The Crippled God

name! ’
    CRACK!
    The very air trembled with that concussion. A torrent of water – clinging to high branches, to needles and leaves – shook loose and rained down in an answering hiss.
    Ahead, Spinnock could hear fighting.
    Do you see, Anomander? Old friend, do you see?
    This is our war .
    CRACK!
    Through the boles a glimmer of falling light. A vast shape lifting high. The sudden roar of a dragon.
    Gods, no, what have they done?
    CRACK!
    Anomander Rake entered the throne room. Sandalath Drukorlat stared at him, watching as he strode towards her.
    His voice held a hint of thunder outside. ‘Release Silanah.’
    ‘Where is your sword?’
    The Son of Darkness drew up momentarily, brow clouding. One hand brushed the grip of the weapon slung at his belt.
    ‘Not that one,’ she said. ‘The slayer of Draconus. Show me. Show me his sword! ’
    ‘Highness—’
    ‘Stop that! This throne is not mine. It is yours. Do not mock me, Lord. They said you killed him. They said you cut him down.’
    ‘I have done no such thing, Highness.’
    A sudden thought struck her. ‘Where is Orfantal? You took him to stand at your side. Where is my son? My beloved son? Tell me!’
    He drew closer. He looked so young, so vulnerable. And that was all … wrong. Ah, this is much earlier. He has not yet killed the Consort. But then … who am I?
    ‘Release Silanah, Sandalath Drukorlat. The Storm must be freed – the destruction of Kharkanas will make all the deaths meaningless.’
    ‘Meaningless! Yes! It is what I have been saying all along! It’s all meaningless! And I am proving it! ’
    He was standing before her now, his eyes level with her own. ‘Korlat—’
    A shriek shattered his next words. Sandalath recoiled, and only then realized that the cry had been torn from her own throat. ‘ Not yet! Where is Orfantal? Where is my beloved son? ’
    She saw something in his face then, an anguish he could not hide. She had never known him to be so … weak. So pathetically unguarded. She sneered. ‘Kneel, Anomander, Son of Darkness. Kneel before this Hostage .’
    When he lowered himself to one knee, a sudden laugh burst from her. Disbelief. Shock. Delight. ‘I proclaim my beloved son Knight of Darkness – you, I cast out! You’re kneeling! Now,’ and she leaned forward, ‘ grovel .’
    ‘Release Silanah, Highness, or there can be no Knight of Darkness.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Because you’re destroying Kharkanas!’
    She stabbed a finger at him. ‘As you did! When you made Mother Dark turn away! But don’t you see? I can save you from all that! I can do it first!’ She bared her teeth at him. ‘ Now who is the hostage?’
    He rose then, and she shrank back in the throne. She had gone too far – she could see it in his eyes. His trembling hands. He seemed to be struggling to speak.
    ‘Just tell me,’ Sandalath whispered. ‘The truth. Where is my son?’
    It was as if the question delivered a mortal wound. Anomander Rake staggered to one side, like a broken man. Shaking his head, he sank down, one hand groping for the edge of the dais.
    And she knew then. She had won.
    Back ten paces .
    In the space left by their retreat from the breach, bodies made a floor of trampled, bloody flesh, shattered spears, broken swords. Here and there, limbs moved, hands reaching, feet kicking, legs twitching. Mouths in smeared faces opened like holes into the Abyss, eyes staring out from places of horror, pain, or fading resignation.
    Sharl, who had failed in keeping her brothers alive, and who had, thus far, failed in joining them, stood beside Captain Brevity. She held a sword, the point dug into a corpse under her feet, and knew she would not be able to lift it, not again. There was nothing left, nothing but raging agony in her joints, her muscles, her spine. Thirst clawed at her throat, and every desperate breath she drew deep into her lungs was foul with the stench of the dead and the dying.
    ‘Stiffen up, lads and lasses,’ growled Brevity. ‘They’re suspicious, is my guess. Not sure. But count on this: they’re coming.’
    Someone moved past them then, burly, heavy in armour. Sergeant Cellows, the last of the prince’s own soldiers.
    He made his way to position himself on Yedan Derryg’s left, drawing round and setting his shield, readying the heavy-bladed sword in his other hand. For some reason, his arrival, so solemn, so solitary, chilled Sharl to the core. She looked to her left and saw Yan Tovis. Standing, watching, a