The Crippled God

‘Like dust,’ he agreed.



‘What does she want?’



He stepped back from his horse, ran the back of one wrist against his brow, and looked away. ‘Nothing good, Setoc.’



She said nothing for a time, standing at his side, her furs wrapped tight about her shoulders. Then she seemed to shiver, and said, ‘A snake writhes in each of her hands, but they’re laughing.’



Telorast. Curdle. They dance in my dreams . ‘They’re dead, too. They’re all dead, Setoc. But still they hunger … for something.’ He shrugged. ‘We are all lost out here. I feel this, like a rot in my bones.’



‘I told Gruntle of my visions, the Wolves and the throne they guard. Do you know what he asked me?’



Torrent shook his head.



‘He asked me if I’ve seen the Wolves lift a leg against that throne.’



He snorted a laugh, but the sound shook him in an unexpected way. When did I last laugh? Spirits below .



‘It’s how they mark territory,’ Setoc went on, her tone wry. ‘How they take possession of something. I was shocked, but not for long. They’re beasts, after all. So what is it we worship when we worship them?’



‘I worship no one any more, Setoc.’



‘Gruntle says worship is nothing more than the surrender to things beyond our control. He says the comfort from that is false, because there is nothing comfortable in the struggle to live. He kneels to no one, not even his Tiger of Summer, who would dare compel him.’ She hesitated, and then sighed and added, ‘I will miss Gruntle.’



‘He intends to leave us?’



‘A thousand people can dream of war, but no two dreams are the same. Soon he will be gone, and Mappo, too. The boy will be upset.’



The two horses shied suddenly, stumbling in their hobbles. Stepping past them, Torrent scowled. ‘This dawn,’ he said in a growl, ‘the hare is bold.’



Precious Thimble bit back a shriek, clawed herself awake with a gasp. Traces of fire raced along her nerves. Kicking her bedding aside, she scrambled to her feet.



Torrent and Setoc stood near the horses, facing north. Someone was coming. The ground underfoot seemed to recoil in waves sweeping past her, like ripples passing just beneath the surface. Precious struggled to slow her gasping breaths. She set out to join the warrior and the girl, leaning forward as if fighting an invisible current. Hearing heavy footfalls behind her, she glanced back to see Gruntle and Mappo.



‘Be careful, Precious,’ Gruntle said. ‘Against this one …’ He shook his head. The barbed tattoos covering his skin were visibly deepening, and in his eyes there was nothing human. He’d yet to draw his cutlasses.



Her gaze flicked to the Trell, but his expression revealed nothing.



I didn’t kill Jula. It wasn’t my fault .



She spun back, pushed on.



The figure striding towards them was withered, a crone swathed in snakeskins. As she drew closer, Precious could see the ravaged state of her broad face, the emptiness of her eye sockets. Behind her Gruntle unleashed a feline hiss. ‘T’lan Imass. No weapons, meaning she’s a Bonecaster. Precious Thimble, do not bargain with this one. She will offer you power, to get what she wants. Refuse her.’



Through gritted teeth, she replied, ‘We need to get home.’



‘Not that way.’



She shook her head.



The crone halted ten paces away, and to Precious Thimble’s surprise it was Torrent who spoke first.



‘Leave them alone, Olar Ethil.’



The hag cocked her head, wisps of hair drifting out like strands of spider silk. ‘There is only one, warrior. It is no concern of yours. I am here to claim my kin.’



‘Your what? Witch, there’s—’



‘You cannot have him,’ Gruntle rumbled, edging past Torrent.



‘Stay out of this, whelp,’ Olar Ethil warned. ‘Look to your god, and see how he cowers before me.’ She then pointed a gnarled finger at Mappo. ‘And you, Trell, this is not your battle. Stand aside, and I will tell you all you need know of the one you seek.’



Mappo seemed to stagger, and then, his face twisting in anguish, he stepped back.



Precious gasped.



Setoc spoke. ‘Who is this kin of yours, witch?’



‘He is named Absi.’



‘Absi? There is no—’



‘The boy,’ snapped Olar Ethil. ‘The son of Onos Toolan. Bring him to me.’



Gruntle drew his swords.



‘Don’t be a fool!’ the Bonecaster snarled. ‘Your own god will stop you! Treach will not simply let you throw away your life on this. You think to veer? You will fail. I will kill you, Mortal Sword, do not doubt that. The boy. Bring him to me.’