The Crippled God

feed its shaping. We are speaking of a god of war – when it comes, it could well fill half the sky.’
    Fiddler glanced across at Banaschar, and then he shrugged. ‘Beware the vow of a Toblakai.’ And then, with a half-smile, he filled a tin bowl with stew and handed it up to the Adjunct. ‘Eat, dear Consort. The rest are with us. Reaver, Fool, the Seven … Leper …’ and his gaze fell for a moment with that title, before he looked back up, grinned over at Banaschar. ‘Cripple.’
    Cripple. Oh. Well, yes. Been staring me in the face all this time, I suppose. Been thinking it was terror, that old mirror reflection. And surprise, it was.
    While they ate, Banaschar’s memories wandered back, to the moment in her tent, and her words with Lostara, and all that followed.
    Children, gather close. Your mother’s days are fraught now. She needs you. She needs us all .
    Glancing up, he saw Tavore studying him. ‘Banaschar, was it you who removed my helm? Wiped down my face and combed through my hair?’
    His gaze dropped. ‘Yes, Adjunct.’
    She made an odd sound, and then said, ‘I am sorry … I must have looked a mess.’
    Oh, Tavore .
    Fiddler rose suddenly and said in a gruff voice, ‘I’ll saddle your horse, Adjunct.’
    Hedge watched as the three riders rode back into the camp. ‘Bavedict, distribute the munitions.’
    The alchemist turned and in a startled voice asked, ‘All of them?’
    ‘All of them. And get ’em kitted out – water, a little food, armour and weapons and nothing else.’
    ‘I’ll go talk to the sergeants.’
    Nodding, Hedge set off.
    He found Fiddler on foot, just outside the Adjunct’s tent. The man was alone, standing looking down at the ground.
    ‘We’re coming with you,’ Hedge said.
    Fiddler looked up, scowled. ‘No, you’re not.’
    ‘The Bridgeburners are coming with you – nothing you can do about it.’
    ‘It’s all over with, Hedge. Just leave it alone.’ And he turned away.
    But Hedge reached out, pulled the man round. ‘I already asked the Adjunct – I did it last night, once I figured out what was going on. You need me there, Fiddler. You just don’t know it yet – you don’t know the half of it, but you’ll just have to trust me on this. You need me there .’
    Fiddler stepped close, his face dark. ‘Why? Why the fuck do I?’
    Passing soldiers paused, turned to stare.
    ‘You just do! If you don’t – I swear this, Fid, I swear it – you’ll spend the rest of your days poisoned with regret. Listen to me! It’s not only us, can’t you see that? You need the Bridgeburners!’
    Fiddler pushed him back with both hands, staggering Hedge. ‘They’re not Bridgeburners! It’s not just a fucking name! You can’t just pick up any old useless fools and call them Bridgeburners!’
    ‘Why not?’ Hedge retorted. ‘It’s what we were, wasn’t it? At the beginning? Young and wide-eyed stupid and wanting to be better than we were!’ He waved an arm to take in the camp. ‘No different from these Bonehunters – don’t you see that?’
    ‘Don’t follow me!’
    ‘You’re not listening! I went through – I came back! I have no choice, damn you!’
    There were tears glistening in Fiddler’s eyes. ‘Just don’t.’
    Hedge shook his head. ‘I told you. No choice, none at all.’
    When Fiddler pushed past him, Hedge let him go. He looked round, scowled. ‘It’s almost noon – go eat something, you slack-jawed bastards.’ Then he headed back for his company’s camp.
    Fiddler cut between two staff tents, and made it halfway down before he stopped and slowly sank to one knee, his hands over his face. As tears broke loose, shudders drove through him, wave upon wave.
    We’re going to die – can’t he see that? I can’t lose him again – I just can’t .
    He could still feel Hedge’s shoulders where he’d pushed him, and see the hurt look on the man’s face – no, don’t . His hands stung, his hands burned. He balled them into fists, head hanging, forcing himself to draw deep breaths, forcing all the rawness away, and with it the terrible anguish that threatened to break him, crush him down.
    He needed to go to his soldiers now. The sergeants would have them ready. Waiting. Marines and heavies, the last of both. One more thing to do, and then we’ll be done. All of it, finished .
    Gods, Hedge, we should have died in the tunnels. So much easier, so much quicker. No time to grieve, no time for the scars to get so thick it’s almost