The Crippled God

helm’s rim. ‘The day, Adjunct, the Paran family lost its only son.’
    The answer was so unexpected, so jarring, that Stormy could say nothing. Gods below, Tavore . He struggled to find words, any words. ‘I – I did not know your brother had died, Adjunct—’
    ‘He hasn’t,’ she snapped, turning away.
    Stormy silently cursed. He’d said the wrong thing. He’d shown his own stupidity, his own lack of understanding. Fine! Maybe I’m not Gesler! Maybe I don’t get it — A gelid breath seemed to flow through him then. ‘Adjunct!’ His shout drew her round.
    ‘What is it?’
    He drew a deep breath, and then said, ‘When we join up with the Perish and the others, who’s in overall command?’
    She studied him briefly before replying, ‘There will be a Prince of Lether. A Mortal Sword of the Grey Helms, and the queen of Bolkando.’
    ‘Hood’s breath! I don’t—’
    ‘Who will be in command, Shield Anvil? You and Gesler.’
    He stared at her, aghast, and then bellowed, ‘Don’t you think his head’s swelled big enough yet? You ain’t had to live with him!’
    Her tone was hard and cold. ‘Bear in mind what I said about vulnerability, Shield Anvil, and be sure to guard your own back.’
    ‘Guard – what?’
    ‘One last thing, Stormy. Extend my condolences to Grub. Inform him, if you think it will help, that Fist Keneb’s death was one of … singular heroism.’
    He thought he heard a careful choosing of words in that statement. No matter. Might help, as much as such shit can, with that stuff. Worth a try, I suppose . ‘Adjunct?’
    She had gathered the reins of her horse and had one foot in the stirrup. ‘Yes?’
    ‘Shall we meet again?’
    Tavore Paran hesitated, and what might have been a faint smile curved her thin lips. She swung astride her horse. ‘Fare you well, Shield Anvil.’ A pause, and then, ‘Stormy, should you one day meet my brother … no, never mind.’ With that she drew her horse round and set off for the head of the column.
    Blistig wheeled in behind her, as did Ruthan Gudd and then the ex-priest – although perhaps with him it was more a matter of a mount content to follow the others. Leaving only Lostara Yil.
    ‘Stormy.’
    ‘Lostara.’
    ‘Quick Ben was sure you and Gesler lived.’
    ‘Was he now?’
    ‘But now we’ve lost him.’
    He thought about that, and then grinned. ‘Take this for what it’s worth, Lostara Yil. He figured we were alive and well. He was right. Now, I’ve got this feeling he ain’t so lost as you might think. He’s a snake. Always was, always will be.’
    The smile she flashed him almost made him hesitate, but before he could call out something inviting and possibly improper she was riding after the others.
    Damn! Smiles like that don’t land on me every day .
    Scowling, he ordered his Ve’Gath round and then set off on the back trail.
    The Hunters and drones fell into his wake.
    One of the tiny birds tried landing in Stormy’s beard. His curse sent it screeching away.

BOOK THREE
     

     

TO CHARGE THE SPEAR

And now the bold historian
Wields into play that tome
Of blistering worth
Where the stern monks
Cower under the lash
And through the high window
The ashes of heretics drift
Down in purity’s rain
See the truths stitched in thread
Of gold across hapless skin
I am the arbiter of lies
Who will cleanse his hand
In copper bowls and white sand
But the spittle on his lips
Gathers the host to another tale
I was never so blind
To not feel the deep tremble
Of hidden rivers in churning torrent
Or the prickly tear of quill’s jab
I will tell you the manner
Of all things in sure proof
This order’d stone row –
Oh spare me now the speckled fists
This princeps’ purge and prattle
I live in mists and seething cloud
And the breaths of the unseen
Give warmth and comfort to better
The bleakest days to come
And I will carry on in my
Uncertainty, cowl’d in a peace
Such as you could not imagine
     
    A Life in Mists
Gothos (?)
     

CHAPTER EIGHT
     
Whatever we’re left with
can only be enough,
if in the measure of things
nothing is cast off,
discarded on the wayside
in the strides that take us clear
beyond the smoke and grief
into a world of shocked birth
opening eyes upon a sudden light.
And to whirl then in a breath
to see all that we have done,
where the tombs on the trail
lie sealed like jewelled memories
in the dusk of a good life’s end,
and not one footprint beckons
upon the soft snow ahead,
but feel this sweet