The Crippled God

you will be bleeding, your head will be hanging. You will be on one knee.’
    ‘And then shall the Grey Helms strike!’ cried out Tanakalian. ‘Can you not see the truth of this, Krughava? Are you so blind as to still hold to your foolish conceit?’
    Krughava was silent. After a long moment, wherein the only sounds came from the advancing armies on the plain, she approached the Shield Anvil, halting only when she stood directly before him. ‘Tankalian,’ she said in a low rasp, ‘we are not wolves. Do you understand? When we act, we are privileged, or cursed, to know the consequences – the Wolves of Winter are not. They have no sense, no sense at all, of the future. There can be no worship of the Wild, Shield Anvil, without the knowledge of right and wrong .’
    Tanakalian shook his head, avid pleasure gleaming in his eyes. ‘Youhave lost this, Krughava. You cannot win – it is not just me any more, is it? Not even just the Perish. Now, you face a Destriant, and through her, our very gods.’
    ‘That child is mad, Tanakalian.’
    ‘I do not fear her, Krughava.’
    That struck her as an odd thing to say. Deeply shaken, she lifted her gaze, studied Setoc. ‘Destriant! Shall this be the only game the Wolves play?’
    ‘This game they know well.’
    Krughava pushed past Tanakalian, pushed him out to the side – no longer important, no longer relevant. ‘Yes, they do, don’t they? The glory of the hunt, yes? I will speak to the wolf gods now, and they would do well to hear me!’
    Shouts from the Perish Grey Helms, offended, indignant, shocked, but Setoc simply shrugged.
    Krughava drew a deep breath – the ground was trembling beneath her now, and in moments the forces beyond this fort would collide. ‘You wolves think yourselves masters of the hunt – but have you not seen? We humans are better at it. We’re so good at it that we have been hunting down and killing you for half a million years. But we’re not content with just the weak among you, or the wounded. We kill every damned one of you. It may be the only game you know, but hear my words. You’re not good enough at it! ’ She advanced on Setoc now, and saw the Destriant flinch back. I have found my moment. I see the comprehension in her eyes – the Wolves of Winter have heard me. They finally understand . ‘Let me show you another way! Let me be your Mortal Sword once again!’
    But it was not the wolf gods who understood. It was only Setoc, and in the moment before the wolf gods poured through her, she spun round in her mind. NO! Heed her words! Can you not see the truth – you cannot hunt here! But then they were upon her, tearing her apart in their frenzy to reach through, to close jaws on the hated human.
    No! I loved you! I wept for you!
    She screamed, and it was the last sound Setoc ever made.
    Krughava’s eyes widened upon seeing the woman’s face transform into something unhuman. The flesh of her arms burst as the bones seemed to twist their way free, black tendons writhing like serpents. Her body stretched, the shoulders hunching. The eyes flared. Shrieking, she launched herself at the Mortal Sword.
    Fangs – welters of boiling blood and thick saliva – a sudden burgeoning of mass, black-furred, looming huge before her – and then a figureslipped past Krughava – Tanakalian, forgotten Tanakalian , his knife flashing, the blade plunging deep into Setoc’s chest.
    A deafening howl thundered, staggering Krughava back.
    Blood sprayed from Setoc’s eyes – she leapt away from the knife, suddenly flailing, groping blind. Another howl sounded, battering the air. Dark blood spilling down from her mouth and nose, the woman fell on to her back on the earthen steps, and then curled up like a child.
    Krughava stumbled forward. ‘Tanakalian! What have you done? ’
    He had been thrown to the ground by that terrible death cry, but now he clambered back to his feet, the knife still in his hand. The face he turned to Krughava horrified her. ‘This was supposed to be my day! Not yours! Not hers! I am the hero! I am! ’
    ‘Tanak—’
    ‘This is my day! Mine! ’ He rushed her.
    She threw up an arm, but the gore-smeared blade slipped beneath it, punched hard, stabbing through her neck from one side to the other.
    Krughava fell back, struggling to stay on her feet, and then pitching round to land hard on one knee. The side of her face where the hilt had struck throbbed – she could feel that. One hand reached up, collided with the