The Crippled God

black god-shitting stain spreading out behind him.’
    Noto Boil worked his pick for a moment, and then said, ‘What if he had, sir?’
    ‘Fear, High Mage, takes time. Real fear, the kind that eats your courage, weakens your legs.’ He shook his head and glanced at Noto Boil. ‘Anyway, that was never his style, was it? I miss him, you know.’ He grunted. ‘Imagine that.’
    ‘Who, Tayschrenn?’
    ‘Noto, do you understand anything I say? Ever?’
    ‘I try not to, sir. No offence. It’s that fear thing you talked about.’
    ‘Don’t trample any children on your way down.’
    ‘That’s up to them, High Fist. Besides, the numbers could do with some thinning.’
    ‘Noto.’
    ‘We’re an army, not a crèche, that’s all I’m saying. An army under siege. Outnumbered, overcrowded, confused, bored – except when we’re terrified.’ He plucked out his fish spine again, whistled in a breath between his teeth. ‘Caves filled with children – what were they doing with them all? Where are their parents?’
    ‘Noto.’
    ‘We should just hand them back, that’s all I’m saying, sir.’
    ‘Haven’t you noticed, today’s the first day they’re finally behaving like normal children. What does that tell you?’
    ‘Doesn’t tell me nothing, sir.’
    ‘Fist Rythe Bude. Now.’
    ‘Aye sir, on my way.’
    Ganoes Paran settled his attention on the besieging army, theprecise rows of tents like bone tesserae on a buckled floor, the figures scrambling tiny as fleas over the trebuchets and Great Wagons. The foul air of battle never seemed to leave this valley. They look ready to try us again. Worth another sortie? Mathok keeps skewering me with that hungry look. He wants at them . He rubbed at his face. The shock of feeling his beard caught him yet again, and he grimaced. No one likes change much, do they? But that’s precisely my point .
    The silk dragon cut across his vision, diving down out of the reams of smoke. He glanced over to the boy on the tower, saw him struggling to keep his footing. A scrawny thing, one of the ones from up south. A Shriven. When it gets too much, lad, be sure to let go .
    Seething motion now in the distant camp. The glint of pikes, the chained slaves marching out to the yokes of the Great Wagons, High Watered emerging surrounded by runners. Dust slowly lifting in the sky above the trebuchets as they were wheeled forward.
    Aye, they’re still upset all right .
    ‘ I knew a warrior once. Awakening from a wound to the head believing he was a dog, and what are dogs if not loyalty lacking wits? So here I stand, woman, and my eyes are filled with tears. For that warrior, who was my friend, who died thinking he was a dog. Too loyal to be sent home, too filled with faith to leave. These are the world’s fallen. When I dream, I see them in their thousands, chewing at their own wounds. So, do not speak to me of freedom. He was right all along. We live in chains. Beliefs to shackle, vows to choke our throats, the cage of a mortal life, this is our fate. Who do I blame? I blame the gods. And curse them with fire in my heart .
    ‘ When she comes to me, when she says that it’s time, I shall take my sword in hand. You say that I am a man of too few words, but against the sea of needs, words are weak as sand. Now, woman, tell me again of your boredom, this stretch of days and nights outside a city obsessed with mourning. I stand before you, eyes leaking with the grief of a dead friend, and all I get from you is a siege of silence .’
    She said , ‘ You have a damned miserable way of talking your way into my bed, Karsa Orlong. Fine then, get in. Just don’t break me .’
    ‘ I only break what I do not want .’
    ‘ And if the days of this relationship are numbered? ’
    ‘ They are ,’ he replied, and then he grinned . ‘ But not the nights .’
    Faintly, the distant city’s bells tolled their grief at the fall of darkness, and in the blue-lit streets and alleys, dogs howled .

    In the innermost chamber of the palace of the city’s lord, she stood in shadows, watching as he moved away from the hearth, brushing charcoal from his hands. There was no mistaking his legacy of blood, and it seemed the weight his father had borne was settling like an old cloak on his son’s surprisingly broad shoulders. She could never understand such creatures. Their willingness to martyrdom. The burdens by which they measured self-worth. This embrace of duty.
    He settled into the high-backed chair,