The Crippled God

And that was it. No answering gesture from the regulars. Pores grunted. ‘It’s the old coin thing, isn’t it?’



‘Indeed,’ replied Kindly in a rough voice. He cleared his throat and said, ‘That tradition was born on the Seti Plain, from the endless internecine warfare among the horse clans. Honest scraps ended in an exchange of trophy coins.’ He was silent for a few breaths, and then he sighed. ‘Seti combs are works of art. Antler and horn, polished to a lustre—’



‘I feel another bout of laziness coming on, sir. Isn’t it time you ordered me to do something?’



Blinking, Kindly faced Pores. Then shocked him with a hand on his shoulder. ‘Not today.’ And he walked back into camp.



Faradan Sort remained at his side for a moment longer. ‘If he had a son to choose, Pores …’



‘I’ve already been disowned once, Fist, and regardless of what you might think, I’m not a glutton for punishment.’



She studied him. ‘He was saying goodbye.’



‘I know what it was,’ Pores snapped, wincing as he turned too quickly away. When she reached to take his arm, he waved her off. Both gestures made his chest hurt, but that was the kind of pain he welcomed these days. Keeping the other kind at bay.



Forgot to thank him. Deadsmell. And now it’s too late. And now Kindly goes all soft on me. Where’s the fun in that?



‘Go back to your wagon,’ Faradan Sort said. ‘I’ll detail three squads for the harness.’



No heavies now . ‘Better make it four, Fist.’



‘It is my understanding,’ she replied, ‘that we do not have far to go today.’



Despite himself, he glanced over at her. ‘Really? Has she announced our destination, then?’



‘She has.’



‘And?’



She looked across at him. ‘We’re looking for a suitable field of battle.’



Pores thought about that for a few moments. ‘So they know we’re here.’



‘Yes, Lieutenant. And they are marching to meet us.’



He looked to the departing column of marines and heavies. Then … where are they going? This is what I get for lying half dead for days, and then spoon-feeding old Shorthand, waiting for a word from him. Just one word. Something more than just staring into space – that’s not a proper way for a man to end his days .



And now I don’t know what the Hood’s going on. Me, of all people .



The camp was breaking up behind him. Everything coming down for the march, with barely a single word spoken. He’d never known an army as quiet as this one. ‘Fist.’



‘Yes?’



‘Will they fight?’



She stepped close, her eyes cold as ice. ‘You don’t ask that kind of question, Pores. Not another word. Am I understood?’



‘Aye, Fist. I just don’t want to be the only one unsheathing my sword, that’s all.’



‘You’re in no condition for that.’



‘That detail hardly matters, Fist.’



Making a face, she turned away. ‘I suppose not.’



Pores watched her head back into the camp.



Besides, I might need that sword. If Blistig gets close. It’s not like he’ll be of any use in the scrap – the very opposite, in fact. But I’ll choose the perfect moment. It’s all down to timing. All of life is down to timing, and that was always my talent, wasn’t it?



I’m mostly a nice guy. Made a career of avoiding blood and fighting and all the unpleasant stuff. The challenge was pulling that off while being in an army. But … not as hard as it sounds .



No matter. It’s not as if I’m afraid of war. It’s the chaos I don’t like. Kindly’s combs … now, you see, those I do understand. That man I understand. Through and through. And being his one unruly comb, why, how perfect was that?



Mostly a nice guy, like I said. But Blistig tried killing me, for a few empty casks .



I don’t feel like being nice any more .



‘Adjunct wishes to see you, Fist,’ said Lostara Yil.



Blistig glanced up, saw the look in her eyes and decided to ignore it. Grunting, he straightened from where he had been sitting amidst discarded equipment.



He followed the woman through the camp, paying little attention to the preparations going on around them. These regulars were good at going through all the motions – they’d done enough of it, after all, and had probably walked more leagues since forming up than most people did in a lifetime. But that didn’t add any notches on the scabbard, did it? For all their professionalism – suddenly rediscovered since the Blood for Water miracle, and not just rediscovered, but reinvented with a discipline so zealous it bordered on the obsessive – these regulars looked fragile to Blistig.