The Crippled God

to snap off heads.
    ‘ Then Gruntle will leave us too. Not yet. But he won’t stay. He can’t .’
    Setoc had a way with words, the heaps of good news she stacked like the coins of a private treasure. Maybe the grasses whispered in her ears, as she lay there so gentle and damnably asleep, or the crickets and just listen to them – no, that was her spine crackling away. She fought back a moan.
    So, before long, it would be the Shareholders and the barbarian, Torrent, along with the three runts and Setoc herself. She didn’t count Cartographer, the wolf or the horses. Not for any particular reason, even if only the horses were actually alive. I don’t count them, that’s all . So, just them, and who among them was tough enough to fightoff the next attack from that winged lizard? Torrent? He looked too young, with the eyes of a hunted hare.
    And only one Bole left, and that’s bad. Poor boy’s miserable. Here’s the deal, let’s not bury any more friends, shall we?
    But Precious Thimble was adamant. Raw power waited in the east. She thought she could do something with it. Open a warren, get the Hood out of here. Can’t argue with that. Wouldn’t want to. Sure, she’s just a cherry of a lass is our Precious. And if she’s now regretting her tease, why, that will make her more careful from now on, which isn’t a bad thing .
    A roll with Gruntle would be delicious. But it’d kill me. Besides, I’m all scarred up. Lopsided, hah. Who’d want a freak, except out of pity? Be rational, and don’t shy from its jagged edge. Your days of crooking a finger to get a tumble are done. Find some other hobby, woman. Spinning, maybe. Butter churning – is that a hobby? Probably not .
    You can’t sleep through this. Face it. It’ll be months before a decent night … sleeping. Or otherwise .
    ‘ Gruntle thinks he’s going someplace to die. He doesn’t want us to die with him .’
    That’s nice, Setoc, thanks for that .
    ‘ In the Crystal City there is a child … beware the opening of his eyes .’
    Listen, sweetie, the little one right here needs his butt wiped and the twins are pretending not to notice but the smell’s getting a tad rank, right? Take this handful of grass .
    Life was so much better on the carriage, off delivering whatever.
    Faint grunted and then flinched at the pain. Gods, woman, you’re completely insane .
    Let me dream of a tavern. Smoky, crowded, a perfect table. We’re all sitting there, working out the shakes. Quell duck-walks to the loo. The Boles make faces at each other and then laugh. Reccanto’s broken a thumb and he’s putting it back in place. Glanno can’t see the barman. He can’t even see the table in front of him. Sweetest Sufferance is looking like a plump cat with a rat’s tail hanging from her mouth .
    Another pitcher arrives .
    Reccanto looks up . ‘ Who’s paying for this? ’ he asks .
    Faint cautiously lifted one hand, moved it up to brush her cheeks. Blissful black, you seem so far away .
    In the false dawn, Torrent opened his eyes. Some violence still rocked in his skull – a dream, but already the memory of its details faded. Blinking, he sat up. Chill air stole in beneath his rodara wool blanket, plucking at the beads of sweat on his chest. He glanced over at thehorses, but the beasts stood calm, dozing. In the camp the shapes of the others were motionless in the grainy half-light.
    Casting the blanket aside, he rose. The greenish glow was paling to the east. The warrior walked over to his horse, greeted it with a low murmur and settled a hand upon its warm neck. Tales of cities and empires, of gas that burned with blue flame, of secret ways through the world that his eyes could not see, all left him disturbed, agitated, though he was not sure why.
    He knew Toc had come from such an empire, far away across the ocean, and his lone eye had looked upon scenes Torrent could not imagine. Yet around the Awl warrior now was a more familiar landscape, rougher than the Awl’dan, true, but just as open, sweeping, the earth levelled beneath the vast sky. What other sort of place could an honest man desire? The eyes could reach, the mind could stretch. There was space for everything. A tent or yurt for nightly shelter, a ring of stones to embrace the cookfire, the steam rising from the backs of the herds as the dawn gently broke.
    He longed for such a scene, the morning’s greeting one he had always known. Dogs rising from their beds of grass, the soft cry of a