The Crippled God

patterns down the length of the leather-backed wooden scabbard. An eye bereft of talent but possessed of boundless discipline and patience. Not an artist. A soldier.
    The captain had enquired of Tavore about her selection of this particular weapon – was it the scabbard’s elaborate pattern that caught her interest? The well-honed blade edges? The solid-looking cross-hilt and firm grip? – and had earned nothing more than a blank look in reply. And Lostara understood, when Tavore had a moment laterglanced back at the scabbard, that the Adjunct had not even noticed any of these details.
    Her coat of chain waited on the wooden chest that had held it, with the leather-cuffed gauntlets folded over the glistening iron links. The plain shirt Tavore was now wearing was worn through in places, revealing pale, almost bloodless skin and the ripples of bone so close beneath it. Her iron helm with its grilled cheek-guards sat waiting on the map table.
    Tavore finished binding her boot laces, and then walked to stand before a small wooden box beside the helm, one that bore a silver-inlaid family crest of House Paran. The fingertips of her right hand settled upon the lid, and then the Adjunct closed her eyes for a moment.
    Lostara suddenly felt an intruder on this, Tavore’s private readying for what was to come, and almost turned to leave before recalling that the Adjunct had ordered her to attend her preparations, to help with the chain coat and its fastenings.
    The lid creaked as Tavore opened it, startling Lostara.
    Reaching inside, she drew out a necklace – a simple leather string and an eagle’s talon of brass or gold. Then she turned to the captain. ‘Would you tie this for me, please?’
    But Lostara simply stared at the talon.
    ‘Captain.’
    She looked up, met Tavore’s eyes.
    The Adjunct sighed. ‘I am a child of the Emperor – what more is there for you to understand, Lostara Yil?’
    ‘Nothing, Adjunct.’ She moved forward, took the necklace in her hands. As she stepped close, drawing it up round Tavore’s neck, Lostara caught a faint scent of perfume from the woman’s thin, straight hair and her knees came close to buckling, a rush of ineffable sorrow taking hold of her.
    ‘Captain?’
    ‘A moment – sorry, sir.’ She struggled to tie the knot, but it was harder than it should have been, as her vision wasn’t clear. ‘Done.’
    ‘Thank you,’ Tavore replied. ‘Now, the chain.’
    ‘Of course.’
    Banaschar stood holding the reins of the Adjunct’s horse. A Khundryl breed, tough and stubborn, but it was gaunt, aged by suffering, its coat matted and dull. Even the Burned Tears had, in the last days on the desert, failed in their diligence. This beast had no running left in it – the damned thing might well collapse beneath Tavore as she rode out to address her army.
    Address her army. Is this truly the Adjunct? When did she last speakto all of her soldiers? Now I remember. On the ships. Confusing words, the awakening of an idea few could even grasp .
    Will she manage better this time?
    He realized that he was nervous for her – no, he was sick with anxiety. So I stand here holding the reins of her horse, outside her tent. I am … gods, the word is pathetic. But what does it matter? I am also priest to a god about to die on him .
    I once vowed that I would meet this day cold sober. What a miserable vow to make .
    The tent flap was drawn back and Captain Lostara Yil stepped outside, looked round until she saw Banaschar, and then gestured.
    He led the beast forward by the reins.
    The Adjunct stepped into view. Met his eyes and nodded. ‘Demidrek. You have stood here for some time, I should think – I was expecting one of my aides to attend to this, and they’re used to standing around and waiting. My apologies.’
    He blinked. ‘Adjunct, you misunderstand. I drove the poor man away.’ He handed her the reins. ‘I am and always will be honoured, Tavore Paran.’
    ‘If I could,’ she said, ‘I would order you away from here.’
    ‘But I am not one of your soldiers to be bullied around,’ he said, smiling. ‘So I will do as I damned well please, Adjunct.’
    She studied him, and then said, ‘I wonder.’
    ‘Adjunct?’
    ‘Is this not the true purpose of a priest? To take faith from the one hand and place it into the next? To stand between a god and one such as myself?’
    His breath caught. ‘A few remain,’ he managed. ‘Most go through the motions, but see themselves as