The Crippled God

Bonehunters. She stared after Tavore.
    The Adjunct was barely recognizable. Covered in blood and gore, her helm torn off, her hair stained red, she staggered into the clear. Ten jerking, almost manic steps, her sword still in her hand but held out to one side, as if the arm had forgotten how to relax.
    Lostara pulled free of the ranks, moved after her – but a hand grasped her, dragged her back, and Henar’s voice was close by her ear. ‘No, love. Leave her. Just … leave her.’
    Her steps ran out, lost all momentum, and then she was standing, alone, her back to her army. The sounds of battle seemed to be falling away, as if thick, heavy curtains were being drawn across every side of the world, shutting away every scene, every swirl of motion and dust.
    She was alone.
    The sword, still held out so awkwardly, and her head slowly tilting back, to lift her face to the sky.
    Eyes were upon her now, but she saw them not.
    Tavore’s mouth opened, and the cry of anguish that tore from it held nothing human.
    It rang across the field of battle. It pushed past the witnessing Bonehunters, reached out and caressed countless corpses. It fought with the dust, rising up to vanish in the lurid green hue of the sky’s fading light.
    When her voice gave out, all could see that cry continuing in the stretched contortion of her face. Silent now, she gave nothing to the sky, and in that nothing, there was everything.
    Half stunned by the fall from the horse, Paran staggered towards her. That sound had not come from his sister. Too terrible, too ravaged, too brutal, and yet it dragged him towards her, as if he was caught in a rushing current.
    Off to his left, a few hundred Bonehunters still alive, motionless, unable even to sag or settle to the ground. They looked upon his sister and he could make no sense of their meaning, of what they still wanted from her.
    Is this not enough? This one weakness, breaking loose so raw, so horrifyingly, from her?
    Is it never enough?
    I don’t – I don’t understand what you want from her! What more are you waiting for?
    Through the bars of his helm’s iron grille, she was directly ahead, a prisoner still.
    Someone was rushing towards her. Another enemy. She could not even open her eyes, could not turn to meet him. One more death seemed too much, but she knew what waited within her. This need. This need … to finish .
    Do not attack me. Please. Someone stop him. Please .
    I will kill him .
    She heard him arrive and she dropped down into a crouch, spinning round, eyes opening – a heavy helm, an armoured body lunging for her.
    Her blade was a blur.
    He caught her wrist, was rocked back by the force of the swing.
    Pulled her close as she struggled.
    Fumbled at his helm’s strap.
    ‘Tavore! Stop! It’s me – it’s Ganoes!’
    The helm came away, left his hand to thump on the ground – she stared up at him, disbelieving, and then, in her face, everything shattered.
    ‘I lost her! Oh, Ganoes, I lost her !’
    As she collapsed into his arms, frail as a child, Ganoes held her tight. One hand against the back of her sweat-matted head, her bloodied face now pressed into his shoulder as she broke down, he found himself sinking to his knees, taking her within him.
    And when he looked up, over at those Bonehunters, he saw that whatever they had been waiting for they had now found.
    Like him, like her, they were settling down, to their knees. They were … surrendering.
    To whatever was left inside them.
    Muffled against his shoulder, through her sobs, she was saying his name. Over and over again.
    On a distant part of the field, as High Watered Melest swung his Jhag horse round, seeking to flee, Mathok’s lance took him in the side of the head.
    And the final battle of the Bonehunter Regular Infantry was done.

    ‘Corporal! Get over to those fat women!’
    ‘Dead, Sergeant!’
    ‘Then the other one, damn you!’
    ‘Both corporals are dead – I told you!’
    Cursing, Hellian sidestepped a lunging attacker, drove her knee into the man’s jaw. The head snapped upward and the body beneath it sagged. She stabbed him in the neck and then turned to glare at her squad’s last soldier. ‘Well what good are you, damn it? What’s your name?’
    ‘You stupid brain-dead cow – I’m Maybe ! I been with you from the start!’
    ‘And you’re still here – just my luck. I’ll hold this track – go find someone to spell those two whales. Most of those Bridgeburners are dead.’
    Swearing, Maybe