The Crippled God

nests under heel and it’d not make a whit of difference. That’s the best way of thinking about it, in fact.’ He met her eyes again. ‘Does that make me cold? What did I leave behind in those chains, I wonder, still shackled there, a host of forlorn virtues … whatever. I am having odd dreams of late.’
    ‘I dream only of vengeance.’
    ‘The more you dream of one particular and pleasing thing, Ralata, the quicker it palls. The edges get worn down, the lustre fades. To leave such obsessions behind, dream of them often.’
    ‘You speak like an old man, a Barghast shaman. Riddles and bad advice, Onos Toolan was right to discount them all.’ She almost looked to the west, past his shoulder, as if she might find her people and the Warleader, all marching straight for them. Instead, she finished the last of the tea in her cup.
    ‘Onos Toolan,’ Draconus muttered, ‘an Imass name. A strange warleader for the Barghast to have … will you tell me the tale of that, Ralata?’
    She grunted. ‘I have no skill for tales. Hetan took him for a husband. He was from the Gathering, when all the T’lan Imass answered the summons of Silverfox. She returned to him his life, ending his immortality, and then Hetan found him. After the end of the Pannion War. Hetan’s father was Humbrall Taur, who had united the WhiteFace clans, but he drowned during the landing upon the shores of this continent—’
    ‘A moment, please. Your tribes are not native to this continent?’
    She shrugged. ‘The Barghast gods were awakened to some peril. They filled the brains of the shamans with their panic, like sour piss. We must return here, to our original homeland, to face an ancient enemy. So we were told, but not much else. We thought the enemy was the Tiste Edur. Then the Letherii, and then the Akrynnai. But it wasn’t any of them, and now we are destroyed, and if Sekara spoke truly, then Onos Toolan is dead, and so is Hetan. They’re all dead. I hope the Barghast gods died with them.’
    ‘Can you tell me more about these T’lan Imass?’
    ‘They knelt before a mortal man. In the midst of battle, they turned their backs on the enemy. I will say no more of them.’
    ‘Yet you chose to follow Onos Toolan—’
    ‘He was not among those. He stood alone before Silverfox, a thing of bones, and demanded—’
    But Draconus had leaned forward, almost over the fire. ‘“A thing of bones”? T’lan – Tellann! Abyss below!’ He suddenly rose, startling Ralata further, and she watched as he paced, and it seemed black ink was bleeding out from the scabbard at his back, a stain that hurt her eyes. ‘That bitch,’ he said in a low growl. ‘You selfish, spiteful hag!’
    Ublala heard the outburst and he suddenly loomed into the dull glow of the fire, his huge mace leaning over one shoulder. ‘What’d she do, Draconus?’ He glared at Ralata. ‘Should I kill her? If she’s being spelfish and sightful – what’s rape mean, anyway? It’s got to do with sex? Can I—’
    ‘Ublala,’ Draconus cut in, ‘I was not speaking of Ralata.’
    The Teblor looked round. ‘I don’t see no one else, Draconus. She’s hiding? Whoever she is, I hate her, unless she’s pretty. Is she pretty? Mean is all right if they’re pretty.’
    The warrior was staring at Ublala. ‘Best climb into your furs, Ublala, and get some sleep. I’ll stand first watch.’
    ‘All right. I wasn’t tired anyway.’ He swung about and set off for his bedroll.
    ‘Be careful with those curses,’ Ralata said in a hiss, rising to her feet. ‘What if he strikes first and then asks questions?’
    He glanced across at her. ‘The T’lan Imass were undead .’
    She nodded.
    ‘She never let them go?’
    ‘Silverfox? No. They asked, I think, but no.’
    He seemed to stagger. And, turning away, he slowly sank down on to one knee, facing away from her. The pose was one of dismay, or grief – she could not be sure. Confused, Ralata took a step towards him, andthen stopped. He was saying something, but in a language she knew not. A phrase, over and over again, his voice hoarse, thick.
    ‘Draconus?’
    His shoulders shook, and then she heard the rumble of laughter, a deathly, humourless sound. ‘And I thought my penance was long.’ Head still lowered, he said, ‘This Onos Toolan … is he now truly dead, Ralata?’
    ‘So Sekara said.’
    ‘Then he is at peace. At long last. At peace.’
    ‘I doubt it,’ she said.
    He twisted round to regard her. ‘Why do