The Crippled God

the stone. ‘ I have had ,’ the Jaghut roared, and into the air she went again, and down once more, ‘ enough ’ – with a sob the crushed, broken body was yanked from the ground again – ‘ of —
    ‘ your —
    ‘ justice! ’
    As the stranger dropped the limp arm he still held, Bent crawled over to his master’s side. He lay down, settling his heavy head across the man’s chest .
    The stranger looked at him, but said nothing .
    Bent showed his teeth to make his claim clear . He is mine.
    The heavy thud of wings made Hood turn round – to see a Shi’gal Assassin descend to the Great Altar. Half crouched yet still towering over the Jaghut, it regarded him with cold eyes.
    Hood glanced over at the heart of the Crippled God.
    The Pure’s ancestral chains were gone – destroyed with her own death. The heart was finally free, lying pulsing feebly in a pool of blood.
    The smaller dog arrived, rushing over to worry at the torn face of the Forkrul Assail.
    Grunting, Hood gestured towards the heart, and then turned away, to stare out over the lands to the west. Beyond the fields heaped with corpses, beyond the armies now gathered, virtually motionless with exhaustion. And now figures were climbing the stairs.
    He heard the winged assassin lifting into the air and he knew that the creature now clutched that pathetic heart. The Shi’gal’s shadowslipped over the Jaghut, and then he could see it, rising yet higher, winging towards the setting sun. Then his gaze fell once more, looking down on the devastation below.
    I once sat upon the Throne of Death. I once greeted all who must in the end surrender, with skeletal hands, with a face of skin and bone hidden in darkness. How many battlefields have I walked? Must I walk one more?
    But this time, they are the ones who have left .
    Guardians of the Gate, will you tell all these, who come to you now, that it all meant nothing? Or have you something to give them? Something more than I ever could?
    Others had arrived. He heard the wailing of a woman in grief.
    And was reminded that there was, in truth, no sadder sound in all the worlds.
    Bitterspring, Lera Epar of the Imass, lay propped up against cold bodies. Her wound had been bandaged, the flow of blood staunched. Around her the survivors were moving about, many simply wandering, while others stood motionless, heads lowered, scanning the ground for familiar faces.
    She saw her kin. She saw Thel Akai. She saw K’Chain Che’Malle and Jaghut.
    And she watched Onos Toolan leaving them all, stumbling northward, on to the stretch of flat land edging the walled port city that had once been the capital of the Forkrul Assail empire.
    None of the Imass called after him. None asked where he was going. He was the First Sword, but so too was he a man.
    She tilted her head back, studied the procession up the scalded stone stairs of the Spire. Prince Brys Beddict, Aranict, Queen Abrastal, Spax of the Gilk Barghast, the priest-woman of the K’Chain Che’Malle. The eleven remaining Jaghut were also making their way in that direction.
    It is done, then. It must be done .
    There is peace now. It must be peace – what other name for this terrible silence?
    More rain began to fall, as the day’s light slowly died, but this rain was pure and clear. She closed her eyes and let it rinse clean her face.
    Onos Toolan walked past the city, out on to a barren headland of gorse and heather. The day’s light was fast fading, but he was indifferent to that, and the ground underfoot, which had been soaked in blood, was now slick with simple rain.
    The sun spread gold across the western horizon.
    And then, in the distance, he saw three figures, and Onos Toolan’seyes narrowed. Like him, they seemed to be wandering. Like him, lost in the world. He drew closer.
    The sword in his right hand, thick with gore but now showing its gleaming stone as the rain washed down its length, then fell to the ground, and he was running. His heart seemed to swell in his chest, seemed to grow too large for the bone cage holding it.
    When they saw him, he heard childish cries, and now they were rushing towards him, the girl not carrying the boy winging ahead. All three were crying as they ran to meet him.
    He fell to his knees to take them into his arms.
    Words were tumbling from the twins. A saviour – an Awl warrior they had lost in the storm. A witch who had stolen them – their escape – and he had promised them he would find them, but he never did,