The Crippled God

many. Fuck .
    How long had they been fighting? He had no idea. How many waves of attacks? It seemed like hundreds, but that wasn’t possible – they still had daylight above them. Dying daylight, aye, but still …
    Eyes on the mass of enemy below, an enemy heaving ever closer, he drew round the satchel he had collected from the mound of gear close to the feet of the Crippled God. Drew out the cusser. Always keep one. Always .
    Sapper’s vow. If you’re going down, take the bastards with ya .
    He lifted it high.
    Behind him he heard Fiddler shriek his name.
    Aw, shit. Sorry, Fid .
    Hedge plunged down the trail, rushing the mob of Kolansii.
    And then heard someone behind him, and whirled. ‘Fiddler, damn you! No! Go back!’
    Instead, his friend tackled him. Both went down, the cusser flying from Hedge’s hand.
    Neither man ducked for cover, instead turning to watch the munition take its leisurely, curving path down to the press of soldiers – and all those bobbing iron helms.
    It struck one of those helms clean as a coconut falling from a tree.
    Burst open to spill insensate carmine powder.
    The two sappers stared at each other, faces barely a hand’s width apart, and in unison they cried, ‘Dud!’
    And then a Malazan slammed down beside them in a clatter of armour – a man if anything shorter than Reliko, yet pale and thin, his ears protruding from the sides of his narrow head. He faced them and offered up a yellow, snaggle-toothed smile. ‘Got your backs, sirs. Get on wi’yee now!’
    Fiddler stared at the man. ‘Who in Hood’s name are you?’
    The soldier gave him a hurt look. ‘I’m Nefarias Bredd, sir! Who else would I be? Now, get back up there – I’ll cover yee, aye?’
    Fiddler turned and dragged Hedge back on to his feet, pulling him up the trail. As they scrabbled to the edge, hands reached down and dragged them up. The faces of the marines now surrounding them – Tarr, Bottle, Smiles and Koryk – were the palest he had ever seen. Deadsmell arrived and fell to his knees beside the prone bodiesof Rumjugs and Sweetlard, looked up and muttered something to Tarr.
    Nodding, Sergeant Tarr pushed Hedge and Fiddler from the edge. ‘We got this breach taken care of, sirs.’
    Fiddler grasped Hedge’s arm, yanked him as he dragged him away.
    ‘Fid—’
    ‘Shut the fuck up!’ He rounded on Hedge. ‘You thought to just do it all over again?’
    ‘It looked like we was finished!’
    ‘We ain’t never finished, damn you! We drove ’em back again – you hearing me? They’re pulling back – we drove them back again !’
    Hedge’s legs suddenly felt watery beneath him. He abruptly sat down. Gloom was settling round them. He listened to gasping breaths, cursing, ragged coughs. Looking about, he saw that the others within sight were also down on the ground, too tired for anything more. Heads fell back, eyes closed. His sigh was a rasp. ‘Gods, how many soldiers you got left, Fid?’
    The man was now lying beside him, back propped against a tilted stone. ‘Maybe twenty. You?’
    A shudder took Hedge and he looked away. ‘The sergeants were the last of ’em.’
    ‘They ain’t dead.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Cut up, aye. But just unconscious. Deadsmell figures it was heat prostration.’
    ‘Heat— Gods below, I told ’em to drink all they had!’
    ‘They’re big women, Hedge.’
    ‘My last Bridgeburners.’
    ‘Aye, Hedge, your last Bridgeburners.’
    Hedge opened his eyes and looked over at his friend – but Fid’s own eyes remained shut, face towards the darkening sky. ‘Really? What you said?’
    ‘Really.’
    Hedge settled back. ‘Think we can stop ’em again?’
    ‘Of course we can. Listen, you ain’t hiding another cusser, are you?’
    ‘No. Hood take me, I been carrying that one for bloody ever. And all that time, it was a dud!’
    Faces floated behind Fiddler’s eyes. Stilled in death, when so many memories of each one gave them so much life – but that life was trapped now, inside Fiddler’s own mind. And there they would remain, when in opening his eyes – which he was not yet ready to do – he would see only that stillness, the emptiness.
    He knew which world he wanted to live in. But, people didn’t havethat choice, did they? Not unless they killed the spark inside themselves first. With drink, with the oblivion of sweet smoke, but those were false dreams and made mockery of the ones truly lost – the ones whose lives had passed.
    Around him, the desperate