The Crippled God (39 page)

‘Who will be in command, Shield Anvil? You and Gesler.’

He stared at her, aghast, and then bellowed, ‘Don’t you think his head’s swelled big enough yet? You ain’t had to live with him!’

Her tone was hard and cold. ‘Bear in mind what I said about vulnerability, Shield Anvil, and be sure to guard your own back.’

‘Guard – what?’

‘One last thing, Stormy. Extend my condolences to Grub. Inform him, if you think it will help, that Fist Keneb’s death was one of … singular heroism.’

He thought he heard a careful choosing of words in that statement.
No matter. Might help, as much as such shit can, with that stuff. Worth a try, I suppose
. ‘Adjunct?’

She had gathered the reins of her horse and had one foot in the stirrup. ‘Yes?’

‘Shall we meet again?’

Tavore Paran hesitated, and what might have been a faint smile curved her thin lips. She swung astride her horse. ‘Fare you well, Shield Anvil.’ A pause, and then, ‘Stormy, should you one day meet my brother … no, never mind.’ With that she drew her horse round and set off for the head of the column.

Blistig wheeled in behind her, as did Ruthan Gudd and then the ex-priest – although perhaps with him it was more a matter of a mount content to follow the others. Leaving only Lostara Yil.

‘Stormy.’

‘Lostara.’

‘Quick Ben was sure you and Gesler lived.’

‘Was he now?’

‘But now we’ve lost him.’

He thought about that, and then grinned. ‘Take this for what it’s worth, Lostara Yil. He figured we were alive and well. He was right. Now, I’ve got this feeling he ain’t so lost as you might think. He’s a snake. Always was, always will be.’

The smile she flashed him almost made him hesitate, but before he could call out something inviting and possibly improper she was riding after the others.

Damn! Smiles like that don’t land on me every day
.

Scowling, he ordered his Ve’Gath round and then set off on the back trail.

The Hunters and drones fell into his wake.

One of the tiny birds tried landing in Stormy’s beard. His curse sent it screeching away.

And now the bold historian
Wields into play that tome
Of blistering worth
Where the stern monks
Cower under the lash
And through the high window
The ashes of heretics drift
Down in purity’s rain
See the truths stitched in thread
Of gold across hapless skin
I am the arbiter of lies
Who will cleanse his hand
In copper bowls and white sand
But the spittle on his lips
Gathers the host to another tale
I was never so blind
To not feel the deep tremble
Of hidden rivers in churning torrent
Or the prickly tear of quill’s jab
I will tell you the manner
Of all things in sure proof
This order’d stone row
–
Oh spare me now the speckled fists
This princeps’ purge and prattle
I live in mists and seething cloud
And the breaths of the unseen
Give warmth and comfort to better
The bleakest days to come
And I will carry on in my
Uncertainty, cowl’d in a peace
Such as you could not imagine

A Life in Mists
Gothos (?)

Whatever we’re left with
can only be enough,
if in the measure of things
nothing is cast off,
discarded on the wayside
in the strides that take us clear
beyond the smoke and grief
into a world of shocked birth
opening eyes upon a sudden light.
And to whirl then in a breath
to see all that we have done,
where the tombs on the trail
lie sealed like jewelled memories
in the dusk of a good life’s end,
and not one footprint beckons
upon the soft snow ahead,
but feel this sweet wind caress.
A season crawls from earth
beneath mantled folds.
I have caught a glimpse,
a hint of flared mystery,
shapes in the liquid glare.
They will take from us
all that we cradle in our arms
and the burden yielded
makes feathers of my hands,
and the voices drifting down
are all that we’re left with
and shall for ever be enough

You Will Take My Days
Fisher kel Tath

TO SLITHER BENEATH THE FISTS OF THE WORLD
.

Her name was Thorl. A quiet one, with watchful, sad eyes. Bursting from the cloud of Shards, her screams sounded like laughter. The devouring insects clustered where her eyes had been. They lunged into her gaping mouth, the welters of blood from shredded lips drawing hundreds more.

Saddic cried out his horror, staggered back as if about to flee, but Badalle snapped out one hand and held him fast. Panic was what the Shards loved most, what they waited for, and panic was what had taken Thorl, and now the Shards were taking her.

Blind, the girl ran, stumbling on the jagged crystals that tore her bared feet.

Children edged closer to her, and Badalle could see the flatness in their eyes and she understood.

Strike down, fists, still we slide and slither. You cannot kill us, you cannot kill the memory of us. We remain, to remind you of the future you gave us. We remain, because we are the proof of your crime
.

Let the eaters crowd your eyes. Welcome your own blindness, as if it was a gift of mercy. And that could well be laughter. Dear child, you could well be laughing, a voice of memory. Of history, even. In that laugh, all the ills of the world. In that laugh, all the proofs of your guilt
.

Children are dying. Still dying. For ever dying
.

Thorl fell, her screams deadening to choking, hacking sounds as Shards crawled down her throat. She writhed, and then twitched, and the swarm grew sluggish, feeding, fattening.

Badalle watched the children close in, watched their hands lunge out, snatching wallowing insects, stuffing them into eager mouths.
We go round and round and this is the story of the world. Do not flee us. Do not flee this moment, this scene. Do not confuse dislike and abhorrence with angry denial of truths you do not wish to see. I accept your horror and expect no forgiveness. But if you deny, I name you coward
.

And I have had my fill of cowards
.

She blew flies from her lips, and glanced at Rutt. He clutched Held, weeping without tears. Beyond him stretched out the terrible flat waste of the Glass Desert. Badalle then turned back to study the Snake, eyes narrowing. Torpor unsuited to the heat, the brightness of the sky. This was the sluggish motion of the exhausted.
Your fists beat us senseless. Your fists explode with reasons. You beat us out of fear. Out of self-loathing. You beat us because it feels good, it feels good to pretend and to forget, and every time your fist comes down, you crush a little more guilt
.

In that old place where we once lived, you decried those who beat their children. Yet see what you have done to the world
.

You are all beaters of children
.

‘Badalle,’ said Rutt.

‘Yes, Rutt.’ She did not face him again, not yet.

‘We have few days left. The holes of water are gone. We cannot even go back – we will never make it back. Badalle, I think I give up – I – I’m ready to give up.’

Give up
. ‘Will you leave Held to the Shards? To the Opals?’

She heard him draw a sharp breath.

‘They will not touch Held,’ he whispered.

No, they won’t, will they
. ‘Before Held became Held,’ she said, ‘Held had another name, and that name was Born. Born came from between the legs of a woman, a mother. Born came into this world with eyes of blue, blue as this sky, and blue they remain. We must go on, Rutt. We must live to see the day when a new colour finds Held’s eyes, when Held goes back to being Born.’

‘Badalle,’ he whispered behind her.

‘You don’t have to understand,’ she said. ‘We don’t know who that mother was. We don’t know who the new mother will be.’

‘I’ve seen, at night …’ he faltered then. ‘Badalle—’

‘The older ones, yes,’ she replied. ‘Our own mothers and fathers, lying together, trying to make babies. We can only go back to what we knew, to whatever we remember from the old days. We make it all happen again, even though we know it didn’t work the first time, it’s all we know to do.’

‘Do you still fly in your dreams, Badalle?’

‘We have to go on, Rutt, until Held stops being Held and becomes Born.’

‘I hear her crying at night.’

Her. This is her story: Born becomes Held, Held becomes Mother, Mother makes Born, Born is Held … And the boys who are now fathers, they try to go back, back inside, every night, they try and try
.

Rutt, we all cry at night
.

‘We need to walk,’ she said, turning to face him at last.

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.’

Frost limned the driftwood heaped along the strand, and the chunks of ice in the shallow waters of the bay crunched and ground as the rolling waves jostled them. Felash hacked out the last of her morning cough and then, drawing her fur-lined cloak about her shoulders, she straightened and walked over to where her handmaid was building up the fire. ‘Have you prepared my breakfast?’

The older woman gestured to the strange disc of sawn tree trunk they were using as a table, where waited a mug of herbal tea and a lit hookah.

‘Excellent. I tell you, my head aches. Mother’s sendings are clumsy and brutal. Or perhaps it’s just Omtose Phellack that is so harsh – like this infernal ice and chill plaguing us.’ She glanced over at the other camp, thirty paces along the beach, and frowned. ‘And all this superstition! Tipped well over the edge into blatant rudeness, in my opinion.’

‘The sorcery frightens them, Highness.’

‘Pah! That sorcery saved their lives! You would think gratitude should trump petty terrors and imagined bugaboos. Dear me, what a pathetic gaggle of hens they all are.’ She settled down on a log, careful to avoid the strange iron bolts jutting from it. Sipped some tea, and then reached for the hookah’s artfully carved ivory mouthpiece. Puffing contentedly, she twisted to eye the ship frozen in the bay. ‘Look at that. The only thing keeping it afloat is the iceberg it’s nesting in.’

‘Alas, Highness, that is probably the very source of their present discontent. They are sailors stranded on land. Even the captain and her first mate are showing their despondency.’

‘Well,’ Felash sniffed, ‘we must make do with what we have, mustn’t we? In any case, there’s nothing to be done for it, is there? That ship is finished. We must now trek overland, and how my feet will survive this I dare not contemplate.’

She turned in her seat to see Shurq Elalle and Skorgen Kaban approaching, the first mate cursing as he stumbled in the sand.

‘Captain! Join me in some tea. You too, Skorgen, please.’ She faced her handmaid. ‘Fetch us more cups, will you? Excellent.’

‘Beru bless us,’ Skorgen hissed. ‘Ten paces away and the heat’s melting us where we stand, but here—’

‘That will fade, I am sure,’ said Felash. ‘The sorcery of yesterday was, shall we say, rather intense. And before you complain overmuch, I shall observe that my maid and I are no less discomforted by this wretched cold. Perhaps the Jaghut were delighted to dwell within such a climate, but as you can well see, we are not Jaghut.’