The Crippled God

whispered. ‘I never thought …’
    ‘Send them down, Fid,’ said Hedge. ‘Your soldiers – get ’em to carry the wounded down off this fucking barrow.’
    ‘What?’
    Quick Ben and Kalam were now eyeing Hedge suspiciously.
    The man scowled at the attention. ‘Fid, send them down, will you? This is just for us – don’t you see? What’s coming – it’s just for us.’
    When Fiddler turned, he saw his soldiers. And, feeling grief grip his heart, he forced himself to look from one face to the next. In his mind, he spoke their names. Tarr. Koryk. Bottle. Smiles. Balm. Throatslitter. Deadsmell. Widdershins. Hellian. Urb. Limp. Crump. Sinter. Kisswhere. Maybe. Flashwit. Mayfly. Clasp. Nep Furrow. Reliko. Vastly Blank. Masan Gilani . ‘Where’s Nefarias Bredd?’ he demanded.
    Sergeant Tarr tilted his head. ‘Captain?’
    ‘Where is he, damn you?’
    ‘There is no Nefarias Bredd, sir. We made him up – on the march to Y’Ghatan. Got us a bad loaf of bread. Someone called it nefarious. Wethought it was funny – like something Braven Tooth would’ve made up.’ He shrugged.
    ‘But I—’ Fiddler turned to Hedge, saw the man’s blank look. ‘Oh, never mind,’ he sighed, facing his soldiers again. ‘All of you, go down – take Sweetlard and Rumjugs with you. I’ll … I’ll be down shortly.’
    He watched them walk away. He knew their thoughts – the emptiness now overtaking them. Which would in the days and nights ahead slowly fill with grief, until they were all drowning. Fiddler looked back up at the sky. The Jade Strangers looked farther away. He knew that was impossible. Too soon for that. Still …
    A faint wind swept across the summit, cool and dry.
    ‘Now,’ said Hedge.
    Fiddler thought he heard horses, drawing up, and then three figures were climbing into view. Ghostly, barely visible to his eyes – he could see through them all.
    Whiskeyjack. Trotts. Mallet.
    ‘Aw, shit,’ said Kalam, kicking at a discarded helm. It spun, rolled down the hillside.
    Whiskeyjack regarded him. ‘Got something to say, Assassin?’
    And the man suddenly grinned. ‘It stinks, sir, from here to the throne.’
    The ghost nodded, and then squinted westward for a moment before turning to Hedge. ‘Well done, soldier. It was a long way back. You ready for us now?’
    Fiddler felt something crumble inside him.
    Hedge drew off his tattered leather cap, scratched at the few hairs left on his mottled scalp. ‘That depends, sir.’
    ‘On what?’ Whiskeyjack demanded, eyes fixing hard on the sapper.
    Hedge glanced over at Fiddler. ‘On him, sir.’
    And Fiddler knew what he had to say. ‘I let you go long ago, Hedge.’
    ‘Aye. But that was then and this isn’t. You want me to stay? A few more years, maybe? Till it’s your time, I mean?’
    If he spoke at all, Fiddler knew that he would lose control. So he simply nodded.
    Hedge faced Whiskeyjack. ‘Not yet, sir. Besides, I was talking with my sergeants just the other day. About buying us a bar, back in Malaz City. Maybe even Smiley’s.’
    Fiddler shot the man a glare. ‘But no one can find it, Hedge. Kellanved went and hid it.’
    ‘Kitty-corner to the Deadhouse, that’s where it is. Everyone knows, Fid.’
    ‘But they can’t find it, Hedge!’
    The man shrugged. ‘I will.’
    ‘Fiddler,’ Whiskeyjack said. ‘Pay attention now. Our time is almost done here – sun’s soon to rise, and when it does, we will have left this world for the last time.’ He gestured and Mallet stepped forward, carrying a satchel. He crouched down and removed the straps, and then drew out a fiddle. Its body was carved in swirling Barghast patterns. Seeing that, Fiddler looked up at Trotts. The warrior grinned, showing his filed teeth.
    ‘I did that, Fid. And that mistake there, up near the neck, that was Hedge’s fault. He tugged my braid. Blame him. I do.’
    Mallet carefully set the instrument down, placing the bow beside it. The healer glanced up, almost shyly. ‘We all had a hand in its making, Fid. Us Bridgeburners.’
    ‘Take it,’ ordered Whiskeyjack. ‘Fiddler, you were the best of us all. You still are.’
    Fiddler looked over at Quick Ben and Kalam, saw their nods, and then at Hedge, who hesitated, as if to object, and then simply shrugged. Fiddler met Whiskeyjack’s ethereal eyes. ‘Thank you, sir.’
    The ghost then surprised him by stepping forward, reaching down and touching the fiddle. Straightening, he walked past them, to stand facing the