The Crippled God

hill.
    Beside him, High Watered Haggraf’s eyes slowly widened – and on all sides the Kolansii soldiers were looking up at the barrow, the weapons in their hands sagging. More than a few took a backward step.
    As laughter rolled down to them all.
    When Brother Grave pushed harshly through the soldiers, marching towards the corpse-strewn foot of the hill, Haggraf followed.
    The Pure halted five paces beyond the milling, disordered ranks, stared upward. He flung Haggraf a look drawn taut with incredulity. ‘Who are these foreigners?’
    The High Watered could only shake his head, a single motion.
    Brother Grave’s face darkened. ‘There are but a handful left – there will be no retreat this time, do you understand me? No retreat! I want them all cut down!’
    ‘Yes sir.’
    The Forkrul Assail glared at the soldiers. ‘Form up, all of you! Prepare to advance!’
    Suddenly, from the hill, deathly silence.
    Brother Grave smiled. ‘Hear that? They know that it is over!’
    A faint whistling in the air, and then Haggraf grunted in pain, staggering to one side – an arrow driven through his left shoulder.
    Brother Grave spun to him, glared.
    Teeth clenching, Haggraf tore the iron point from his shoulder, almost collapsing from the burst of agony as blood streamed down. Staring down at the glistening sliver of wood in his hand, he saw that it was Kolansii.
    Snarling, Brother Grave wheeled and forced his way back through the press of soldiers. He would join this assault – he would ride his Jhag horse to the very top, cutting down every fool who dared stand in his way.
    In his mind, seeping in from the soldiers surrounding him, he could hear whispers of dread and fear, and beneath that palpable bitterness there was something else – something that forced its way through his utter command of their bodies, their wills.
    These were hardened veterans, one and all. By their hands they had delivered slaughter, upon foes armed and unarmed, at the command of the Forkrul Assail. They had been slaves for years now. And yet, like a black current beneath the stone of his will, Brother Grave sensedemotions that had nothing to do with a desire to destroy the enemy now opposing them.
    They were in … awe .
    The very notion infuriated him.
    ‘ Silence! They are mortal! They have not the wits to accept the inevitable! You will fight them, you will take them down, every last one of them! ’ Seeing them wither before his command, a surge of satisfaction rushed through him and he moved on.
    ‘And I will claim the Crippled God,’ he hissed under his breath, finally pushing clear of the troops, marching towards his hobbled horse. ‘I will wound him and Akhrast Korvalain shall be reborn, and then none will be able to oppose me. None!’
    Motion off to his left caught his attention. He halted, squinted into the green-tinted gloom.
    Someone was walking towards him across the plain.
    What now?
    At forty paces he saw the figure raise its arms.
    The sorcery that erupted from him was a blinding, coruscating wave, argent as the heart of lightning. It tore across the ground between them, struck one edge of the Kolansii ranks, and scythed through them.
    Bellowing in answer, Brother Grave threw up his hands a moment before the magic struck.
    He was flung backwards through the air, only to slam into something unyielding – something that gave an animal grunt.
    Strength fled Brother Grave. He looked down, stared at two long blades jutting from his chest. Each knife had pierced through one of his hearts.
    Then a low voice rumbled close to one ear. ‘Compliments of Kalam Mekhar.’
    The assassin let the body sag, slide off his long knives. Then he turned and slashed through the rope hobbling the horse. Moved up alongside the beast’s head. ‘I hate horses, you know. But this time you’d better run – even you won’t like what’s coming.’ He stepped back, slapped the animal’s rump.
    The bone-white Jhag horse bolted, trying a kick that Kalam barely managed to dodge. He glared after it, and then turned to face the Kolansii soldiers –
    – in time to see another wave of Quick Ben’s brutal sorcery hammer into the press of troops, tearing down hundreds. The rest scattered.
    And the High Mage was shouting, running now. ‘Through the gap, Kalam! Hurry! Get to that barrow! Run, damn you!’
    Growling, the assassin lumbered forward. I hate horses, aye, but I hate running even more. Shoulda ridden the damned thing – then thiswould be