The Crippled God

stole his children away – maybe even killed his wife, their mother. You did all this – thinking you could win his heart?
    But he had seen her – enough of her, anyway. Reborn, made young, she was not displeasing to the eye, solid, full-breasted and wide-hipped, her hair – before the blood soaked it – so blonde it was almost white, her eyes the colour of a winter sky. No longer undead. So too, then, Onos Toolan? Now reborn? She took everything away from him, and would now replace it with herself – with the world she would make .
    Toc Anaster, did you know this? Did you understand her reasons for all that she has done?
    Does it matter?
    He reached the ice – she was still ahead, fleet as a hare as she danced her way down the broken, jagged slope. He thought he could hear her, crying out for the children.
    Fissures were opening up as the field’s own weight began to crush the ice, and the descent was growing ever steeper – off to his right he could see one part of it still climbing as if would reach to the very summit of the Spire itself. Was there a speck there, halfway up that ramp of ice? Someone ascending? He could not be sure.
    His feet went out from under him and he slid, rebounding from spars of rock-hard ice. In a blur he was past Olar Ethil, hearing her shout of surprise. His head struck something, spinning him round, and then his feet jammed against a hard edge that suddenly gave way. He was thrown forward, the upper half of his body pitching hard, as what felt like jaws closed on the lower half – snapping shut on his hips and legs.
    He heard and felt both thigh bones snap.
    Torrent screamed. Trapped in a fissure, the edges now rising above his hips as he sank deeper. He could feel blood streaming down, could feel it freezing.
    He had lost grip on his bow and the hide quiver – they lay just beyond his reach.
    Olar Ethil was suddenly there, standing almost above him. ‘I heard bones break – is it true? Is it true, pup?’ She reached down and took a handful of hair, twisting his torn face around. ‘Is it? Are you useless to me now?’
    ‘No, listen – I thought I heard them – the children. Absi – I thought I heard him crying.’
    ‘Where? Point – you can still do that. Where? ’
    ‘Pull me out, witch, and I’ll show you.’
    ‘Can you walk?’
    ‘Of course I can, woman – I’m simply jammed in this crack. Pull me out – we can find them! But quickly – this entire field is shattering!’
    She cackled. ‘Omtose Phellack in all its glory – yet who dares face it? A Bonecaster, that is who! I will destroy it. Even now, I am destroying it – that fool thinks he will take that wretched heart? I will defy him! He deserves no less – he is Jaghut !’
    ‘Pull me free, witch.’
    She reached down.
    Her strength was immense, and he could feel frozen blood splitting, could feel massive sections of skin and flesh torn away as she lifted and dragged him out from the fissure.
    ‘Liar! You lied!’
    Torrent lay on his back. The red sleet was diminishing now – he could see the Jade Strangers and the sun itself. From below his hips he could feel nothing. Frozen. Bloodless. I haven’t got long .
    ‘Where are they?’
    He forced himself on to one elbow, pointed off to the right and slightly downslope. ‘There, behind that rise – stand atop it, witch, and you may see them.’
    ‘That is all I need from you – now you can die, pup. Did I not say you would?’
    ‘You did, Olar Ethil.’
    Laughing, she set off for the rise of hard-packed snow and ice. Twenty-five, maybe thirty paces away.
    Torrent twisted round, dragged himself closer to his bow. ‘I promised,’ he whispered. Half-numb fingers closed about the bow’s shaft. He scrabbled one-handed for the quiver, drew out a stone-tipped arrow. Rolling on to his back, he lay gasping for a moment. It was getting hard – hard to do anything.
    Ice squealed and then cracked and he slid half a pace – back towards that fissure, but now it was wider – now it could take all of him.
    Torrent forced the nock’s slitted mouth round the gut-string.
    She was almost there, tackling the ragged side of the rise.
    He used his elbows and shoulders to push himself up against a heap of rubbled ice. Brought the bow round and drew the arrow back. This is impossible. I’m lying all wrong. She’s too far away! Wretched panic gripped him. He struggled to calm his breath, deafened by the pounding of his own heart.
    Olar Ethil scrambled on to