The Crippled God

their companies, their voices powerful as iron-toothed whips. She could feel it now – the cold, implacable sorcery of Akhrast Korvalain, gathering, and she was pleased at its burgeoning strength.
    And then someone shrieked, and Sister Belie staggered. What? I have lost one of my commanders! How?
    She saw a swirl of soldiers, closing in to where one of the Watered had been standing a moment earlier. Terror and confusion rippled outward.
    Forty paces distant from that scene, another commander suddenly died, his chest blossoming wounds.
    They have infiltrated assassins! She awakened her voice. ‘FIND THEM! ASSASSINS! FIND THEM!’
    The companies were in chaos. ‘FACING RANKS, PREPARE FOR THE ENEMY!’
    She saw Exigent, heard his shouts as he struggled to reassert order on his milling Shriven. As she moved to join him, there was a blossom of darkness behind the man. Sister Belie shrieked a warning, but – too late. Knives sank home. Exigent arched in shock, and then was falling.
    Akhrast Korvalain, I call upon your power! She set off down the slope. The darkness had vanished, but then, as magic heightened her vision, she could see its swirling path – there would be no hiding from her, not now. A mage. How dare he! ‘NO POWER BUT MINE!’
    And she saw that whirling black cloud stagger, saw it pinned in place, writhing in sudden panic.
    Hands twitching in anticipation, she advanced on it. Off to her right, she could hear the enemy’s horns announce the attack – she would deal with that later. I can still save this. I must!
    The darkness convulsed in the grip of her power.
    Now only six paces between her and the hidden mage. ‘NO POWER BUT MINE!’
    The sorcery erupted, vanished with a thunderous detonation, and she saw before her a man staggering, sinking down to his knees. Dark-skinned, bald, gaunt – not the Master of the Deck . No matter. She would rend him limb from limb.
    Four paces, her boots crunching on gravel, and he looked up at her.
    And smiled. ‘Got you.’
    She did not even hear her killer as he came up behind her, but the long knives that burst from her chest lifted her from her feet. She twisted, balanced on two hilts, as her slayer raised her yet higher. Then, with a low grunt, he flung her to one side. She was thrown through the air, landing hard, rolling across sharp stones.
    The bastard had severed the veins beneath both her hearts. And now, lying in her last moments, her head lolled and she saw him. Burly, ebon-skinned, the long-bladed knives dripping in his hands.
    Her Watered were all dead. She heard the enemy ranks smashing into her disordered forces. She heard the slaughter begin.
    Faintly, she caught the mage speaking to the assassin. ‘Sheathe that Otataral blade, Kalam, and be quick about it.’
    And he rumbled a reply, ‘Done. Now … make me invisible again.’
    Their voices grew more distant. ‘Do you think it’s easy? She damned near broke my back with that command.’ They were walking away.
    ‘Just feeling a tad exposed here, Quick – behind enemy lines and all.’
    ‘What lines?’
    Sister Belie closed her eyes. Otataral? You unsheathed Otataral? Oh, you fool . And these, her last thoughts, bubbled with a kind of dark pleasure.
    The enemy broken, routed, Warleader Mathok rode up to Paran’s position near the westernmost rise, and reined in. ‘High Fist! The last have fled east, down into the valley. Shall we pursue?’
    ‘No,’ Paran replied, watching as Quick Ben and Kalam approached from across the killing field. ‘Mathok, begin gathering up forage for your horses. Send parties deeper into the valley if needed – but for resupply only, no chasing down. I fear we shall have to ride hard now.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘South, Mathok. South.’
    The Warleader wheeled his mount round, yelling commands at his second, T’morol, who waited a short distance back with a wing of cavalry, and then rode off in the direction of his main force. Mathok’s raiders had been eager, and they had acquitted themselves well. Watching the Warleader ride away, Paran rubbed at the back of his neck. ‘No wonder you winced at every move, Dujek,’ he said underhis breath. ‘I’m a mass of knotted ropes.’ Still, the enemy broke at first contact, and what could have been a nasty scrap turned into a slaughter. A mere handful of casualties, and most of those from idiots falling on weapons in their haste to pursue . Ensorcelled voices were all very well, but if that was where all the