The Crippled God

from Gesler. He saw his friend reaching out, saw his hand close about Sinn’s ankle.
    And then, visibly snarling, Stormy tore her from the stairs, swung her out into the air behind him, and let go.
    Gesler saw her plummet – saw her mouth open wide in shock, and then that visage darkened.
    Now you got her mad, Stormy .
    But he was reaching now for Gesler, grasping his arm and lifting him past. ‘Go, Gesler! Climb your sorry arse off!’
    A push that almost sent Gesler sprawling against the steps, but he recovered, and pulled himself upward, leaving Stormy in his wake.
    Don’t look down – don’t look at him, Gesler. You know why – don’t — Instead he paused, twisted round, met his friend’s eyes.
    Their gazes locked.
    And then Stormy nodded, and flashed a half-mad smile.
    Gesler made a rude gesture, and then, before his heart could shatter, he turned back to the stone steps and resumed his ascent.
    Hood pulled himself over a splintered ridge of ice and looked up once more. Not far now. The ice road was groaning, cracks spreading like lightning. He had felt the assault of Olar Ethil – her hatred of Omtose Phellack unleashing power that raked through him sharp as talons – and then it had vanished, and he knew that she was dead. But the damage had been done. There was the very real chance that he would not make it, that this spar of ice would shatter beneath him, sending him down to his death.
    Death. Now, that was an interesting notion. One that, perhaps, he should have been more familiar with than any other being, but the truth was, he knew nothing about it at all. The Jaghut went to war against death. So many met that notion with disbelief, or confusion. They could not understand. Who is the enemy? The enemy is surrender . Where is the battlefield? In the heart of despair . How is victory won? It lies within reach. All you need do is choose to recognize it. Failing that, you can always cheat. Which is what I did .
    How did I defeat death?
    By taking its throne .
    And now the blood of a dying god had gifted him with mortal flesh – with a return to mortality. Unexpected. Possibly unwelcome. Potentially … fatal. But then, who has a choice in these matters?
    Ah, yes, I did .
    A rumble of laughter from deep in his chest followed the thought. He resumed his climb.
    Ahead was a broad fissure cutting diagonally across his path. He would have to jump it. Dangerous and undignified. His moment of humour fell away.
    He could sense the nearby unleashing of Telas – could see how the air around the Spire was grey with smoke, and the stench of burnt flesh swept over him on an errant gust of wind from inland. This is not by the hand of an Imass. This is something … new. Foul with madness .
    This could defeat us all .
    He reached the fissure, threw himself over its span. His chest struck the edge, the impact almost winding him, and he clawed handholds in the rotted ice beyond. And then waited for a moment, recovering, before dragging himself from the crevasse. As he cleared it a solid shape flashed past on his left, landed with a crunch, claws digging into the crusted snow – a dog .
    A dog?
    He stared at it as it scrabbled yet higher, running like a fiend from the Abyss.
    From behind him, on the other side of the fissure, Hood heard furious barking, and looking back he saw another dog – or, rather, some shrunken, hair-snarled mockery of a dog, rushing up to the edge only to pull back.
    Don’t even try —
    And then, with a launching leap, the horrid creature was sailing through the air.
    Not far enough—
    Hood cursed as jaws clamped on his left foot, the teeth punching through the rotted leathers of his boot. Hissing in pain he swung his leg round, kicked to shake off the snarling creature. He caught a blurred glimpse of its horrid face – like a rat that had been slammed headfirst into a wall – as it shot past him, on the trail of the bigger animal.
    He glared after it for a moment, and then the Jaghut picked himself up, and resumed climbing.
    With a limp.
    She had been hurt by the fall, Stormy saw, watching as she laboriously made her way back up the stairs. Her left arm was clearly broken, the shoulder dislocated, skin scraped off where she had struck the unyielding bedrock. Had they been a dozen steps higher, she would be dead now.
    The marine swore under his breath, twisted round to glare up at Gesler. He’d reached some kind of rest platform, maybe twenty-five steps below the summit. What’s he