mortal Sword, let me rise!’

  Gruntle withdrew his weapons, stumbled back a step. He was muttering something under his breath. Precious Thimble caught only a few words. In the Daru tongue. ‘The banner … child’s tunic, was that it? The colour … began red, ended … black.’

  Olar Ethil struggled to her feet. Her face was barely recognizable, a crushed, splintered knot of bone and torn hide. The gouges from Baaljagg’s canines had scored deep, white grooves on her temples and the base of her mandible on both sides. The ruined shoulder slumped, its arm hanging useless.

  As Gruntle backed still further, an anguished cry came from Setoc. ‘Has she won you all then? Will no one protect him? Please! Please!’

  The twins were weeping. Absi was kneeling beside Baaljagg’s desiccated body, moaning in a strange cadence.

  Cartographer clattered closer to the boy, one foot blackened and smouldering. ‘Make him stop that. Someone. Make him stop that.’

  Precious frowned, but the others ignored the undead man’s pleas. What does he mean by that? She turned to Olar Ethil. ‘Bonecaster—’

  ‘East, woman. That is where you will find all you need. I have touched your soul. I have made it into a Mahybe, a vessel that waits. East.’

  Precious Thimble crossed her arms, eyes closing for a moment. She wanted to look at Faint and Sweetest, to see the satisfaction, the relief, in their eyes. She wanted to, but knew she would see nothing of the sort, not from those two. They were women, after all, and three children were being surrendered. Thrown into undead arms. They will thank me in the end. When the memory of this moment fades, when we are all safe and home again.

  Well … not all of us. But what can we do?

  Setoc, with Torrent at her side, was all that stood between Olar Ethil and the three children. Tears streamed down Setoc’s cheeks, and in the Awl warrior’s stance Precious Thimble saw a man facing his execution. He’d drawn his sabre, but the look in his eyes was bleak. Yet he did not waver. Among them all, this young warrior was the only one not to turn away. Damn you, Setoc, will you see this brave boy die?

  ‘We can’t stop her,’ Precious said to Setoc. ‘You must see that. Torrent – tell her.’

  ‘I gave up the last of the Awl children to the Barghast,’ said Torrent. ‘And now they are all dead. Gone.’ He shook his head.

  ‘Can you protect these ones any better?’ Precious demanded.

  It was as if he’d been slapped. He looked away. ‘Giving up children is the one thing I seem to do well.’ He sheathed his weapon and grasped Setoc’s upper arm. ‘Come with me. We will talk where no one else can hear us.’

  Setoc shot the warrior a wild look, started to struggle, and then abruptly sagged in his grip.

  Precious watched him drag her away. He broke like a frail twig. Are you proud of yourself now, Precious?

  But the path is finally clear.

  Olar Ethil walked with a hitching gait she’d not shown before, joints grinding and snapping, up to where the boy knelt. She reached down with her good arm and scooped him up by the collar of his Barghast tunic. Held him out to study his face, and he in turn looked steadily back at her, dry-eyed, flat. The Bonecaster grunted. ‘Your father’s son all right, by the Abyss.’

  She turned round and set off, northward, the boy hanging from her grip. After a moment, the twins followed, neither one looking back. There’s no end to losing everything, is there? It just goes on and on. Their mother, their father, their people. No, they won’t be looking back.

  And why should they? We failed them. She came, she cut us apart, bought us like an empress scattering a handful of coins. And they were what she bought. Them, and our turning away. And it was easy, because this is what we are.

  Mahybe? What in Hood’s name is that?

  With horror in his heart, Mappo set out from the camp, leaving the others, leaving behind this terrible dawn. He struggled to keep from breaking into a run, as if that would help. Besides, if they all watched him, they did so with consciences as stained as his own. Was there comfort in that? Should there be? We are nothing but our own needs. She but showed each of us the face we hide from ourselves and everyone else. She shamed us by exposing our truths.

  He fought to remind himself of his purpose, of all that his vow demanded, and the horrifying things it could make him do.

  Icarium lives. Remember that. Focus on it. He waits for me. I will find him. I will make it all right once again. Our small world, closed up and impervious to everything outside it. A world where none will challenge us, where none will question our deeds, the hateful decisions we once made.

  Give me this world, please, I beg you.

  My most precious lies – she stole them all. They saw.

  Setoc, dear gods, the betrayal in your face!

  No. I will find him. I will protect him from the world. I will protect the world from him. And from everything else, from hurt eyes and broken hearts, I will protect myself. And you all called it my sacrifice, my heartbreaking loyalty – there on the Path of Hands, I took your breaths away.

  Bonecaster, you stole my lies. See me now.

  He knew his ancestors were far, far away. Their bones crumbled to dust in chambers beneath heaped mounds of stone and earth. He knew he had forsaken them long ago.

  Then why could he hear their howls?

  Mappo clapped his hands over his ears, but that did not help. The howling went on, and on. And on this vast empty plain, he suddenly felt small, shrinking still further with each step. My heart. My honour … shrinking, withering down … with each step. He’s only a child. They all are. He curled up in Gruntle’s arms. The girls, they held on to Setoc’s hands and sang songs.

  Is it not the one inescapable responsibility of an adult to protect and defend a child?

  I am not as I once was. What have I done?

  Memories. The past. All so precious – I want it back, I want it all back. Icarium, I will find you.

  Icarium, please, save me.

  Torrent climbed into his saddle. He looked down and met Setoc’s eyes, and then nodded.

  He could see the fear and the doubt in her face, and wished he had more words worth saying, but he’d used them all up. Was it not enough that he was doing this? The question, asked so boldly and self-righteously in his own mind, almost made him laugh out loud. Still, he had to do this. He had to try. ‘I will ward them, I promise.’

  ‘You owe them nothing,’ she said, hugging herself with such severity he thought her ribs might crack. ‘Not your charge, but mine. Why do you do this?’

/>   ‘I knew Toc.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think: what would he do? That is my answer, Setoc.’

  Tears ran down her face. She held her lips tight, as if to speak would be to loose her grief, a wailing demon that would never again be chained, or beaten down.

  ‘I left children to die once,’ he continued. ‘I let Toc down. But this time,’ he shrugged, ‘I hope to do better. Besides, she knows me. She will use me, she’s done it before.’ He glanced over at the others. The camp was packed up. Faint and Sweetest Sufferance had already begun walking, like two broken refugees. Precious Thimble trailed them by a few steps, like a child uncertain of her welcome in their company. Amby walked on his own, off to the right of the others, staring straight ahead, his stride stiff, brittle. And Gruntle, after a few words with Cartographer who once more sat on Jula’s barrow, had set off, shoulders rounded as if in visceral pain. Cartographer, it seemed, was staying behind. It comes together only to fall apart. ‘Setoc, your wolf ghosts were frightened of her.’

  ‘Terrified.’

  ‘You could do nothing.’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘Is that supposed to help? Words like that just dig big holes and invite us to jump.’

  He glanced away. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Go, catch up to them.’

  He collected his reins, swung his mount round and tapped its flanks with his heels.

  Did you gamble on this, too, Olar Ethil? How smug will you sound in your greeting?

  Well now, enjoy your time, because it won’t last for ever. Not if I have any say in the matter. Do not worry, Toc, I’ve not forgotten. For you, I will do this, or die in the effort.

  He rode at a canter across the empty land, until he drew within sight of the Bonecaster and her three charges. When the twins turned and cried out in relief, it very nearly broke him.

  Setoc had watched the young Awl warrior ride after Olar Ethil, saw when he reached them. An exchange of words, and then they set out once more, walking until the deceptive folds of the landscape swallowed them all. Then she turned, studied Cartographer. ‘The boy was crying in grief. Over his dead dog. You told him to stop. Why? Why should that have so bothered you?’