The Crippled God

by Steven Erikson

  ‘You’re the best among us with a crossbow, Widder, so you ain’t useless even without any magic.’

  ‘Maybe so, Throatslitter, but it doesn’t feel that way.’

  ‘Deadsmell,’ said Balm, ‘you’ve been doing some healing.’

  ‘I have, but Widder’s right. It’s not fun. The problem – for me, that is – is that I’m still somehow bound to Hood. Even though he’s, uh, dead. Don’t know why that should be, but the magic when it comes to me, well, it’s cold as ice.’

  Widdershins frowned at Deadsmell. ‘Ice? That makes no sense.’

  ‘Hood was a damned Jaghut, so yes, it does. And no, it doesn’t, because he’s … well, gone.’

  Throatslitter spat and said, ‘If he really died, like you say, did he walk into his realm? And didn’t he have to be dead in the first place, being the God of Death and all? What you’re saying makes no sense, Deadsmell.’

  The necromancer looked unhappy. ‘I know.’

  ‘Next time you do some healing,’ said Widdershins, ‘let me do some sniffing.’

  ‘You’ll heave again.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘What are you thinking, Widder?’ Balm asked.

  ‘I’m thinking Deadsmell’s not using Hood’s warren any more. I’m thinking it must be Omtose Phellack.’

  ‘It’s occurred to me,’ Deadsmell said in a mumble.

  ‘One way to test it for sure,’ Balm said.

  Widdershins swore. ‘Aye. We don’t know the details, but the rumour is that she’s got some broken ribs, maybe even spitting up blood, and is still concussed. But with that Otataral in her, no one can do much about it.’

  ‘But Omtose Phellack is Elder.’ Deadsmell was nodding. ‘We should go, then. It’s worth a try.’

  ‘We will,’ said Balm, ‘but first we eat.’

  ‘And leave the Adjunct in pain?’

  ‘We eat and drink here,’ said Balm, eyes flat, ‘because we’re marines and we don’t kick dirt in the faces of fellow soldiers.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Widdershins. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘I’m starving.’

  Shortnose had lost the four fingers of his shield hand. To stop the bleeding that had gone on even after the nubs had been sewn up, he had held them against a pot left squatting in a fire. Now the ends looked melted and there were blisters up to his knuckles. But the bleeding had stopped.

  He had been about to profess his undying love for Flashwit, but then that sergeant from the 18th had come by and collected up both Flashwit and Mayfly, so Shortnose was alone, the last left in Gesler’s old squad.

  He’d sat for a time, alone, using a thorn to pop blisters and then sucking them dry. When that was done he sat some more, watching the fire burn down. At the battle the severed finger of one of the lizards had fallen down the back of his neck, between armour and shirt. When he’d finally retrieved it, he and Mayfly and Flashwit had cooked and shared its scant ribbons of meat. Then they’d separated out and distributed the bones, tying them into their hair. It was what Bonehunters did.

  They’d insisted he get the longest one, on account of getting his hand chopped up, and it now hung beneath his beard, overwhelming the other finger bones, which had all come from Letherii soldiers. It was heavy and long enough to thump against his chest when he walked, which is what he decided to do once he realized that he was lonely.

  Kit packed, slung over one shoulder, he set out. Thirty-two paces took him into Fiddler’s old squad’s camp, where he found a place to set up his tent, left his satchel in that spot, and then walked over to sit down with the other soldiers.

  The pretty little woman seated on his right handed him a tin cup filled with steaming something. When he smiled his thanks she didn’t smile back, which was when he recalled that her name was Smiles.

  This, he decided, was better than being lonely.

  ‘Got competition, Corabb.’

  ‘Don’t see that,’ the Seven Cities warrior replied.

  ‘Shortnose wants to be our new fist,’ Cuttle explained.

  ‘Making what, four fists in this squad? Me, Corporal Tarr, Koryk and now Shortnose.’

  ‘I was a corporal not a fist,’ said Tarr. ‘Besides, I don’t punch, I just take ’em.’

  Cuttle snorted. ‘Hardly. You went forward, no different from any fist I ever seen.’

  ‘I went forward to stand still, sapper.’

  ‘Well, that’s a good point,’ Cuttle conceded. ‘I stand corrected, then.’

  ‘I just realized something,’ said Smiles. ‘We got no sergeant any more. Unless it’s you, Tarr. And if that’s the case, then we need a new corporal, and since I’m the only one left with any brains, it’s got to be me.’

  Tarr scratched at his greying beard. ‘Was thinking Corabb, actually.’

  ‘He needs his own private weapons wagon!’

  ‘I kept my Letherii sword,’ Corabb retorted. ‘I didn’t lose anything this time.’

  ‘Let’s vote on it.’

  ‘Let’s not, Smiles,’ said Tarr. ‘Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas, you’re now the Fourth Squad’s corporal. Congratulations.’

  ‘He’s barely stopped being a recruit!’ Smiles scowled at everyone.

  ‘Cream will rise,’ said Cuttle.

  Koryk bared his teeth at Smiles. ‘Live with it, soldier.’

  ‘I’m corporal now,’ said Corabb. ‘Did you hear that, Shortnose? I’m corporal now.’

  The heavy looked up from his cup. ‘Hear what?’

  Losing Bottle had hurt them. Cuttle could see that in their faces. The squad’s first loss, at least as far as he could recall. First from the originals, anyway. But the loss of only one soldier was pretty damned good. Most squads had fared a lot worse. Some squads had ceased to exist. Some? More like most of ’em.

  He settled back against a spare tent’s bulky folds, watched the others covertly. Listened to their complaints. Koryk was a shaken man. Whatever spine of freedom there’d once been inside him, holding him up straight, had broken. Now he wore chains inside, and they messed with his brain, and maybe that was now permanent. He drank from a well of fear, and he kept on going back to it.

  That scrap back there had been horrible, but Koryk had been stumbling even before then. Cuttle wondered what was left of the warrior he’d once known. Tribals had a way of kneeling to the worst vicissitudes of civilization, and no matter how clever the cleverest ones might be, they often proved blind to what was killing them.

  Maybe no different from regular people, but, to Cuttle’s mind, somehow more tragic.

  Even Smiles was slowly prising herself loose from Koryk.

  She hadn’t changed, Cuttle decided. Not one whit. As psychotic and murderous as ever, was Smiles. Her knife work had been vicious, down there beneath the swing of the lizards’ weapons. She’d toppled giants that day. For all that, she’d make a terrible corporal.

  Tarr had been Tarr. The same as he always was and always would be. He’d be a solid sergeant. Perhaps a tad unimaginative, but this squad was past the need for anything that might shake it up. And we’ll follow him sharp enough. The man’s a bristling wall, and when that helm of his settles low over his brow, not a herd of charging bhederin could budge him. Aye, Tarr, you’ll do just fine.

  Corabb. Corporal Corabb. Perfect.

  And now Shortnose. Sitting like a tree stump, flattened blisters weeping down his hand. Drinking that rotgut Smiles had brewed up, a half-smile on his battered face. You ain’t fooling me, Shortnose. Been in the army way too long. You love the thick-skull stuff, you heavies all do. But I see the flick of those tiny eyes under those lids.

  ‘Hear what?’ Nice one, but I saw the spark you tried to hide. Happy to be here, are you? Good. Happy to have you.

  As for me, what have I learned? Nothing new. We got through it but we got plenty more to get through. Ask me then. Ask me then.

  He glanced over to see Fiddler arriving. Only the neck of his fiddle left, hanging down his back, kinked strings sprung like errant hairs. Most
of the red gone from his beard. His short sword’s scabbard was empty – he’d left the weapon jutting from a lizard’s eye socket. The look in his blue eyes was cool, almost cold.

  ‘Sergeant Tarr, half a bell, and then lead them to the place.’

  ‘Aye, Captain.’

  ‘We got riders coming up from the south. Perish, a few Khundryl, and someone else. A whole lot of someone else.’

  Cuttle frowned. ‘Who?’

  Fiddler shrugged. ‘Parley. We’ll find out soon enough.’

  ‘Told you you’d live.’

  Henar Vygulf smiled up at her from where he lay on the cot. But it was an uncertain smile. ‘I did what you asked, Lostara. I watched.’

  Her gaze faltered.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t ask me that. I see that question in every face. They all look at me. They say nothing.’ She hesitated, staring down at her hands. ‘It was the Shadow Dance. It was every Shadow Dance.’ She met his eyes suddenly. ‘It wasn’t me. I just slipped back, inside, and just like you, I watched.’

  ‘If not you, then who?’

  ‘The Rope. Cotillion, the Patron God of Assassins.’ She grimaced. ‘He took over. He’s done things like that before, I think.’

  Henar’s eyes widened. ‘A god.’

  ‘A furious god. I – I have never felt such rage. It burned right through me. It scoured me clean.’ She unhooked her belt, tugged loose her scabbarded knife. She set it down on the blankets covering his wounded chest. ‘For you, my love. But be careful, it’s very, very sharp.’

  ‘The haunt is gone from your face, Lostara,’ said Henar. ‘You were beautiful before, but now …’

  ‘An unintended gift, to be sure,’ she said with some diffidence. ‘Gods are not known for mercy. Or compassion. But no mortal could stand in that blaze, and not come through either burned to ashes, or reborn.’

  ‘Reborn, yes. A good description indeed. My boldness,’ he added with a rueful grimace, ‘retreats before you now.’

  ‘Don’t let it,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t take mice to my bed, Henar Vygulf.’

  ‘I shall try, then, to find the man I was.’

  ‘I will help, but not yet – the healers are far from finished with you.’ She rose. ‘I must leave you now. The Adjunct.’

  ‘I think Brys has forgotten me. Or assumed me dead.’

  ‘Don’t think I’ll be reminding him,’ she said. ‘You ride at my side from now on.’

  ‘Brys—’

  ‘Hardly. A word in private with Aranict will do the trick, I think.’

  ‘The king’s brother is collared?’

  ‘Next time you two meet, you can compare shackles.’

  ‘Thought you disliked mice, Lostara Yil.’

  ‘Oh, I expect you to struggle and strain at your chains, Henar. It’s the ones we can’t tame that we keep under lock and key.’

  ‘I see.’

  She turned to leave the hospital tent, saw the rows of faces turned to her, even among the cutters. ‘Hood’s breath,’ she muttered.

  Pleasantly drunk, Banaschar made his way towards the command tent. He saw Fist Blistig standing outside the entrance, like a condemned man at the torturer’s door. Oh, you poor man. The wrong dead hero back there. You had your chance, I suppose. You could have been as brainless as Keneb. You could have stayed in his shadow right to the end, in fact, since you’d clearly been finding it such safe shelter for the past few months.

  But the sun finds no obstruction in painting you bright now, and how does it feel? The man looked ill. But you don’t drink, do you? That’s not last night’s poison in your face, more’s the pity. Sick with fear, then, and Banaschar dredged up some real sympathy for the man. A stir or two, clouding the waters, dulling the sharp edges of righteous satisfaction.

  ‘Such a fine morning, Fist,’ he said upon arriving.

  ‘You’ll be in trouble soon, High Priest.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘When the wine runs out.’

  Banaschar smiled. ‘The temple’s cellars remain well stocked, I assure you.’

  Blistig’s eyes lit with something avid. ‘You can just go there? Any time you want?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘So why do you remain? Why don’t you flee this madness?’

  Because Holy Mother wants me here. I am her last priest. She has something in mind for me, yes she does. ‘I am dreadfully sorry to tell you this, Fist, but that door is a private one, an exclusive one.’

  Blistig’s face darkened. There were two guards outside the command tent, only a few paces away, well within earshot. ‘I was suggesting you leave us, High Priest. You’re a useless drunk, a bad influence on this army. Why the Adjunct insists on your infernal presence at these gatherings baffles me.’

  ‘I am sure it does, Fist. But I can’t imagine being such a dark temptation to your soldiers. I don’t share my private stock, after all. Indeed, I suspect seeing me turns a soul away from the miseries of alcohol.’

  ‘You mean you disgust them?’

  ‘Precisely so, Fist.’ But we really shouldn’t be having this conversation, should we? Because we could swap positions and apart from the drink, not a word need be changed. The real difference is, I lose nothing by their disgust, whereas you … ‘Do we await the Letherii contingent, Fist?’

  ‘Simple courtesy, High Priest.’

  You liked that idea, did you? Enough to latch on to it. Fine. ‘Then I will keep you company for a time, at least until their approach.’

  ‘Don’t leave it too long,’ Blistig said. ‘You’d give a bad impression.’

  ‘No doubt, and I shall not overstay the moment.’

  ‘In fact,’ resumed Blistig, ‘I see the other Fists on their way. If you want your choice of seat in the tent, High Priest, best go in now.’

  Well now, I can happily latch on to that. ‘Tactical, Fist. I shall heed your advice.’ Bowing, he turned and strode between the two guards. Catching the eye of one, he winked.

  And received nothing in return.

  Lostara Yil turned at the shout to see four marines approaching her. A Dal Honese sergeant, what was his name? Balm. Three soldiers trailed him, presumably what was left of his squad. ‘You want something, Sergeant? Be quick, I’m on my way to the command tent.’

  ‘So are we,’ Balm said. ‘Got a healer here who maybe could do something for her.’

  ‘Sergeant, it doesn’t work that way—’

  ‘It might,’ said the tall soldier with the scarred neck, his voice thin, the sound of stone whetting iron.

  ‘Explain.’

  Another soldier said, ‘We’re thinking he’s using an Elder Warren, Captain.’

  ‘A what? How in Hood’s name can that be?’

  The healer seemed to choke on something, and then he stepped forward. ‘It’s worth my trying, sir. I think Widdershins is right this time, for a change.’

  Lostara considered for a moment, before nodding. ‘Follow me.’

  Marines weren’t in the habit of wasting people’s time, and asking to step into the presence of the Adjunct was, for most of them, far from a feverish ambition. So they think they’ve worked something out. It’d be worth seeing if they’re right. Her headaches are getting worse – you can see it.

  The command tent came into view, and she saw the Fists gathered at the entrance. They noted her approach and whatever desultory conversation had been going on a moment earlier fell away. Fine then, even you. Go ahead. ‘Fists,’ she said, ‘if you would be so good as to clear a path. These marines have an appointment with the Adjunct.’

  ‘First I’ve heard of it,’ said Kindly.

  ‘Well, as I recall,’ said Lostara, ‘the remaining heavies and marines are now under the command of Captain Fiddler, and he answers only to the Adjunct.’

  ‘I mean to address that with the Adjunct,’ said Kindly.

  There’s no point. ‘That will have to wait until after the parley, Fist.’ Gesturing, she led the mar
ines between the company commanders. And will you all stop staring? Their attention tightened the muscles of her neck as she walked past, and it was a relief to duck into the tent’s shadowed entranceway.

  Most of the interior canvas walls had been removed, making the space seem vast. Only at the far end was some privacy maintained for the Adjunct’s sleeping area, with a series of weighted curtains stretching from one side to the other. The only occupant Lostara could see was Banaschar, sitting on a long bench with his back to the outer wall, arms crossed and seemingly dozing. There was a long table and two more benches, and nothing else, not even a lantern. No, no lantern. The light stabs her like a knife.

  As the squad drew up behind Lostara, one of the curtains was drawn back.

  Adjunct Tavore stepped into view.

  Even from a distance of close to ten paces Lostara could see the sheen of sweat on that pallid brow. Gods, if the army saw this, they’d melt like snow in the fire. Vanish on the wind.

  ‘What are these marines doing here, Captain?’ The words were weak, the tone wandering. ‘We await formal guests.’

  ‘This squad’s healer thinks he can do something for you, Adjunct.’

  ‘Then he is a fool.’

  The soldier in question stepped forward. ‘Adjunct. I am Corporal Deadsmell, Ninth Squad. My warren was Hood’s.’

  Her bleached eyes fluttered. ‘If I understand the situation, Corporal, then you have my sympathy.’

  He seemed taken aback. ‘Well, thank you, Adjunct. The thing is …’ He held up his hands and Lostara gasped as a flood of icy air billowed out around the healer. Frost limned the peaked ceiling. Deadsmell’s breaths flowed in white streams.

  The mage, Widdershins, said, ‘Omtose Phellack, Adjunct. Elder.’

  Tavore was perfectly still, as if frozen in place. Her eyes narrowed on the healer. ‘You have found a Jaghut for a patron, Deadsmell?’

  To that question the man seemed at a loss for an answer.

  ‘The God of Death is no more,’ Widdershins said, his teeth chattering as the temperature in the chamber plummeted. ‘But it may be that Hood himself ain’t quite as dead as we all thought he was.’

  ‘We thought that, did we?’ Tavore’s lips thinned as she regarded Deadsmell. ‘Healer, approach.’