The Crippled God

When the Adjunct walked between two boulders and stepped into the clearing, her lead boot skidded and she lurched back. Righting herself, she looked down, and then crouched to pick something up.
    Banaschar reached her side.
    She was holding a spear point made from chipped flint, almost dagger length, and the priest now saw that the entire stretch of level ground was carpeted in thousands of similar spear points.
    ‘Left here, all unbroken,’ muttered Banaschar, as Fiddler joined them. ‘Why, I wonder?’
    The captain grunted. ‘Never could figure out holy sites. Still, those tools are beautifully made. Even an Imass would be impressed.’
    ‘Here is my guess,’ Banaschar said. ‘They discovered a technology that was too successful. Ended up killing every animal they saw, until none were left. Why? Because we are all equally stupid, just as shortsighted, twenty thousand years ago or tomorrow, makes no difference. And the seduction of slaughter is like a fever. When they finally realized what they’d done, when they all began starving, they blamed their tools. And yet,’ he glanced across at Fiddler, ‘even to this day, we think efficiency’s a good thing.’
    Fiddler sighed. ‘I sometimes think we only invented war when we ran out of animals to kill.’
    Dropping the spear point – it broke in half when it struck the layer of its kin – the Adjunct stepped forward. Stone snapped with every stride. When she was at the very centre, she turned to face them.
    ‘This is not a matter of sacredness,’ she said. ‘There is nothing worth worshipping in this place, except perhaps a past that can never again exist, and the name for that is nostalgia . I am not a believer in innocence, either.’
    ‘Then why here?’ Banaschar asked.
    But it was Fiddler who answered, ‘Because it is defendable, Priest.’
    ‘Demidrek?’ Tavore asked, one hand now on the grip of her sword.
    He looked round, stepped over to one of the dolomite boulders. Swirling patterns, grooves flowing like hair. Demonic, vaguely human figures, faces composed of staring eyes and open mouths filled with sharp teeth. He sighed, looked back at the Adjunct, and then nodded. ‘She can … I don’t know … wrap herself round the base of this hill, like a dragon-worm of legend, I suppose.’
    ‘To what end, Demidrek?’
    ‘Containment.’
    ‘For how long?’
    Until she dies . He shrugged.
    He saw her studying him for a moment longer, and then the Adjunct Tavore drew out her Otataral sword.
    The rust-coloured blade seemed to blaze in Banaschar’s eyes, and he staggered back a step.
    Nearby, Fiddler swore under his breath. ‘Adjunct – it’s … awake.’
    ‘And,’ whispered Banaschar, ‘ it shall summon .’
    Tavore kicked a space clear on the ground with one boot, and then set the sword’s tip against the earth. She pushed down using all of her weight.
    The blade slid, as if through sand, down to half its length.
    Stepping back, the Adjunct seemed to reel.
    Banaschar and Fiddler reached her at the same time, taking her weight – gods, there is so little left of her! Bones and skin! She slumped unconscious in their arms.
    ‘Here,’ grunted Fiddler, ‘let’s drag her back – find somewhere clear.’
    ‘No,’ said Banaschar. ‘I will carry her down to the horses.’
    ‘Right. I’ll go ahead, get her some water.’
    Banaschar had picked Tavore up. ‘Fiddler …’
    ‘Aye,’ he growled. ‘Like a starved child under that armour. When she comes round, Priest, we’re making her eat.’
    The soldier might as well have said, ‘We’re laying siege to the moon,’ and been absolutely convinced that he would do just that, and then take the damned thing down in ruin and flames. It’s how a soldier thinks. At least, this one, this damned marine . Saying nothing, he followed Fiddler down the narrow, twisting track.
    She had been laid down on a threadbare saddle blanket. Banaschar had unstrapped and removed her helm, and rested her head on the worn saddle they’d pulled from the Adjunct’s horse. Off to one side, Fiddler was splintering wood and building a small fire.
    Taking a waterskin, the priest soaked a bundle of bandages from the sapper’s kit bag and began tenderly wiping the sweat and grime from Tavore’s brow and those so-plain features. With her eyes closed, he saw the child she had once been – serious, determined, impatient to grow up. But the face was gaunter than it should have been, too old, too worn down. He