The Crippled God

She frowned at him. ‘What?’



‘Can I have your kit bag, Captain?’



Henar helped her lift it off her shoulders. They set it down.



Kneeling before it, Banaschar fumbled at the straps. ‘She judged you the strongest,’ he murmured. ‘Gift of a god? Possibly. Or,’ and he glanced up at her, ‘maybe you’re just the most stubborn one of us all.’ He pulled back the sun-cracked flap, rummaged inside, and then drew out a small wooden box.



Lostara gasped. ‘That’s not—’



‘You stayed close,’ Banaschar said. ‘We knew you would.’



He struggled to straighten, nodding his thanks when Lostara helped him, and then he walked slowly over to the Adjunct.



In Lostara’s mind, a memory … a throne room. That Ceda. The king … complaining, such a plain gift, that dagger. And what did the Ceda tell her? Dire necessity …



Banaschar opened the box. The Adjunct reached in, withdrew the dagger. She held it before her.



‘“When blood is required. When blood is needed .”’



Tavore glanced over at her, and Lostara realized that she had spoken those words aloud.



Banaschar said, ‘Adjunct, the king’s Ceda—’



‘Is an Elder God, yes.’ Tavore continued studying the knife, and then, slowly, she looked up, her gaze moving from one face to the next. And something flickered in her expression, that parched mask of plainness. A crack through to … to such hurt . And then it was gone again, and Lostara wondered if she’d ever seen it, wondered if she’d imagined the whole thing. She is only what you see. And what you see isn’t much .



Banaschar said, ‘Your blood, Adjunct.’



She saw Fiddler then, well behind the Adjunct, saw him turn away as if in shame.



The Adjunct was studying them all. Lostara found herself at Tavore’s side, with no memory of moving, and she saw the faces before her, all fixed upon the Adjunct. She saw their broken lips, the glint of unbearable need in their eyes.



And beside her, in a voice that could crush stones, Tavore Paran said, ‘ Haven’t you drunk enough ?’



Fiddler could hear music, filled with such sorrow that he felt everything breaking inside. He would not turn round, would not watch. But he knew when she took that knife and cut deep into her hand. He felt it as if that hand was his own. The blood was bright on that simple iron blade, covering the faint swirling etching. He could see it in his mind’s eye – there was no need to lift his head, no need to look over at them all, the way they stood, the thirst and the wound she had delivered so raw in their eyes.



And then, in the weight of a silence too vast to comprehend, blood flowing, the Adjunct fell to her knees.



When she drove that knife into the hard ground, Fiddler flinched, and the music deepened its timbre, grew suddenly faint, and then, in a whisper, returned to him.



His knees were cold.



Lostara Yil lifted her head. Were they killing the last of the horses? She’d not even known that any were left, but now she could hear them, somewhere in the mass of soldiers. Stepping forward, her boot skidded.



Beside her, Henar cursed under his breath – but not in anger. In wonder.



Now voices cried out, and the sound rippled through the army.



There was a whispering sound, from below, and she looked down. The ground was dark, stained.



Wet .



Banaschar was at the Adjunct’s side, lifting her to her feet. ‘Fists!’ he snapped. ‘Have them ready the casks! Move it!’



Water welled up beneath them, spread over the ground. As the sun’s light brightened, Lostara could see, on all sides, a glistening tide flowing ever outward. Through the holes and tears in her boots she could now feel it, cold, almost numbing. Rising to her ankles.



What did Ruthan Gudd say? We’re in a basin? How deep is this going to get?



She fell to her knees, drew her head down, and like an animal in the wilds, she drank.



And still the water rose.



Chaos in the army. Laughter. Howls, voices lifted to gods. She knew there would be those – fools – who drank too much too quickly, and it would kill them. But there were officers, and sergeants, and hands would be stayed. Besides, most of the fools were already dead.



With casks full, with all the waterskins heavy and sweating … could they march another eleven days? They would eat, now, and soak in as much water as they could. They would feel strength return to their limbs. Their thoughts would awaken from the sluggish torpor they had known for days now.



Still the water rose.



Horns sounded. And suddenly, the Bonehunters were on the move. Seeking high ground. For all they knew, that knife had delivered an entire sea.