The Crippled God

Claws scored across her back. The Otataral Dragon twisted round, lashing with her talons. Puncturing scaly hide, she snatched the dragon close, bit through its neck, and then flung it away. Jaws crunched on one ankle. When her own jaws lunged down, they closed sideways around the back of the Eleint’s head. A single convulsive crunch collapsed the skull. Another dragon hammered down on her from above. Talons razored bloody tracks just beneath her left eye. Fangs chewed at the ridge of her neck. Korabas folded her wings, tearing loose and plummeting away from the attacker. A dragon directly below her took the full impact of her immense weight. It spun away, one wing shattered, spine snapped, and fell earthward.



Thundering the air, she lifted herself higher once more. Eleint swarmed around her, like crows surrounding a condor, darting close and then away again. The air was filled with their reptilian shrieks, the Ancients among them roaring their fury.



She had killed scores already, had left a trail of dragon corpses strewn on the dead ground in her wake. But it was not enough. Blood streamed from her flanks, her chest creaked with her labouring breath, and the attacks were growing ever more frenzied.



The change was coming. She could taste it – in the gore sliming her mouth, shredded between her fangs – in the frantic furnaces of her nostrils – in the air on all sides. Too many Eleint. Too many Ancients – the Storms are still in collision, but soon they will merge .



Soon, T’iam will awaken .



Another Storm struck. Howling, Korabas lashed out. Crushing chests, tearing legs from hips, wings from shoulders. Ripping heads from necks. She bit through ribcages, sent entrails spilling. Bodies fell away, trailing tails of ruin. The air was thick with blood, and much of it her own. Too much of it my own .



T’iam! T’iam! Mother! Will you devour me? Will you devour your child so wrong, so hated, so abandoned?



Mother – see the coming darkness? Will you hear my cries? My cries in the dark?



There was terrible pain. The blind rage surrounding her was its own storm, all of it whirling in and down to ceaselessly batter her. She had not asked to be feared. She had not wanted such venom – the only gift from all of her kin. She had not asked to be born.



I hurt so .



Will you kill me now?



Mother, when you come, will you kill your wrong child?



Around her, an endless maelstrom of dragons. Weakening, she fought on, blind now to her path, blind to everything but the waves of pain and hate assailing her.



This life. It is all that it is, all that I am. This life – why do I deserve this? What have I done to deserve this?



The Storms ripped into her. The Storms tore her hide, rent vast tears in her wings, until her will alone was all that kept her aloft, flying across these wracked skies, as the sun bled out over the horizon far, far behind her.



See the darkness. Hear my cries .



CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE



On this grey day, in a valley deep in stone



Where like shades from the dead yard



Sorrows come forth in milling shrouds



And but a few leaves grey as moths



cling to branches on the shouldered hillsides,



Fluttering to the winds borne on night’s passing



I knelt alone and made voice awaken



to call upon my god



Waiting in the echoes as the day struggled



Until in fading the silence found form



For my fingers to brush light as dust



And the crows flapped down into the trees



To study a man on his knees with glittering regard



Reminding me of the stars that moments before



Held forth watchful as sentinels



On the sky’s wall now withdrawn



behind my eyes



And all the words I have given in earnest



All the felt anguish and torrid will so sternly



Set out like soldiers in furrowed rows



Hovered in a season’s sundering of birds



With no song to beckon them into flight



Where my hands now spreading like wings



Bloodied in the passion of prayer



Lay dying in the bowl



of my lap



My god has no words for me on this grey day



Pallor and pallid dust serve a less imagined reply



Mute as the leaves in the absence of bestir



And even the sky has forgotten the sun



Give me the weal of silence to worry answers



From this tease of indifference – no matter



I am done with prayers on the lip of dawn



And the sorrows will fade



with light



My Fill of Answers Fisher kel Tath

HE’D BROUGHT THE BUNDLED FORM AS CLOSE AS HE DARED, AND now it was lying on the ground beside him. The cloth was stained, threadbare, the colour of dead soil. Astride his lifeless horse, he leaned over the saddle horn and with his one eye studied the distant Spire. The vast bay on his left, beyond the cliffs, crashed in tumult, as if ripped by tides – but this violence did not belong to the tides. Sorceries were gathering and the air was heavy and sick with power.