The Crippled God

‘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.



BOOK THREE



TO CHARGE THE SPEAR



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 (?)

CHAPTER EIGHT



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 .