The Crippled God

hungry babe from one of the yurts, the smell of smoke as hearths were awakened once more.
    Sudden emotion gripped him and he fought back a sob. All gone. Why am I still alive? Why do I cling to this misery, this empty life? When you are the last, there is no reason to keep living. All of your veins are cut, the blood drains and drains and there’s no end to it .
    Redmask, you murdered us all .
    Did his kin await him in the spirit world? He wished he could believe. He wished his faith had never been shattered, crushed under the heel of Letherii soldiers. If the Awl spirits had been stronger, if they had been all the shamans said they were … we would not have died. Not have failed. We would never have fallen . But, if they existed at all, they were weak, ignorant and helpless against change. Balanced on a bowstring, and when that string snapped their world was done with, for ever.
    He saw Setoc awaken, watched her stand up, running fingers through the tangles in her hair. Wiping at his eyes, Torrent turned back to his horse, leaned his forehead against the slick coat of its neck. I feel you, friend. You do not question your life. You are in its midst and know no other place, nothing outside it. How I envy you .
    She approached him, the faint crunch of stones underfoot, the slow pulse of her breathing. She came up on his left, reaching to stroke the horse in the softness between its nostrils, giving it her scent. ‘Torrent,’ she whispered, ‘who is out there?’
    He grunted. ‘Your wolf ghosts are torn, aren’t they? Curious, frightened …’
    ‘They smell death, and yet power. So much power.’
    The hide against his brow was now damp. ‘She calls herself a Bonecaster. A shaman. A witch. Her name is Olar Ethil, and no life burns in her body.’
    ‘She comes before the dawn, three mornings in a row now. But draws no closer. She hides like a hare, and when the sun’s light finally arrives, she vanishes. Like dust.’
    ‘Like dust,’ he agreed.
    ‘What does she want?’
    He stepped back from his horse, ran the back of one wrist against his brow, and looked away. ‘Nothing good, Setoc.’
    She said nothing for a time, standing at his side, her furs wrapped tight about her shoulders. Then she seemed to shiver, and said, ‘A snake writhes in each of her hands, but they’re laughing.’
    Telorast. Curdle. They dance in my dreams . ‘They’re dead, too. They’re all dead, Setoc. But still they hunger … for something.’ He shrugged. ‘We are all lost out here. I feel this, like a rot in my bones.’
    ‘I told Gruntle of my visions, the Wolves and the throne they guard. Do you know what he asked me?’
    Torrent shook his head.
    ‘He asked me if I’ve seen the Wolves lift a leg against that throne.’
    He snorted a laugh, but the sound shook him in an unexpected way. When did I last laugh? Spirits below .
    ‘It’s how they mark territory,’ Setoc went on, her tone wry. ‘How they take possession of something. I was shocked, but not for long. They’re beasts, after all. So what is it we worship when we worship them?’
    ‘I worship no one any more, Setoc.’
    ‘Gruntle says worship is nothing more than the surrender to things beyond our control. He says the comfort from that is false, because there is nothing comfortable in the struggle to live. He kneels to no one, not even his Tiger of Summer, who would dare compel him.’ She hesitated, and then sighed and added, ‘I will miss Gruntle.’
    ‘He intends to leave us?’
    ‘A thousand people can dream of war, but no two dreams are the same. Soon he will be gone, and Mappo, too. The boy will be upset.’
    The two horses shied suddenly, stumbling in their hobbles. Stepping past them, Torrent scowled. ‘This dawn,’ he said in a growl, ‘the hare is bold.’
    Precious Thimble bit back a shriek, clawed herself awake with a gasp. Traces of fire raced along her nerves. Kicking her bedding aside, she scrambled to her feet.
    Torrent and Setoc stood near the horses, facing north. Someone wascoming. The ground underfoot seemed to recoil in waves sweeping past her, like ripples passing just beneath the surface. Precious struggled to slow her gasping breaths. She set out to join the warrior and the girl, leaning forward as if fighting an invisible current. Hearing heavy footfalls behind her, she glanced back to see Gruntle and Mappo.
    ‘Be careful, Precious,’ Gruntle said. ‘Against this one …’ He shook his head. The barbed tattoos covering