The Crippled God

any hope of marching to the Spire by blocking the valley – but only if they could succeed in turning the Evertine Legion.
    She rode hard round to the back of her legion.
    Still held in reserve, the Barghast ranks were readying weapons, and Abrastal caught sight of Warchief Spax, standing atop a small hill of bundled supplies and straining to see over the Evertine ranks to the front of the battle. She saw him turn to her upon hearing her horse’s drumming hoofbeats.
    She reined in before him.
    ‘I’ve never swum in a sea of blood before, Firehair. How was it?’
    The queen glanced down to see herself lathered in gore. She shook her sword clear. ‘How fast were those Perish moving?’ she asked.
    ‘A good clip – almost as quickly as a band of White Faces on the raid. If they have anything left after tackling the valley side, they should be almost in position – but Highness, you’ve seen how many are headed their way.’ He shook his head.
    ‘Can they even slow them down?’
    The Warchief shrugged. ‘Depends on the lay of the land, I suppose. If it’s a broad front they need to hold … no, they’ll barely slow ’em.’
    Abrastal cursed under her breath as she swung her mount round. Thought furiously for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Very well. Warchief, take your warriors and the Teblor and move with all haste to support the Perish – whatever you can manage, understood?’
    ‘You send us to our deaths, Highness.’
    ‘Aye.’ She bared her teeth at him. ‘I show you my coin. You show me your love.’
    ‘I wasn’t complaining, just saying.’
    ‘We will screen you here.’
    ‘Highness, you can’t hold against this counter-attack – we can see that.’
    ‘We will screen you for as long as is needed,’ Abrastal said firmly. ‘Now get going, Warchief.’
    ‘If we do not meet again, Firehair, I should tell you’ – and Spax leapt down from the mound of supplies – ‘I went and knocked up your daughter.’
    ‘Gods below!’

‘You’ll have years of doting on that little runt – you’ll know it for mine ’cause it’s got my eyes.’
    ‘Just get going for Errant’s sake!’
    Laughing, Spax raised his axe and waved it in a circle over his head.
    As one, the White Faces lunged into motion – eastward.
    Impressed in spite of herself, Abrastal watched in silence for a moment.
    Spax was following her gaze. ‘Aye, we live for this, Firehair. We’ll give a good account of ourselves, I promise you.’ He looked up at her. ‘Sing songs about us, and remember to tell your court poets, that’s Gilk with one k.’
    She frowned down at him. ‘How else would it be, you fool?’
    ‘Fare you well, my queen,’ Spax said, bowing even as he turned away.
    When he’d trotted a dozen paces Abrastal called out, ‘Spax!’
    The Warchief glanced back.
    ‘Boy or girl, I’ll make sure it’s named after you – but that’s the only favour you’ll get!’
    Smiling, the Barghast waved his weapon, and then was on his way again.
    She watched the Teblor falling in alongside the mass of White Faces, and then she swung round to study her legion.
    Sure enough, they were being driven back – these Kolansii heavies were anything but soft. Abrastal adjusted her grip on the sword in her hand, collected the reins once more. Let us make them remember us .
    She was about to kick her horse forward when a rider thundered up on her left. ‘Highness!’
    Abrastal stared. A damned Letherii! ‘That was a long ride – what news?’
    The messenger – a Bluerose Lancer – saluted. ‘Felicitations from the prince, Highness—’
    ‘Felicitations? Gods take me – sorry, go on.’
    ‘Highness, the Pure Forkrul Assail is dead. Only mixed-blood Assail remain in command. The prince hereby informs you that he has disengaged his forces from the Kolansii positions. And that he has established dug-in defences along the onager line on the valley floor and will commit a third of his remaining forces there—’
    ‘Excuse me, a third?’
    The Letherii nodded. ‘Prince begs to inform you, Highness, that he is on his way to your position.’
    Abrastal looked round, and then cursed. ‘Take a moment to rest your horse, sir, and then ride with all haste back to Prince Brys. Inform him he’d better hurry.’
    But the messenger wasn’t interested in resting, and he wheeled his weary horse round and set out at the gallop.
    Damn but those lancers know how to ride. And damn me, young man – if we both survive this, I’m