The Crippled God

As they hurried off, the Fist turned to Banaschar, studied him critically. ‘You look worse than usual, Priest. Find some shade—’



‘Oh, the sun is my friend, Fist.’



‘Only a man with no friends would say that,’ she replied, eyes narrowed. ‘You’re scorched. There will be pain – I suggest you seek out a healer.’



‘I appreciate your advice, Fist. Do I anticipate pain today? I do. In fact, I think I welcome it.’



He saw a flash of disgust. ‘Gods below, you’re better than that.’



‘Am I? Nice of you to say so.’



Faradan Sort hesitated, as if about to say something more, but then she turned away.



He watched her making her way deeper into the camp of the regulars, where soldiers now hurried about, dislodging rocks with knives and short swords in hand. Blades flashed and curses sounded.



The exhaustion of this place left him appalled. Shards of crystal born in screams of pressure, somewhere far below, perhaps, and then driven upward, slicing through the skin of the earth. Looking round, he imagined the pain of all that, the unyielding will behind such forces. He lifted his gaze, stared into the east where the sun edged open like a lizard’s eye. ‘Something,’ he whispered, ‘died here. Someone …’ The shock had torn through this land. And the power unleashed, in that wild death, had delivered such a wound upon the Sleeping Goddess that she must have cried out in her sleep. They killed her flesh. We walk upon her dead flesh. Crystals like cancer growing on all sides .



He resumed his wandering, the itch biting at his heels.



Fist Blistig pushed his way past the crowd and entered the tent. Gods below . ‘Everyone out. Except for the quartermaster.’ The mob besieging Pores, where he sat behind a folding table, quickly departed, with more than one venomous look cast at the clean-shaven man now leaning back on his stool. Brows lifting, he regarded Blistig.



The Fist turned and dropped the tent flap. He faced Pores. ‘Lieutenant. Master-Sergeant. Quartermaster. Just how many ranks and titles do you need?’



‘Why, Fist Blistig, I go where necessity finds me. Now, what can I do for you, sir?’



‘How much water did we go through last night?’



‘Too much, sir. The oxen and horses alone—’



‘By your reckoning, how many days can we go without resupply?’



‘Well now, Fist, that depends.’



Blistig scowled. ‘All the soldiers who were in here, Pores – what were they doing?’



‘Petitioning, sir. Needless to say, I have had to refuse them all. It is quickly becoming apparent that water is acquiring a value that beggars gold and diamonds. It has, in short, become the currency of survival. And on that matter, I am glad you’re here, Fist Blistig. I foresee a time – not far off – when begging turns to anger, and anger to violence. I would like to request more guards on the water wagons—’



‘Are you rationing?’



‘Of course, sir. But it’s difficult, since we don’t seem to have any reliable information on how many days it will take to cross this desert. Or, rather, nights.’ Pores hesitated, and then he leaned forward. ‘Sir, if you were to approach the Adjunct. The rumour is, she has a map. She knows how wide this damned desert is, and she’s not telling. Why is she not telling? Because—’



‘Because it’s too far,’ Blistig growled.



Lifting his hands in a just-so gesture, Pores leaned back. ‘My carefree days are over, sir. This is now in deadly earnest.’



‘You have the right of that.’



‘Did the Adjunct send you, Fist? Have you been requested to make a report on our provisions? If so, I have a tally here—’



‘How many days before we’re out of water?’ Blistig demanded.



‘At fullest rationing, and allowing for the beasts of burden, about five.’



‘And without the animals?’



‘Without the oxen at least, we’d end up having to pull the wagons ourselves – hard work, thirsty work. I cannot be certain, but I suspect any gains would be offset by the increased consumption among the pull-crews—’



‘But that would diminish over time, would it not? As the barrels emptied.’



‘True. Fist, is this the Adjunct’s command? Do we slaughter the oxen? The horses?’



‘When that order comes, soldier, it will not be going through you. I am prepared to strengthen the guard around the wagons, Pores.’



‘Excellent—’



‘Reliable guards,’ Blistig cut in, fixing Pores with his eyes.