The Crippled God

‘She inherited and left me for a prettier man. You see, she woke up that morning feeling the same horror as me, and the closer I got …’



‘Mathok, looks like we’re going to have a fight on our hands after all.’



‘Your words make me happy.’



‘We need to overwhelm and rout the Shriven. Then we can deal with the mercenaries. As it turns out,’ he added, collecting his reins, ‘that might be just what we need to convince them to surrender.’



‘There’ll be a Pure up there, High Fist. More fun for Kalam and your High Mage.’



‘We’ll draw up tonight. Mathok, your warriors won’t be much use if they stay mounted.’



The man shrugged. ‘Why do raiders ride horses, High Fist? Because it’s the quickest means of getting away.’



‘You’re not just raiders any more, Mathok.’



‘We’ll skirmish if that’s what you need, but we won’t like it. Now, that road, that’s a wide road, a military road. Clear the flanks and we can ride straight up it.’



‘Into the waiting teeth of those mercenaries? And uphill at that? I’ll not see you wasted. Sorry, no matter how thirsty you are for blood, you may have to wait a while longer.’



The warrior grimaced and then shrugged. ‘We’re thirsty for blood, yes, but not if most of it is our own.’



‘Good,’ Paran grunted. ‘Keep your mob in check, that’s all I ask.’



Mathok was studying him in a peculiar fashion. ‘High Fist, I’ve heard a lifetime of tales about the Malazan army. And I’ve run from a few close calls in my day, ended up getting chased for weeks.’ He jutted his chin at the pass. ‘But this – even those Shriven look to be enough to not only stop us dead, but hurt us bad in the doing.’



‘Your point?’



‘I fear for the Host, that’s all.’



Paran nodded. ‘Come the morning, Mathok, find a high vantage point for you and your warriors. And I will show you everything you need to know about the Malazan army.’



Two turns of the sand after the sun had set, the Host drew up a short distance from the base of the pass. Beneath the luminous green glow of the Jade Strangers, the companies broke out into their bivouacs. Forward pickets were established, although no probes were expected from the enemy. Soldiers ate a quick meal, and then rested. Most slept, although a few attended to their weapons and armour, their leather harnesses, their shields and footwear. Trailed by Fist Rythe Bude, Paran walked among the camps, exchanging words here and there with those soldiers too charged up or nervous to sleep.



He had never expected to be commanding an army. He had never expected to take the place of Dujek Onearm. He thought often of that man, and took from Dujek all he could. The Host had known bad times. It deserved better, but Paran suspected that this sentiment was felt by every commander.



When he and Rythe Bude finally retired to the command tent, they found Kalam and Quick Ben awaiting them. It was two turns before dawn.



The assassin was wrapped in black muslin, pulling on his stained and worn leather gloves, and though he was wearing chain beneath the cloth, there was almost no sound while he paced. Quick Ben sat on the ground leaning back against a squat four-legged chest, his legs stretched out, his eyes half shut.



Paran stared down at the wizard. ‘Well?’



‘Well what?’



‘Are you ready? Usually I can smell when there’s been magic going on, and I can’t smell a thing, High Mage.’



Quick Ben opened one eye to regard him. ‘If you can tell, High Fist, then so can the Pures up there. Trust me. We’re ready.’



Paran glanced across at Rythe, who simply shrugged in reply. He squinted at her. ‘Get some sleep, Fist.’



‘Yes sir.’



After she’d left, Paran stepped into Kalam’s path. Muttering an oath, the assassin halted. Bared his teeth and said, ‘You’re getting on my nerves, High Fist.’



Quick Ben spoke. ‘Do you have that card ready, High Fist?’



Paran nodded, edging to one side so that Kalam could resume pacing.



‘Good,’ said the wizard. He sat up, reached for a leather satchel lying beside him. Rummaged inside it for a moment and then drew out a crooked stick on which was tied an arm’s length of twine. One end of the stick had been hacked into something resembling a point. Quick Ben stabbed that end into the floor. Then he removed from his satchel two small balls of weighted, knotted cloth, one black, the other gold. He bound these to the string, moving them away from the stick until the twine stretched straight. ‘Kalam,’ he said, ‘it’s time.’