The Crippled God

a mistake.’
    ‘All right,’ Pores sighed. ‘Cut the haulers loose and send them on. I’ll take a closer look at what else is up there.’
    ‘Aye, sir, but I don’t think anybody’s going to come back for whatever you think we still need.’
    Pores looked round. They’d been left behind by the train. Shit . ‘Even so – there might be a child hiding under the blankets, the way they come crawling out of the unlikeliest of places. Or too sick to move.’
    ‘I’ll be on with it then, sir.’
    ‘Spread the haulers out with the rest.’
    ‘Aye sir.’
    Pores watched him go, and then heaved himself up on to the bed of the wagon. Trying to ignore the fire someone had lit in the back of his throat, and his growing sense of helplessness, he set to exploring.
    The kegs of grease were pretty much empty – with only a few handfuls of the rancid gunk left – so it probably wouldn’t have been enough to save the axle anyway. He tried pushing clear a cask filled with horseshoes, but he no longer had the strength left to do that. Clambering over it, he thumped the nearest bale. ‘Anyone down there? Wake up or get left behind!’
    Silence.
    Pores drew his dagger and slit open the bale. Spare uniforms? Gods below! If the haulers find out they’ll skin me alive . He cut open a few more. Tick for mattresses. Lead shot packed in wool for slingers – we don’t have any slingers. Who’s quartermaster of this mess? Oh, me. Right . ‘That’s it, then,’ he muttered, ‘Master-Sergeant Pores, fire Quartermaster Pores. Can I do that, Lieutenant? You can, because I’m telling you so, or do I need to take this to Fist Kindly? Please, sir, no, don’t do that. He hates me! Odd, he doesn’t hate me , Master-Sergeant. Really, sir? I’m certain of it, Master-Sergeant. Reasonably. I hope. All right, no more excuses for the old man – he hates us all. This is what happens to a bald man who starts collecting combs—’
    ‘Quartermaster Pores.’
    He looked up. Saw Fist Blistig standing at the back of the wagon. ‘Fist?’
    ‘I need to speak to you.’
    ‘Aye, sir. What can I do for you?’
    ‘You can give me my casks.’
    ‘Casks? Oh, those casks.’
    ‘Get over here, Pores, I ain’t in the mood to be looking up at you.’
    He clambered his way to the back of the wagon, dropped down on to the ground – at the impact his knees folded under him and he swore as he sank lower.
    And the knife meant for his heart went into his upper chest instead.
    Pores fell back, sliding from the blade. Blood sprayed, pattering the dusty ground like raindrops. He found himself staring up at the Jade Strangers.
    ‘Bleeder,’ Blistig said, moving into his line of sight and looking down at him. ‘That’ll do.’
    He listened to the Fist walking away, and he wanted to laugh. Saves me a night’s march .
    Things were quiet for a time, as he felt himself fading away. And then he heard the crunch of a foot stepping close to the side of his head. He blinked open his eyes. Look. It’s the Grey Man, the Harrower, comefor me. I knew I rated special attention . The rotted skeleton crouched down to stare at him with black, empty sockets.
    Pores smiled. ‘Just leave it by the door.’
    Balm looked round, scowling. ‘So where is he?’
    Throatslitter hacked out a dry cough that left him doubled over. On one knee, he gasped for a time and then said in a voice like sifting sand, ‘Probably running an errand for Pores, Sergeant.’
    Deadsmell snorted. ‘Errand? You lost your mind, Throat? Nobody’s running errands any more. He should be here. No, I don’t like this.’
    Balm drew off his helm and scratched at his scalp. ‘Throat, climb up and give it a look over, will you?’
    ‘There ain’t nothing worth stealing up there, Sergeant.’
    ‘I know that and you know that, but that don’t mean anybody else knows it. Go on.’
    Groaning, Throatslitter slowly straightened. Made his way over to the side of the wagon.
    ‘Widdershins,’ said Balm, ‘go up and talk to the haulers, see what they know.’
    ‘What they know is the sight of their own feet, Sergeant.’
    ‘I don’t care.’
    The mage made his way to the front of the wagon.
    ‘Down to a crawl,’ Balm observed, eyeing the wagon’s wobbly wheels rocking past. ‘We’ll be lucky making two leagues tonight.’
    Throatslitter pulled himself on to the sideboard.
    The crossbow quarrel coming out of the darkness caught him in the right buttock. He howled.
    Balm spun round, bringing