The Crippled God

the Adjunct. She saw their broken lips, the glint of unbearable need in their eyes.
    And beside her, in a voice that could crush stones, Tavore Paran said, ‘ Haven’t you drunk enough ?’
    Fiddler could hear music, filled with such sorrow that he felt everything breaking inside. He would not turn round, would not watch. But he knew when she took that knife and cut deep into her hand. He felt it as if that hand was his own. The blood was bright on that simple iron blade, covering the faint swirling etching. He could see it in his mind’s eye – there was no need to lift his head, no need to look over at them all, the way they stood, the thirst and the wound she had delivered so raw in their eyes.
    And then, in the weight of a silence too vast to comprehend, blood flowing, the Adjunct fell to her knees.
    When she drove that knife into the hard ground, Fiddler flinched, and the music deepened its timbre, grew suddenly faint, and then, in a whisper, returned to him.
    His knees were cold.
    Lostara Yil lifted her head. Were they killing the last of the horses? She’d not even known that any were left, but now she could hear them, somewhere in the mass of soldiers. Stepping forward, her boot skidded.
    Beside her, Henar cursed under his breath – but not in anger. In wonder.
    Now voices cried out, and the sound rippled through the army.
    There was a whispering sound, from below, and she looked down. The ground was dark, stained.
    Wet .
    Banaschar was at the Adjunct’s side, lifting her to her feet. ‘Fists!’ he snapped. ‘Have them ready the casks! Move it!’
    Water welled up beneath them, spread over the ground. As the sun’s light brightened, Lostara could see, on all sides, a glistening tide flowing ever outward. Through the holes and tears in her boots she could now feel it, cold, almost numbing. Rising to her ankles.
    What did Ruthan Gudd say? We’re in a basin? How deep is this going to get?
    She fell to her knees, drew her head down, and like an animal in the wilds, she drank.
    And still the water rose.
    Chaos in the army. Laughter. Howls, voices lifted to gods. She knew there would be those – fools – who drank too much too quickly, and it would kill them. But there were officers, and sergeants, and hands would be stayed. Besides, most of the fools were already dead.
    With casks full, with all the waterskins heavy and sweating … could they march another eleven days? They would eat, now, and soak in as much water as they could. They would feel strength return to their limbs. Their thoughts would awaken from the sluggish torpor they had known for days now.
    Still the water rose.
    Horns sounded. And suddenly, the Bonehunters were on the move. Seeking high ground. For all they knew, that knife had delivered an entire sea.
    Thick as blood, the smell of water filled the air.

BOOK SEVEN
     

     

YOUR PRIVATE SHORE

Lie still!
The jagged urgent heat
The horn-twisted acts
So unconscionable
I have run far from the mob
Torn the veil and bled in holes
Under your very feet
Take my word not for a day
Not a year not a century
What I will say charges the echo
Of a thousand years unchained
And all the pillagers of derision
Pacing the mouths of caves
March legions of dust
Back and forth
Like conquerors
And the juddering ways
The skittered agitations
The bridled and the umbraged
My tears appease not your thirst
My blood was never for you
I am running still
Alone as I have ever been
And this kissing air on my face
From here to for ever
Is clean and pure
As wonder
     
    Legions of Dust
Atalict
     

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
     
‘He was not a modest man. Contemplating suicide, he summoned a dragon.’
     
    Gothos’ Folly
Gothos
     
    ‘EVEN SHOULD YOU SUCCEED, COTILLION. BEYOND ALL EXPECTATION, beyond, even, all desire. They will still speak of your failure .’ He stood in the place where the Whorl had manifested – a wounding in the fabric of Shadow, a place now slowly healing. There was nothing else here, nothing to give evidence to the struggles that had occurred, the blood that had been spilled. Still, Chaos felt closer than it ever had, as if moments from erupting once again. The madness of sorcerers, the ambitions of the starved … we’re surrounded by fools wanting more than what they have. And, alas, it’s all too familiar company, and the ugly truth is that we may not be out of place in that crowd . Edgewalker’s words haunted him. The breathtaking ambition, the sheer verve of all that they had set in