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

by Steven Erikson

‘There are unfortunate things in the world, Ralata.’ She frowned. ‘I don’t know what that means.’ He sighed, studied the fire. ‘Have you ever stepped on something unintentionally? Out through a doorway, a sudden crunching underfoot. What was it? An insect? A snail? A lizard?’ He lifted his head and fixed her with his dark eyes, the embers gleaming in lurid reflection. ‘Not worth a second thought, was it? Such are the vagaries of life. An ant dreaming of war, a wasp devouring a spider, a lizard stalking the wasp. All these dramas, and crunch – all over with. What to make of it? Nothing, I suppose. If you’ve a heart, you apportion out some small measure of guilt and remorse, and then continue on your way.’ She shook her head, baffled. ‘You stepped on something?’ ‘In a manner of speaking.’ He nudged the embers and watched as sparks spun upward. ‘No matter. A few ants survived. No end to the little bastards, in fact. I could crush a thousand nests under heel and it’d not make a whit of difference. That’s the best way of thinking about it, in fact.’ He met her eyes again. ‘Does that make me cold? What did I leave behind in those chains, I wonder, still shackled there, a host of forlorn virtues…whatever. I am having odd dreams of late.’

Explain it to this fool, will you? It was a mound of bodies. They’d gathered us. Friend, you weren’t supposed to interfere. Maybe they ignored you, though I can’t figure why. And your touch was cold, gods it was cold! Rats, nuzzling close, they’d snatched fragments of me out of the air. In a world where everyone is a soldier, the ones underfoot don’t get noticed, but even ants fight like fiends. My rats. They worked hard, warm bodies like nests. They couldn’t get all of me. That wasn’t possible. Maybe you pulled me out, but I was incomplete. Or not. Grandma, someone tied strings to me. With everything coming down all around us, he’d knotted strings. To my Hood-damned rats. Oh, clever bastard, Quick. Clever, clever bastard. All there, all here, I’m all here.

The charge haunted Shelemasa as well. She had ridden through the lancing barrage of lightning, figures on either side erupting, bodies exploding, spraying her with sizzling gore. The screams of horses, the thunder of tumbling beasts, bones snapping – even now, that dread cauldron awakened again in her mind, a torrent of sounds pounding her ears from the inside out. She knelt in Hanavat’s tent, trembling with the memories. The older woman must have sensed something, for she reached out and settled a weathered hand on her thigh. ‘It goes,’ she murmured. ‘I see it among all you survivors. The wave of remembrance, the horror in your eyes. But I tell you, it goes.’ ‘For Gall, too?’ The hand seemed to flinch. ‘No. He is Warleader. It does not leave him. That charge is not in the past. He lives it again and again, every moment, day and night. I have lost him, Shelemasa. We have all lost him.’

The worm stirs, and you do indeed feel her, O priest. She is your gnawing guilt. She is your fevered shame, so flushing your face. His goddess was drawing closer. A drawn out endeavour, to be sure. She had the meat of an entire world to chew through. Bones to crunch in her jaws, secrets to devour. But mountains groaned, tilting and shifting to her deep passage. Seas churned. Forests shook. The Worm of Autumn was coming. ‘Bless the falling leaves, bless the grey skies, bless this bitter wind and the beasts that sleep.’ Yes, Holy Mother, I remember the prayers, the Restiturge of Pall. ‘And the weary blood shall feed the soil, their fleshly bodies cast down into your belly. And the Dark Winds of Autumn shall rush in hunger, snatching up their loosed souls. Caverns shall moan with their voices. The dead have turned their backs on the solid earth, the stone and the touch of the sky. Bless their onward journey, from which none return. The souls are nothing of value. Only the flesh feeds the living. Only the flesh. Bless our eyes, D’rek, for they are open. Bless our eyes, D’rek, for they see.’

‘Enough of that, soldiers,’ he said. ‘We don’t worship Coltaine in the Bridgeburners. He was just another Malazan commander. A good one, to be sure, and right now he’s standing in Dassem Ultor’s shadow. And they got plenty of company. And maybe one day soon Gall will be there, too.’ Berrach was frowning. ‘Do we not honour their memories, sir?’ Hedge bared his teeth in anything but a smile. ‘Honour whoever you want in your spare time, Captain, only you ain’t got any spare time any more, because you’re now a Bridgeburner, and us Bridgeburners honour only one thing.’ ‘And that is, sir?’ ‘Killing the enemy, Captain.’ Something awoke in the faces of the warriors. As one they sheathed their weapons. Berrach seemed to be struggling to speak, and finally managed to ask, ‘Commander Hedge, how do the Bridgeburners salute?’ ‘We don’t. And as for anyone outside our company, it’s this.’ Eyes widened at Hedge’s obscene gesture, and then Berrach grinned.

Bridgeburners get pounded all the time. We just get back up. No bluster, just back up, aye. ‘Alchemist,’ he said to Bavedict, ‘show me that new invention of yours.’ ‘Finally,’ the Letherii replied. ‘Funny, isn’t it?’ ‘What is?’ ‘Oh, how a handful of Khundryl warriors started you all up.’ ‘The sergeants were in shock—’ ‘Commander, you looked even worse than they did.’ Oh, Hood take me, I doubt I can argue that. ‘So tell me, what’s the new cusser do?’ ‘Well now, sir, you were telling me about the Drum—’ ‘I what? When?’ ‘You were drunk. Anyway, it got me to thinking…’

‘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.’

The healer wept for some time. No one spoke. When the sobs began to subside, Balm leaned closer. ‘Corporal, what in Togg’s name is going on with you?’ ‘I – I can’t explain, Sergeant.’ ‘The healing worked,’ said Balm. ‘We all saw it.’ He nodded, still not lifting his head. ‘So…what?’ ‘She let down her defences, just for a moment. Let me in, Sergeant. She had to, so I could heal the damage – and gods, was there damage! Stepping into view – that must have taken everything she had. Standing, talking…’ he shook his head. ‘I saw inside. I saw—’ He broke down all over again, shaking with vast, overwhelming sobs.

‘And which of the two causes would you more readily give your life for, Captain?’ ‘Neither, sir.’ His brows lifted. She spat again. ‘I was a thief once. Plenty of hatred then, both ways. But then I walked a step behind your sister and watched her bleed for us all. And then there was you, too, for that matter. That rearguard action that saved all our skins. So now,’ she scowled at the Lightfall, ‘well, I’ll stand here, and I’ll fight until the fight’s left them or it’s left me.’ Yedan studied her in earnest now. ‘And why would you do that, Pithy Islander?’ ‘Because it’s the right thing to do, Yedan Derryg.’

‘A moment, please.’ The Bolkando queen was staring at the Adjunct. ‘The only viable overland routes are the southern caravan tracks. The Glass Desert is truly impassable. If you take your army into it you will destroy what’s left of the Bonehunters – not one of you will emerge.’ ‘We shall cross the Glass Desert,’ said the Adjunct, ‘emerging to the southwest of Estobanse Province. And we mean to be seen by the enemy at the earliest opportunity. And they shall gather their forces to meet us, and a battle shall be fought. One battle.’ Something in Tavore’s tone made Aranict gasp and she felt herself grow cold with horror. ‘What of the Grey Helms?’ Krughava demanded. ‘In the Bay of Kolanse there rises a natural edifice known as the Spire. Atop this fastness there is a temple. Within this temple something is trapped. Something wounded, something that needs to be freed. The Bonehunters shall be the lodestone to the forces of the Forkrul Assail, Mortal Sword, but it is the Perish who will strike the death blow against the enemy.’ Aranict saw Krughava’s iron eyes narrowing. ‘We are to take the south route.’ ‘Yes.’ A battle. One battle. She means to sacrifice herself and her soldiers. Oh, by all the Holds, she cannot— ‘You invite mutiny,’ said Fist Blistig, his face flushed dark. ‘Tavore – you cannot ask this of us.’ And she faced her Fists then, and said in a whisper, ‘But I must.’

‘Yes, you must be. I’m sorry. But, Cotillion, you gave me more than your anger. Don’t you see that? The man I love does not now grieve for me. His love is not for a ghost, a brief moment in his life that he can never recapture. You gave us both a chance to live, and to love – it doesn’t matter for how much longer.’ ‘I also spared the Adjunct, and by extension this entire army.’ She cocked her head, momentarily disoriented. ‘Do you regret that?’ He hesitated, and that silence rippled like ice-water through Lostara Yil. ‘While she lives,’ he said, ‘the path awaiting you, and this beleaguered, half-damned army, is as bitter as my own. To the suffering to come…ah, there are no gifts in any of this.’ ‘There must be, Cotillion. They exist. They always do.’ ‘Will you all die in the name of love?’ The question seemed torn from something inside him. ‘If die we must, what better reason?’

‘You all knew?’ ‘Knew what? That you survived? Gods no. We all figured you dead and gone. You think Smiles would’ve sold off your stuff if we didn’t?’ He could see the rest of the squad drawing up behind Cuttle. ‘Well, yes.’ The sapper grunted. ‘Got a point there, soldier. Anyway, we didn’t know a damned thing. He just made us sit here and wait, is what he did—’ ‘I thought this was Faradan Sort’s meeting—’ ‘Fid’s cap’n now, Bottle.’ ‘Oh.’ ‘And since he’s now a captain, official and everything, he’s got decorum t’follow.’ ‘Right. Of course. I mean—’ ‘So instead of him doing this, it’s me.’ And with that the veteran stepped close and embraced him, hard enough to make Bottle’s bones ache. Cuttle’s breath was harsh in his ear. ‘Kept looking at a card, y’see? Kept looking at it. Welcome back, Bottle. Gods below, welcome home.’

His visage was crumpled, a thing of slack skin and ringed eyes. Broken lips, the forehead of a priest who doubts his own faith. His hair was falling out, his hands looked huge. ‘Held says, west, Rutt. West.’ ‘There is nothing there.’ There is a great family, and they are rich in all things. In food. In water. They seek us, to bless us, to show us that the future still lives. They will promise to us that future. I have seen, I have seen it all. And there is a mother who leads them, and all her children she holds in her arms, though she has never made a Born. There is a mother, Rutt, just like you. And soon, the child in her arms will open its eyes. ‘I dreamed of Held last night, Rutt.’ ‘You did?’ ‘Yes. She had wings, and she was flying away. I heard her voice on the wind.’ ‘Her voice, Badalle? What was she saying? What was Held saying?’ ‘She wasn’t saying anything, Rutt. She was laughing.’

We march to our annihilation. The First Sword is torn in two, one half mortal and cruel in denial, the other half immortal and crueller still. Be glad Dassem has not found me. Be glad he seeks his own path, and that he will be far from the place where I shall stand. And here is my secret. Heed this well. The weapon of the godless needs no hand to wield it. The weapon of the godless wields itself. It is without fear. It is empty of guilt and disdainful of retribution. It is all that and more, but one thing it is not: a liar. No slaying in the name of a higher power, no promises of redemption. It will not cloak brutality in the zeal that justifies, that absolves. And this is why it is the most horrifying weapon of all.

No wonder you forgot everything, Trake. No wonder you weren’t ready for godhood. In the jungles of ancient days, the tigers were gods. Until the new gods arrived. And they were far thirstier for blood than the tigers ever were, and now the jungle is silent.

‘I know you,’ she said. ‘You are Hood.’ The Jaghut stepped forward, the gate swirling closed behind him. Hood paused, regarding each witness in turn, and then walked towards Equity. ‘They made you their king,’ she whispered. ‘They who followed no one chose to follow you. They who refused every war fought your war. And what you did then – what you did—’ As he reached her, his desiccated hands caught her. He lifted her from her feet, and then, mouth stretching, he bit into the side of her face. The tusks drove up beneath her cheek bone, burst the eye on that side. In a welter of blood, he tore away half of her face, and then bit a second time, up under the orbitals, the tusks driving into her brain. Equity hung in his grip, feeling her life drain away. Her head felt strangely unbalanced. She seemed to be weeping from only one eye, and from her throat no words were possible. I once dreamed of peace. As a child, I dreamed of— Shurq Elalle stared in horror as the Jaghut flung the corpse away. From his gore-drenched mouth fell fragments of scalp and skull. Then Hood faced them, and in a dry, toneless voice he said, ‘I have never much liked Forkrul Assail.’

Whose army are they? These Bonehunters. What is their cause? And the strength within them, where does it come from? Is it held in the soul of the Adjunct? No – at least, I don’t think so. Oh, she is the focus for them all, but they have no love for her. They see her, if at all, as no different from a mountain, a column of storm clouds, a bitter grey sea – they see her as part of the natural world, a thing to be borne, to be weathered. I saw in their faces the erosion of her will, and they bore it. They bore it as they did all else. These Malazans, they shame the gods themselves.

Gesler shrugged. ‘We liked it the way we’d made it – gods, so long ago now. Hiding in some foul garrison in a smelly fishing village. We’d ducked down so far it looked like the world had forgotten us, and that was just how we wanted it. And now look at us. Gods below.’ Brys cocked his head. ‘You have been with the Adjunct ever since that time?’ ‘Not quite. We got pulled in with the Whirlwind – a mutiny. We blame the Imperial Historian, that’s who we blame. Never mind, none of it’s worth knowing – it’s just a sordid tale of us staggering and stumbling this way and that across half the damned world. We did nothing of note, except maybe staying alive, and see where it’s got us.’ ‘If you and your friend are feeling so trapped,’ said Brys, ‘why not just leave? Did you not already call yourself and Stormy deserters?’ ‘Wish I could. I really do. But we can’t, and we know it.’ ‘But…why?’ Gesler looked down abjectly at Grub. ‘Because,’ he whispered like a man condemned, ‘she trusts us.’

‘Precisely. Now, sit yourself down here and get ready to scribe. Tell me when you’re set.’ Pores resumed pacing. Himble drew out his field box of stylus, wax tablets and wick lamp. From a sparker he lit the lamp and warmed the tip of the stylus. When this was done he said, ‘Ready, sir.’ ‘Write the following: “Private missive, from Lieutenant Master-Sergeant Field Quartermaster Pores, to Fist Kindly. Warmest salutations and congratulations on your promotion, sir. As one might observe from your advancement and, indeed, mine, cream doth rise, etc. In as much as I am ever delighted in corresponding with you, discussing all manner of subjects in all possible idioms, alas, this subject is rather more official in nature. In short, we are faced with a crisis of the highest order. Accordingly, I humbly seek your advice and would suggest we arrange a most private meeting at the earliest convenience. Yours affectionately, Pores.” Got that, Himble?’ ‘Yes sir.’ ‘Please read it back to me.’ Himble cleared his throat, squinted at the tablet. ‘“Pores to Kindly meet in secret when?”’ ‘Excellent. Dispatch that at once, Himble.’

Flashwit squinted at the sergeant. ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, Sergeant, but where was you and your squad? Back at the Trench, I mean.’ He shot her a vicious look. ‘What difference does that make?’ ‘Well, you couldn’t have not seen him then. Skulldeath. He jumps high, y’see. He was the only one of us cutting Nah’ruk throats, right? Jumps high, like I said. See those eight notches on his left wrist?’ ‘Those burns?’ ‘Aye. One for each Nah’ruk he personally throat-cut.’ Gaunt-Eye snorted. ‘A liar, too, then. About what I figured.’ ‘But he never counted, Sergeant. Never does. Eight is what we saw him do, those who saw him at all, I mean. We talked about it, comparing and all that. Eight. So we told him and he burned those marks on his wrist. When we asked him how many he gutted, he said he didn’t know. When we asked him how many he hamstrung, he didn’t know that either. The rest of us couldn’t come up with numbers on those. Lot more than eight, though. But since we seen him burn himself, we decided not to tell him how many. He’d be one big burn now, right? And since he’s so pretty, well, that’d be a shame.’

I never said I’d like you, Fallen One. But then, you never said I had to. Not me, not the Adjunct, not any of us. You just asked us to do what’s right. We said yes. And it’s done. But bear in mind, we’re mortal, and in this war to come, we’re fragile – among all the players, we’re the most vulnerable. Maybe that fits. Maybe it’s only right that we should be the ones to raise your standard, Fallen One. And ignorant historians will write of us, in the guise of knowledge. They will argue over our purpose – the things we sought to do. They will overturn every boulder, every barrow stone, seeking our motives. Looking for hints of ambition. They will compose a Book of the Fallen. And then argue over its significance. In the guise of knowledge – but truly, what will they know? Of each of us? From that distance, from that cold, cold distance – you’d have to squint. You’d have to look hard. Because we’re thin on the ground. So very…thin.

In that Malazan Book of the Fallen, the historians will write of our suffering, and they will speak of it as the suffering of those who served the Crippled God. As something…fitting. And for our seeming fanaticism they will dismiss all that we were, and think only of what we achieved. Or failed to achieve. And in so doing, they will miss the whole fucking point. Fallen One, we are all your children.

She turned to the soldier. ‘You need to rest. Deliver this news to Queen Drukorlat. The blood wall has shattered. The Liosan have retreated. Half of us remain.’ The woman stared. And then looked around, as if only now realizing the full extent of the horror surrounding them, the heaps of corpses, the entire strand a mass of supine bodies under blood-soaked blankets. She saw her mouth the word half. ‘When in the palace, rest. Eat.’ But the soldier was shaking her head. ‘Highness. I have one brother left to me. I cannot stay in the palace – I cannot leave his side for too long. I am sorry. I shall deliver your message and then return at once.’ Yan Tovis wanted to rail at her, but she bit down on her fury, for it was meant not for this woman, but for Yedan Derryg, who had done this to her people. ‘Tell me then, where is your brother?’ The woman pointed to a boy sleeping in a press of Shake fighters resting nearby. The vision seemed to stab deep into Yan Tovis and she struggled to stifle a sob. ‘Be with him, then – I will find another for the message.’ ‘Highness! I can—’ She pushed the waterskin into the woman’s arms. ‘When he awakens, he will be thirsty.’ Seeing the soldier’s wounded expression as she backed away, Yan Tovis could only turn from her, fixing her eyes once more upon the breach. It’s not you who has failed me, she wanted to say to that soldier, it is I who have failed you. But then she was alone once more and it was too late.

In the fiery gale, Yedan stood suddenly alone. Yan Tovis felt ice in her veins. Dragon breath—

A massive shape looming in the breach, filling it, and then out from the fulminating light snapped a reptilian head, jaws open in a hissing snarl. Lunging down at her brother. She screamed. Heard the jaws impact the ground like the fist of a god – and knew that Yedan was no longer there. Her own voice now keening, she slashed forward, barely seeing those she cut down. Manic laughter filled the air – Hust! Awake! She broke through, staggered, and saw— The dragon’s head was lifting in a spray of blood-soaked sand, the neck arching, the jaws stretching wide once more, and then, as if from nowhere, Yedan Derryg was directly beneath that enormous serpent head, and he was swinging his laughing sword – and that glee rose to a shriek of delight as the blade’s edge chopped deep into the dragon’s neck. He was a man slashing into the bole of a centuries-old tree. The impact should have shattered the bones of his arms. The sword should have rebounded, or exploded in his hands, spraying deadly shards. Yet she saw the weapon tear through that enormous, armoured neck. She saw the blood and gore erupt in its wake, and then a fountain of blood spraying into the air. The dragon, its shoulders jammed in the breach, shook with the blow. The long neck whipped upward, seeking to pull away, and in the welling gape of the wound in its throat Yan Tovis saw the gleam of bone. Yedan had cut through to the dragon’s spine. Another gloating shriek announced his backswing.

Onos T’oolan studied the two of them. ‘You resist me well – and I see the strength you find in each other. It is…strange.’ ‘First Sword,’ said Ulag, ‘it is love.’ Onos was silent, struggling to comprehend the warrior’s statement. ‘We did not discover it from within ourselves,’ Rystalle Ev said. ‘We found it—’ ‘Like a stone in a stream,’ Ulag said. ‘Bright, wondrous—’ ‘In the stream, First Sword, of your thoughts.’ ‘When the mountains thunder, and the ice in the high passes at last shatters to spring’s warmth.’ Ulag lifted a withered hand, let it fall again. ‘The stream becomes a torrent, sweeping all down with it. Cruel flood. And yet…a stone, glimmering.’ ‘This is not possible,’ said Onos T’oolan. ‘There is no such thing within me. The fires of Tellann have burned hollow my soul. You delude yourselves. Each other.’ Rystalle Ev shrugged. ‘Delusions of comfort – are these not the gifts of love, First Sword?’

Beroke Soft Voice said, ‘The Knight is a despiser of chains, but understanding eludes him still. Many are the chains that cut cruel, that enslave with malice. Yet other chains also exist, and these are the ones we each choose to wear – not out of fear, or ignorance. These are the noblest of chains. Honour. Virtue. Loyalty. Many will approach the House of Chains, only to falter upon its threshold, for it demands within us strengths rarely used. When suffering awaits, it takes great courage to stride forward, to enter this unrelenting, unforgiving realm.’

It wasn’t fair. Of all the crimes he had seen in a life almost too long to comprehend…this one surpasses them all. The look on her face. On the boy’s when she told him. That pathetic collection, carried like a treasure, and is it not a treasure? Finally, he wiped a hand before his eyes and said, ‘We spoke of murdering gods, with a strange diffidence, almost a bluster – and what did they show us? Adjunct, what are we, when we murder innocence?’ Tavore’s sigh was ragged. ‘It will be answered.’ He saw her take on the burden, in the settling of her shoulders, recognized the breathtaking courage in the way she lifted her head, the way she refused to look away from the scene – of two children, trying to remember what it is to play. Adjunct – do not do this. You cannot carry anything more—

‘We resanctified this place, did you know that? Spilling all that blood – it was stirring when we moved in, but then we went and drenched the stones in that red stuff.’ ‘Meaning?’ He shrugged, drew out his knife again and began cleaning his nails, each gesture the same as the time before. ‘In here, Pick, we’re safe.’ She snorted. ‘Maybe for you.’ ‘You got to go soon, Sergeant. Out of the city. Will there be trouble, you doing that?’ ‘You called me Sergeant.’ ‘Aye, I did. Because I’m passing on orders here. That’s all.’ ‘Whose orders?’ He examined his nails. ‘There’s no such thing, Picker, as retiring from the Bridgeburners.’

‘Do you not see, Lord, why we refuse you? You have already killed us. All of us. Surviving these wounds will not change that. Look at me. I am already dead. To you. To all the world. Now fuck off. No, better yet – take yourself through to the other side. See for—’ Aparal did not know where the rage came from, but the savage strength of his blow lifted the soldier’s head from his neck, sent it spinning, and then bouncing, until it fetched up against another wounded soldier – who turned her head, regarded it for a moment, then looked away again. Trembling, horrified by what he had done, Aparal Forge backed away. From one side he heard a weary chuckle, and then, ‘Barely a thousand left, Lord. They’re done.’ He twisted round, sought out the one who spoke. Before him was the trench, piled with corpses. ‘Is it the dead who now speak?’ ‘As good as,’ came the reply. ‘You don’t understand, do you? We don’t tell you because we honour our enemy – they’re not Tiste Andii. They’re humans – who fight like demons.’ He saw the man now. Only the upper half of his body was visible, the rest buried under bodies. Someone had judged him dead. Someone had made a mistake. But then Aparal saw that half his skull was gone, exposing the brain. ‘The Hust Legion—’ ‘Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? But there’s no Hust Legion. There’s one man. One Hust sword. Slayer of dragons and slayer of hounds, slayer of a thousand Liosan…one man. And when you finally break through, Lord, may he cut you down – yo...

Badalle sensed someone standing near her. She turned to see the Adjunct. ‘Mother,’ Badalle said, ‘you should be leading your children.’ ‘Did you truly think I would miss this?’ Sighing, Badalle stepped down from the carcass of the horse. Reached out and took the Adjunct’s hand. She flinched as if stung, stared down at Badalle as if in shock. ‘Don’t do that,’ she said. ‘Mother, when will you let yourself feel?’ The Adjunct backed away, and moments later she was gone, lost in the crowd. If it made a path for her, Badalle couldn’t see it. ‘There is a mother this night,’ she whispered, ‘but to her the stars are blind.’

I remember on the wall and that man and all the ones who fell around him – he fought and fought, until they overcame him, brought him down, and then there was a cross and he was nailed to it and the crows spun and screamed and fell from the sky. I remember the old man on his horse, reaching down to collect me up – and the way he wheeled outside the gate, to stare back – as if he could see all the way we’d come – the bloody road where I was born, where I came alive. I remember that world. I remember no other. All of the brave soldiers, I am yours. I was always yours.

Eyes half closed, he experienced again the echo of the life he had watched seething back and forth in the day now gone. He wondered at all those lives, the way few would meet the gazes of their fellows, as if crowds demanded wilful anonymity, when the truth was they were all in it together – all these people, facing much the same struggles, the same fears. And yet, it seemed, each one was determined to survive them alone, or with but a few kin and friends offering paltry allegiance. Perhaps they each believed themselves unique, like a knot-stone in the centre of the world’s mill wheel, but the truth was there were very few who could truly make claim to such a pivotal existence. After all, there was only one Karsa Orlong.

Karsa now understood that god. The times that he had been chained, he had felt that terrible panic, that animal frenzy to escape. No mortal, human or Toblakai, should ever feel such feelings. Nor, he knew now, should a god. ‘He cannot know compassion, from whom compassion has been taken. He cannot know love, with love denied him. But he will know pain, when pain is all that is given him.’ Compassion. Love. It was not civilization that birthed these gentle gifts – though its followers might claim otherwise. Nor was civilization the sweetest garden for such things to blossom in – though those trapped within it might imagine it so. No, as far as he could see, civilization was a madman’s mechanism that, for all its good intentions, ended up ensnaring the gentle gifts, stifling them, leaving them to wander mazes only to die alone and in the dark. A mechanism, a cagework, and in its chaos the slaves bred like flies – until the world itself groaned under the assault of their appetites.

Karsa stared at the wretched shape at his feet. He set his sword to lean against the wall behind him, and then crouched down. The crippled man’s face lifted, the sightless eyes white as polished coins. ‘What are you doing?’ Karsa reached down, gathered the skeletal figure into his arms, and then settled back. ‘I stepped over corpses on the way here,’ the Toblakai said. ‘People no one cared about, dying alone. In my barbaric village this would never happen, but here in this city, this civilized jewel, it happens all the time.’ The ravaged face was turned upward, the last of the raindrops dripping away as he huddled beneath the cover Karsa provided. The mouth worked, but no sounds came forth. ‘What is your name?’ Karsa asked. ‘Munug.’ ‘Munug. This night – before I must rise and walk into the temple – I am a village. And you are here, in my arms. You will not die uncared for.’ ‘You – you would do this for me? A stranger?’ ‘In my village no one is a stranger – and this is what civilization has turned its back on. One day, Munug, I will make a world of villages, and the age of cities will be over. And slavery will be dead, and there shall be no chains – tell your god. Tonight, I am his knight.’ Munug’s shivering was fading. The old man smiled. ‘He knows.’ It wasn’t too much, to take a frail figure into one’s arms for those last moments of life. Better than a cot, or even a bed in a room filled with loved ones. Better, too, than an empty street in the cold rain. To die in someon...

She could just make out Hood’s trail towards the spire, and caught herself looking at it longingly. Don’t be a fool, woman. Some destinies are better just hearing about, over ales in a tavern. Go well on your way, Hood. And the next face you see, well, why not just bite it off?

He surveyed the expressions before him and slowly nodded. ‘This was well planned, do you not agree? Its principal aim, to draw apart our active armies, has already succeeded. In each instance, we are forced to react rather than initiate.’ ‘A proficient high command, then,’ said Sister Freedom, nodding. But Aloft shook his head. ‘In truth, this has the feel of a grand strategy, and just as your instincts speak with vehemence to you about the matter of the smaller force, Sister Freedom, so now my instincts have been shouting that this invasion – this strategy and each and every tactical engagement – is in fact the product of a single individual’s will.’ He nodded to Brother Grave. ‘I accept your assessment of humans, in general. But is it not also true that, on rare occasions, there rises from the multitude of mediocrity that is humanity a single person of extraordinary vision conjoined with the will to achieve that vision, who presents a most formidable presence. One to shape the course of history.’

Taking a narrow, twisted route between outcrops of bedrock, he heard boots behind him and turned. ‘Deadsmell. You following me for a reason or is it my cute backside?’ ‘Your cute backside, but I need to talk to Fid, too. Two joys in one, what can I say?’ ‘This hill—’ ‘Barrow.’ ‘Right, fine. Barrow. There’s something—’ ‘Sunk deep all the way round it, aye. Widdershins damn near shit himself the moment he hit the slope.’ Bottle shrugged. ‘Us other squaddies call him Widdershits, on account of his loose bowels. What about it?’ ‘Really? Widdershits? That’s great. Wait till Throatslitter hears that one. But listen, how come you’re keeping secrets from us like that? Names like that? We wouldn’t do it to you, you know.’ ‘Stifflips and Crack? Scuttle and Corncob? Turd and Brittle?’ ‘Oh, you heard them, huh?’

The Adjunct reined in again, at the very centre, and swung her horse round to face the silent troops. ‘On the day of the Na’ruk, they stood for you. Today, here, you shall stand for them. And I shall stand with you, my beloved soldiers.’ She held up a gauntleted hand. ‘Say nothing. We are walls of silence, you and me. We are perfect reflections of the one we face, and we have faced each other for so long now. ‘And the meaning of that silence is none of the enemy’s business.’ Behind her she could feel the tramp of thousands of boots reverberating up from the ground, but she would not turn, would not face the enemy. Her eyes belonged only to her soldiers, and, she could see, theirs belonged in turn to her and her alone. ‘Bonehunters. Yield only in death on this day.’

When she rode to take her position on the south flank, Fist Blistig watched her, his eyes following her as did the gazes of every soldier round him. Gods below. What kind of rousing speech was that? Salvage it, Fist – before it’s too late. He swung round. ‘For’ard ranks! Dr—’ But he got no further. Weapons snapped out of sheaths and scabbards, shields lifting on to shoulders. And in the faces around him he saw the coldest iron he had ever seen.

Eyes on the mass of enemy below, an enemy heaving ever closer, he drew round the satchel he had collected from the mound of gear close to the feet of the Crippled God. Drew out the cusser. Always keep one. Always. Sapper’s vow. If you’re going down, take the bastards with ya. He lifted it high. Behind him he heard Fiddler shriek his name. Aw, shit. Sorry, Fid. Hedge plunged down the trail, rushing the mob of Kolansii. And then heard someone behind him, and whirled. ‘Fiddler, damn you! No! Go back!’ Instead, his friend tackled him. Both went down, the cusser flying from Hedge’s hand. Neither man ducked for cover, instead turning to watch the munition take its leisurely, curving path down to the press of soldiers – and all those bobbing iron helms. It struck one of those helms clean as a coconut falling from a tree. Burst open to spill insensate carmine powder. The two sappers stared at each other, faces barely a hand’s width apart, and in unison they cried, ‘Dud!’

Lying beneath the weight of the chains, the Crippled God, who had been listening, now heard. Long-forgotten, half-disbelieved emotions rose up through him, ferocious and bright. He drew a sharp breath, feeling his throat tighten. I will remember this. I will set out scrolls and burn upon them the names of these Fallen. I will make of this work a holy tome, and no other shall be needed. Hear them! They are humanity unfurled, laid out for all to see – if one would dare look! There shall be a Book and it shall be written by my hand. Wheel and seek the faces of a thousand gods! None can do what I can do! Not one can give voice to this holy creation! But this is not bravado. For this, my Book of the Fallen, the only god worthy of its telling is the crippled one. The broken one. And has it not always been thus? I never hid my hurts. I never disguised my dreams. And I never lost my way. And only the fallen can rise again. He listened to the laughter, and suddenly the weight of those chains was as nothing. Nothing.