The Crippled God

CHAPTER TWO



I look around at the living



Still and bound



Hands and knees to stone



By what we found



Was a night as wearying



As any just past?



Was a dawn any crueller



To find us this aghast?



By your hand you are staying



And this is fair



But your words of blood



Are too bitter to bear



Song of Sorrows Unwitnessed Napan Blight

FROM HERE ONWARDS, HE COULD NOT TRUST THE SKY. THE ALTERNATIVE, he observed as he examined the desiccated, rotted state of his limbs, invited despondency. Tulas Shorn looked round, noting with faint dismay the truncated lines of sight, an affliction cursing all who must walk the land’s battered surface. Scars he had looked down upon from a great height only a short time earlier now posed daunting obstacles, a host of furrowed trenches carving deep, jagged gouges across his intended path.



She is wounded but does not bleed. Not yet, at any rate. No, I see now. This flesh is dead. Yet I am drawn to this place. Why? He walked, haltingly, up to the edge of the closest crevasse. Peered down. Darkness, a breath cool and slightly sour with decay. And … something else.



Tulas Shorn paused for a moment, and then stepped out into space, and plunged downward.



Threadbare clothing tore loose, whipped wild as his body struck rough walls, skidded and rebounded in a knock of withered limbs, tumbling amidst hissing grit and sand, the feathery brush and then snag of grass roots, and now stones spilling to follow him down.



Bones snapped when he struck the boulder-studded floor of the fissure. More sand poured down on all sides with the sound of serpents.



He did not move for a time. The dust, billowing in the gloom, slowly settled. Eventually, he sat up. One leg had broken just above the knee. The lower part of the limb remained attached by little more than a few stretches of skin and sinew. He set the break and waited while the two ragged ends slowly fused. The four ribs that now thrust broken tips out from the right side of his chest were not particularly debilitating, so he left them, conserving his power.



A short while later he managed to stand, his shoulders scraping walls. He could make out the usual assortment of splintered bones littering the uneven floor, but these were only of mild interest, the fragments of bestial souls clinging to them writhing like ghostly worms, disturbed by the new currents in the air.



He began walking, following the odd scent he had detected from above. It was stronger down here, of course, and with each awkward step along the winding channel there arose within him a certain anticipation, bordering on excitement. Close, now.



The skull was set on a spear shaft of corroded bronze, rising to chest height and blocking the path. In a heap at the shaft’s base was the rest of the skeleton, every bone systematically shattered.



Tulas Shorn halted two paces from the skull. ‘Tartheno?’



The voice rumbling through his head spoke, however, in the language of the Imass. ‘ Bentract. Skan Ahl greets you, Revenant .’



‘Your bones are too large for a T’lan Imass.’



‘ Yes, but no salvation came of that .’



‘Who did this to you, Skan Ahl?’



‘ Her body lies a few paces behind me, Revenant .’



‘If you so wounded her in your battle that she died, how was it that she could destroy your body with such vigour?’



‘ I did not say she was dead .’



Tulas Shorn hesitated, and then snorted. ‘No, nothing lives here. Either she is dead or she is gone.’



‘ I can hardly argue with you, Revenant. Now then, do this one thing: look behind you .’



Bemused, he did so. Sunlight fighting its way down through dust. ‘I see nothing.’



‘ That is your privilege .’



‘I do not understand.’



‘ I saw her step past me. I heard her slide to the ground. I heard her cry out in pain, and then weep, and when the weeping was done, all that remained was her breathing, until that too slowed. But … I can still hear it. The lift and fall of her chest, with each rise of the moon – when its faint light reaches down – how many times? Many. I have lost count. Why does she remain? What does she want? She will not answer. She never answers .’



Saying nothing, Tulas Shorn edged past the stake and its dusty skull. Five strides further on, he halted, stared down.



‘ Does she sleep, Revenant? ’



Tulas slowly crouched. He reached down and touched the delicate rib cage lying in a shallow depression at his feet. A newborn’s fossilized bones, glued to the ground by calcified limestone. Born to the tide of the moon, were you, little one? Did you draw even a single breath? I think not . ‘T’lan Imass, was this the end of your chase?’