The Crippled God (Malazan Book of the Fallen, #10)

by Steven Erikson

‘There is little time left! Gruntle, do not challenge this!’ She lifted her arms out to the sides. ‘Look at me! I am Kilava Onass, a Bonecaster of the Imass. I defied the Ritual of Tellann, and my power beggars that of your human gods. What will occur here not even I can prevent – do you understand me? It is … necessary …’ He had expected such words, but still his hackles rose. It’s what we always hear, isn’t it? From generals and warlords and miserable tyrants. Justifying yet another nightmare epoch of slaughter. Of suffering, misery and despair. And what do we all do? We duck down and weather it. We tell ourselves that this is how it must be – I stood on the roof of a building, and all around me people were dying. And by my hand – gods! That building wept blood! For what? They all died – the whole fucking city – all those people – they just died anyway! I told Trake he chose wrongly. I was never a soldier – I despise war. I detest all the sordid lies about glory and honour – you, Kilava, if you have lived as long as you say you have, if Trake is your get, then you have seen a child of yours kneel to war – as if war itself was a damned god! But still, you want him to live – you want your child-god, your First fucking Hero, to go on, and on. Wars without end. And the sword shall swing down and they shall fall – for ever more! ‘Gruntle, why are you here?’ He advanced, feeling the blood within him rise to a boil. Haven’t you guessed? I’m going to fight. I’m going to bring yo...