The Crippled God

should never have done this,’ he whispered.
    ‘A common prayer,’ she muttered in reply.
    ‘Farther still?’ Errastas demanded.
    Kilmandaros glanced behind them. ‘Farther still.’

    The dragon circled him twice before descending to the broken tundra two hundred paces ahead. As Tulas Shorn walked closer, he watched it eyeing him warily. Scales like plates of ice, milky and translucent in places, blinding white where the sun’s light struck them full. Eyes red as blood. With less than fifty strides between them, the dragon sembled.
    Tulas maintained his steady approach until ten paces away, and then he halted in alarm. ‘Is that a Hust blade you carry, Silchas Ruin? Such was not your style.’
    The weapon was moaning, sensing the nearness of one possessing the blood of Eleint. One other than its wielder, that is .
    Silchas Ruin’s expression was flat. ‘It seems that you evaded their bargain – for there was a bargain, was there not? Between my brother and the Lord of the Slain. There had to have been.’
    ‘I imagine you are correct.’
    ‘Was your prison Hood’s realm, Prince, or Dragnipur?’
    Tulas straightened, tilted his head. ‘You refuse me my proper title.’
    ‘I see no throne, Tulas Shorn. Was “prince” not honorific enough? Would you prefer pretender ?’
    ‘If I was not bound still – and eternally so, I fear – to this state of undeath, Silchas Ruin, I might take offence at your words.’
    ‘If you wish, we could still cross blades, you sperm-clouded abomination of darkness.’
    Tulas considered the proposition. ‘You are returned to this world, Silchas, leading me to the inescapable conclusion that the Azath do indeed know how to shit.’
    ‘Tulas,’ said Silchas Ruin as he strode closer, ‘do you remember the night of the whores?’
    ‘I do.’
    ‘You are such a rotted mess now, I doubt a kingdom’s wealth could buy you their favour.’
    ‘As I recall, they blindfolded themselves before lying with you – what did they squeal? Oh yes. “ He has the eyes of a white rat! ” Or words to that effect.’
    They faced one another.
    ‘Tulas, would a smile crack what’s left of your face?’
    ‘Probably, old friend, but know that I am smiling – in my heart.’
    Their embrace was savage with memories thought for ever lost, a friendship they’d thought long dead.
    ‘Against this,’ Silchas whispered, ‘not even Hood can stand. My friend .’
    After a time, they drew apart.
    ‘Do not weep for me,’ said Tulas Shorn.
    Silchas made a careless gesture. ‘Unexpected joy. But … too bad about the war.’
    ‘The war in which we did our level best to kill each other? Yes, those were bad times. We were each caught in whirlpools, friend, too vast and powerful for us to escape.’
    ‘The day Emurlahn shattered, so too did my heart. For you, Tulas. For … everything we then lost.’
    ‘Do you know, I do not even remember my own death? For all I know, it could well have been by your hand.’
    Silchas Ruin shook his head. ‘It was not. You were lost in the shattering – so even I do not know what happened to you. I … I searched, for a time.’
    ‘As I would have done for you.’
    ‘But then Scara—’
    ‘Curse of the Eleint.’
    Silchas nodded. ‘Too easily embraced.’
    ‘But not you. Not me.’
    ‘It pleases me to hear you say that. Starvald Demelain—’
    ‘I know. The Storm will be a siren call.’
    ‘Together, we can resist it.’
    ‘This smile upon my soul, it grows. At last, my heart’s dream – we shall fight side by side, Silchas Ruin.’
    ‘And the first to fall …’
    ‘The other shall guard.’
    ‘Tulas.’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘He saw my grief. He joined with me in my search.’
    Tulas Shorn looked away, said nothing.
    ‘Tulas, Anomander—’
    ‘No, friend. Not yet – I – I am not yet ready to think of him. I am sorry.’
    Silchas Ruin’s breath was ragged. He lifted a hand to his face, looked away, and then nodded. ‘As you wish.’ He laughed harshly. ‘It matters not, anyway. Not any more. He is dead.’
    ‘I know that,’ Tulas said, reaching out to grasp Silchas’s right shoulder. ‘And more than ever, it matters . If we do not speak of your loss – for a time – it does not mean I feel nothing of your grief. Understand me, please.’
    ‘Very well.’
    Tulas eyed the Tiste Andii. ‘Curse of the Eleint,’ he said.
    But his friend flinched. Neither spoke for a time. The Hust sword at Silchas’s belt was muttering in its