The Crippled God

up his shield. A quarrel slammed into it, skittered up past his face, slicing cheek and ear. ‘Ambush!’
    The wagon trundled to a halt.
    Throatslitter had dropped back down, only to fall on to his side, a stream of curses hissing from him. Deadsmell threw himself down beside him. ‘Lie still, damn you – got to cut it out or you’re useless t’us!’
    But Throatslitter had managed to get one hand around the quarrel’s shaft. He tore it loose, flung it to one side.
    Deadsmell stared at the man – he hadn’t made a sound.
    With bloodied hands, Throatslitter signalled: Someone in wagon .
    The healer nodded, looked round – Balm had squatted down behind his shield, short sword readied. Widdershins was nowhere to be seen. The last of the regulars on this flank had simply melted away, and though the glow from the Strangers was now painting the desert pan a luminous green their attackers were nowhere to be seen.
    Deadsmell collected a pebble and flung it at Balm. It struck his hip and the sergeant’s head snapped around.
    More hand signals.
    Balm backed until he was pressed against the wagon’s front wheel. With his tongue he was trying to lap up the blood trickling down his cheek. He flung a series of gestures off to his right, and then glanced back at Deadsmell and, tongue snaking out yet again, he nodded.
    Thank Hood . Deadsmell met Throatslitter’s eyes, jerked his head upward. Make a show .
    Drawing his knives, Throatslitter gathered into a crouch.
    Rackle held himself perfectly still. Not quite the way they’d planned this. One wounded to show so far. The Fist wouldn’t be happy, but maybe he could salvage this mess.
    He heard the wounded one hiss, ‘Get up on top, Deadsmell, and take a look around.’
    ‘You lost your mind, Throat?’
    ‘Just do it,’ growled the sergeant.
    The weight of the wagon shifted. Here he comes. Hey, Deadsmell, I got me a nice surprise waiting for you . He tightened his grip on the mace in his right hand.
    A sound from the back of the wagon. He twisted round to see the wounded one sliding up into view. Shit!
    Another shudder of the wagon, as Deadsmell began pulling himself up the side.
    Rackle looked across at Throatslitter, saw the man grin.
    Time to leave. He rose, spun round—
    Widdershins gave the bastard a smile as he drove his short sword into the man’s gut, and then up under his heart.
    ‘Stay low, Wid!’ Throatslitter hissed.
    He let the body’s weight pull him down behind some bales. ‘Where’s the other one?’ he asked.
    ‘More than one,’ Deadsmell replied, sliding in from the side. ‘Two, I’d guess. Snipers with crossbows, probably lying in shallow pits somewhere out there.’
    The wagon rocked violently from the opposite side and a moment later Sergeant Hellian was staring down at them. ‘You lads in trouble?’
    ‘Head low, Sergeant!’ Throatslitter hissed, ‘Snipers!’
    ‘Oh yeah? Where?’
    ‘Out in the desert.’
    She squinted in the direction he pointed, and then twisted round. ‘Spread out, squad – we’re going to advance on some dug-in positions. Gopher hunting time. Oh, and shields up – they got crossbows.’
    Deadsmell stared across at Throatslitter, who simply shook his head.
    ‘Listen, Sergeant—’
    ‘You got a wounded man here, healer,’ Hellian pointed out, and then she clambered across, followed by two soldiers from her squad. Others had gone round the wagon, advancing slowly on the flank. Hellian dropped down. ‘Sergeant Balm, hold fast will ya? We got this.’
    ‘You won’t find ’em,’ Balm replied. ‘Saw a couple of shadows running off.’
    ‘Really? Which way?’
    ‘Into the regulars. We lost ’em, Hellian.’
    The woman sagged. ‘What were they after?’
    ‘Hood knows.’
    Having observed all this from atop the wagon, Deadsmell turned back. ‘Nice work, Wid, though it would’ve been good to have taken him alive.’
    ‘Wasn’t interested in talking,’ Widdershins replied. ‘They probably killed Shorthand.’
    Deadsmell was silent. He should’ve thought of that. ‘We need to look for him.’
    ‘And leave the wagon?’ Throatslitter demanded.
    ‘ There ain’t nothing on this wagon! ’
    ‘Right, sorry. Got caught up, somehow. Anyway, I doubt I can walk, so I can stay behind and, er, guard.’
    ‘Where’d you get it, Throat?’ Widdershins asked.
    ‘Where it means I can’t walk, Wid.’
    ‘In the butt,’ Deadsmell explained. ‘It ain’t bleeding – did that quarrel hit