The Crippled God (155 page)

If this be a destiny offered me, I shall meet it. I shall face it, and, if I can, I shall speak to the world
.

And if this be the place of my death, so be it
.

I was free, even if only for a moment
.

I was free
.

He had pushed them hard, marching them through half the night and without pause through most of this day, and the marines and heavies were staggering as they came within sight of the hill. The muscles of his legs leaden, Fiddler angled towards it. Vast bands of shadow were still tracking the landscape, cast down by the Jade Strangers spanning the entire sky, leaving the captain with a sense that the world was unravelling before his very eyes.

He had worked hard not to think about the army they had left behind, and the fate that awaited them. Before the captain now was all that mattered. That forlorn hilltop with its fractured flanks, the lone sword of Otataral thrust deep into the ground at its very centre.

He feared that it would not be enough – they had all feared as much, those among them who understood what she was attempting here. The chains that bound the Crippled God had been forged by gods.
A single sword to shatter them all? Tavore, you must have believed it was possible. Or that some other force would awaken here, to lend us a blessed hand in this
.

Without this – this breaking of chains – all that we do here is for naught
.

Tavore, I am trusting you. With the lives of my soldiers – with the meaning to their deaths. I know, it’s unfair, asking this of you. You’re mortal, that and nothing more. But I know – I feel it – I am setting my weight upon your shoulders. We all are, whether we care to admit it or not
.

And it’s that unfairness that’s tearing me apart
.

He glanced off to his left. Hedge walked there at the head of his own troop – Letherii and Khundryl cast-offs, a mix of half-bloods from a dozen subdued tribes of the Lether Empire. They’d had trouble keeping up, so loaded down were the soldiers – Hood knew why they’d felt the need to carry so much.
All those kittens, I expect. Hope they’re worth it
.

Hedge had been keeping his distance, and Fiddler knew why – he could feel his own face transforming whenever his friend drew near, becoming a mask, bleak and broken, and the anguish and dread clawed at him with a strength he could not match.
So much of this is unfair. So much
. But now Hedge shifted his track, came closer.

He pointed at the hill. ‘That’s it? Damned ugly, Fid.’

‘We can defend it.’

‘We’re too thin, even for a knoll as puny as that one. Listen, I’m breaking up my company. I ain’t making too many big promises here, but my Bridgeburners got a secret—’

‘Kittens, aye.’

Hedge scowled at him. ‘You had spies! I knew it!’

‘Gods below, Hedge, never met anyone as hopeless with secrets as you.’

‘Go ahead and think that. You’re in for a surprise, I promise you.’

‘Can they match the Moranth munitions, that’s the only thing I need to know.’

But Hedge shook his head. ‘Not them. Never mind.’ And then he shrugged, as if dismissing something. ‘You was probably too busy last time, but we made a mess of those Short-Tails.’

‘And you didn’t use most of them up? That’s not like you, Hedge.’

‘Bavedict concocted more – the man’s a genius. Deranged and obsessive, the best kind of genius. Anyway, we’re packing them all.’

‘I’d noticed.’

‘Sure, it’s wore us out, all that stuff. Tell me, Fid, we going to get time to rest up first?’

‘Little late asking me that now.’

‘So what? I’m still asking you.’

‘To be honest, I don’t know. Depends.’

‘On what?’

‘Whether the Spire’s fallen to us. Whether they got the heart undamaged. Whether they managed to break its own set of chains, or whatever geas is protecting it – could be twenty Kenyll’rah demons for all we know, and imagine the scrap that’d be.’

‘Twenty Kenyll’rah demons? What is this, some bad fairy tale? Why not a demon king? Or a giant three-headed ogre with scorpion tails at the end of every finger, and a big one on his cock for added measure? Breathing fire outa his arse, too.’

‘Fine, so my imagination’s failed. Sorry about that – I ain’t no spinner of decent tales, Hedge.’

‘I’ll say. What else should I know? We got to kiss that fucking heart awake once we get it? Put a hat on it? Dance in fucking circles round it? Gods, not more blood sacrifice – that stuff creeps me out.’

‘You’re babbling, Hedge. It’s what you always do before a fight – why?’

‘To distract you, of course. You keep chewing on yourself there’ll be nothing left but wet gristle and a few pubic hairs I really don’t want to see. Oh, and the teeth that did all the chewing.’

‘You know,’ Fiddler said with a sidelong glance, ‘if you wasn’t here, Hedge, I’d have to invent you.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Just saying thanks, that’s all.’

‘Fine. Now can I babble some more? ’Cause I’m terrified, y’see.’

‘This will work, Hedge. Get your kitten throwers spread out through my squads, and we’ll make a mess of whoever tries to take us down.’

‘Exactly. Good idea. Shoulda thought of it myself.’

The man moved off again, and Fiddler’s gaze tracked him until he reached his original position at the head of the Bridgeburners.
Bless ya, Hedge
. He swung round to face his troops. ‘That’s the place, soldiers. That hill. Let’s quick-time it now – only a bell or two before dusk and I want us digging and piling stones in a solid perimeter.’

‘Aye, Captain,’ barked out a heavy. ‘Could do with some fucking exercise.’

Another soldier answered. ‘Knew I should never have carried you, woman!’

‘If you’d been carrying me, Reliko, I’d be pregnant by now – any chance y’get, right, you rat-eating piece of elephant dung.’

‘Maybe if I closed my eyes. But then, can a man even breed with a warthog?’

‘If anybody’d know the answer to that—’

‘Save your breaths, damn you,’ growled Fiddler.

They trudged over the lesser rises, tackled the hillside. Bottle moved up past Corabb and made the climb alongside Sergeant Tarr. ‘Listen, Sergeant …’

‘Now what, Bottle? Pull out your shovel – we got work to do.’

Soldiers were throwing down their kits on all sides, muttering and complaining about sore backs and aching shoulders.

‘It’s this ground,’ Bottle said, drawing close. ‘I need to talk to the captain.’

Tarr scowled at him, and then nodded. ‘Go on, but don’t take too long. I don’t want you dying ’cause you dug your hole too shallow.’

Bottle stared at the man, and then looked round. ‘They that close?’

‘How should I know? Care to risk your life that they aren’t?’

Swearing under his breath, Bottle set out to where he’d last seen Fiddler – up near the crest of the hill. Hedge had gone up there as well.

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?’

They reached the crest, stepped out on to level ground. Ahead, standing near a long sword thrust into the ground, Fiddler and Hedge. Both men turned as the soldiers approached, hearing the stones snapping underfoot.

‘Forgot how to dig holes, you two?’

‘No, Captain. It’s just that we got us company.’

‘Explain that, Bottle. And be succinct for a change.’

‘There’s a god here with us.’

Hedge seemed to choke on something and turned away, coughing, hacking and then spitting.

‘You idiot,’ said Fiddler. ‘That’s the whole fucking point.’

‘Not him, Captain,’ said Deadsmell.

‘What do you mean, not him? Of course he’s here – as much of him as there is, I mean. The Adjunct said this was the place.’

Deadsmell met Bottle’s eyes, and after a moment Bottle turned away, his mouth suddenly dry. ‘Captain,’ he said, ‘the Crippled God ain’t here. We’d know it if he was.’

Fiddler gestured at the sword. ‘That’s the Adjunct’s, Bottle. Otataral, remember? Why should you think you’d be able to sense anything?’

Deadsmell was rubbing at the back of his neck as if he wanted to wear off two or three layers of skin, checking to see if he still had a backbone. Then he drew a fortifying breath and said, ‘He’s foreign – we’d know it anyway, Captain.’

Fiddler seemed to sag.

Hedge clapped him on the back. ‘Relax, Fid, it’s just the usual fuck-up. So we go through the motions anyway – you’re still a damned sapper, you know. Who said you were supposed to be on the thinking side of things? We don’t know that all this isn’t how it’s supposed to be right now, anyway. In fact, we don’t know a damned thing about anything. The way it always is. What’s the problem?’ He faced Bottle then. ‘So which turd-chewing god’s got the nerve to horn in our business?’

But Deadsmell was the first to respond. ‘Smells like old death.’

‘Hood? Wrong. Impossible.’

‘Didn’t say that, did I?’ Deadsmell retorted, scowling. ‘Just smells old and dead, right? Like brown leaves in a cold wind. Like a barrow’s stone-lined pit. Like the first breath of winter. Like—’

‘Worm of Autumn,’ growled Bottle.

‘I was working up to that, damn you!’

‘What does D’rek want with us?’ Hedge demanded.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Fiddler, turning back to stare at the sword. ‘We’ve had that priest crouching on our shoulders ever since Malaz City. When we were here he said something about his god, I seem to recall. Wrapping round the base of the hill. Him and the Adjunct seemed to think we’d need help. Anyway, it’s not like we can do anything about it. Fine, what you said, Hedge. We go through the motions. Deadsmell, is this place a barrow?’

‘Aye, but no longer sanctified. The tomb’s been looted. Broken.’

‘Broken, huh?’

‘Trust the Adjunct,’ said Hedge.

Fiddler rounded on him. ‘Was that you saying that?’

Hedge shrugged. ‘Thought it worth a try.’ Then he frowned. ‘What’s that smell?’

‘Probably Widdershits,’ Bottle said.

‘Gods, downwind, damn him – always downwind!’

Masan Gilani threw herself down near Sinter and Kisswhere. ‘Balm just tried putting his hand down my breeches. Said he forgot where he was. Said he wasn’t even looking. Said he thought he was reaching into his kit bag.’