The Crippled God

pushed through.
    He remembered the day they formed up, officially, in Aren. The chaos,the guarded looks, all the bitching that went on. Unruly, unhappy, close to falling apart. Then a few veterans stepped up. Fiddler. Cuttle. Gesler, Stormy. And did what was needed. And that’s when I knew that I was going to stick with this. Be a soldier. I had them to follow, and that was good enough .
    It still is. It has to be .
    Fiddler’s up ahead somewhere. Cuttle’s right behind me. Only ever had the Adjunct as commander, and she’s kept me alive this long. She wants another march, she’ll get it. No questions, no complaining .
    He twisted round, glared at his squad. ‘First one falls, I will personally curse to the Thirteen Gates of the Abyss. Am I understood?’
    ‘That calls for a drink,’ said Cuttle.
    The others laughed. It wasn’t much of a laugh, but for Tarr it was good enough. They’ll make it through this night. Past that, I won’t ask them for a damned thing .
    Unless I need to .
    Himble Thrup had picked up a new name. Shorthand. He liked it. The old family line of Thrups, well, his brothers were welcome to it. That long, ropy thing tying him to where he’d come from, and who he’d been, well, he’d just cut it. Gone. All the shit going one way, all the shit going back the other way, the rotted birth cord no Thrup dared touch. Snick. Gone. Good riddance .
    Shorthand it is, on account of my short hands, y’see? A damned giant lizard took ’em. No, boys, it’s all true. A giant lizard. Chain Kemalles they was called, but we called ’em Stumpies, on account of their tails. This was back when I was a heavy. Aye, I don’t look like a heavy. I know that. But it ain’t just size makes a heavy. In fact, I know a Dal Honese heavy no bigger than a toad, and no prettier either. It’s all attitude .
    Just look at the ones hauling those ropes – the ones just up ahead. What in Hood’s name are they doing, dragging these wagons? It don’t matter. They’re heavies and someone told ’em, ‘Haul these wagons,’ and so that’s what they’re doing. Y’see? Attitude .
    Aye, we stopped ’em cold, those Stumpies. They swung high, we ducked low. They gave us the blade, we gave ’em the shield. That’s how it’s done. True, I won’t lie, not many of us left. We was outnumbered, badly outnumbered .
    These days? I’m working for Master-Sergeant Lieutenant Quartermaster Pores. He’s just gone back to check on a cracked axle three wagons back. Be with us shortly. Me? I’m waiting for our squad of marines, t’stand guard, aye. But they had a scrap last night, got cut up a bit, but it never went further, since nobody’s got the strength to takeit further, if you see what I mean. Still, needed some sewing and the like. I’m expectin’ them any time .
    The name’s Shorthand —
    Something hard as stone smashed into the side of his head.
    Rackle lowered the mace, watched as Stull and Bester dragged the body off to one side. A score or so regulars had looked up at the scuffle, and now watched with dull eyes as they went, their legs dragging them along as if those legs were the last parts of them still working.
    Rackle wasn’t ready to be like that. Hood take ’em all, he wasn’t. ‘So much for the bodyguard,’ he said.
    ‘Quiet!’ hissed Bester, nodding ahead to the lines of haulers. ‘Get up on the wagon, Rack, but go slow and careful – they’re going to feel the extra weight no matter what.’
    Rackle grunted. ‘Oafs are past feeling anything, Best.’ But he edged up close to the wagon, reached up one hand and set a foot on the helper, and as the wagon rolled ahead he let it lift him from the ground, nice and slow the way Best wanted it.
    Rackle watched as Stull re-joined Bester, and the two melted away into the gloom.
    So far so good. Somewhere in this wagon, probably packed dead centre, were Blistig’s special casks. Time had come for a drink. He drew himself higher up, leaning against the bales as he did so, reaching for more handholds. That water – he could smell it. Close.
    Pores crawled out from under the wagon. ‘Cracked right through,’ he said, climbing to his feet. ‘What’s in this one?’ he asked the man beside him.
    The once-company cook scratched at his beard. ‘Some lantern oil. Horseshoes. Wax, grease—’
    ‘ Grease? And it didn’t occur to you to maybe use some of it on this damned axle?’
    ‘We was saving it for when it got real bad, sir. Aye, maybe that was