The Crippled God

Priest.’
    You liked that idea, did you? Enough to latch on to it. Fine . ‘Then I will keep you company for a time, at least until their approach.’
    ‘Don’t leave it too long,’ Blistig said. ‘You’d give a bad impression.’
    ‘No doubt, and I shall not overstay the moment.’
    ‘In fact,’ resumed Blistig, ‘I see the other Fists on their way. If you want your choice of seat in the tent, High Priest, best go in now.’
    Well now, I can happily latch on to that . ‘Tactical, Fist. I shall heed your advice.’ Bowing, he turned and strode between the two guards. Catching the eye of one, he winked.
    And received nothing in return.
    Lostara Yil turned at the shout to see four marines approaching her. A Dal Honese sergeant, what was his name? Balm . Three soldiers trailed him, presumably what was left of his squad. ‘You want something, Sergeant? Be quick, I’m on my way to the command tent.’
    ‘So are we,’ Balm said. ‘Got a healer here who maybe could do something for her.’
    ‘Sergeant, it doesn’t work that way—’
    ‘It might,’ said the tall soldier with the scarred neck, his voice thin, the sound of stone whetting iron.
    ‘Explain.’
    Another soldier said, ‘We’re thinking he’s using an Elder Warren, Captain.’
    ‘A what? How in Hood’s name can that be?’
    The healer seemed to choke on something, and then he stepped forward. ‘It’s worth my trying, sir. I think Widdershins is right this time, for a change.’
    Lostara considered for a moment, before nodding. ‘Follow me.’
    Marines weren’t in the habit of wasting people’s time, and asking to step into the presence of the Adjunct was, for most of them, far from a feverish ambition. So they think they’ve worked something out. It’d be worth seeing if they’re right. Her headaches are getting worse – you can see it .
    The command tent came into view, and she saw the Fists gathered at the entrance. They noted her approach and whatever desultory conversation had been going on a moment earlier fell away. Fine then, even you. Go ahead . ‘Fists,’ she said, ‘if you would be so good as to clear a path. These marines have an appointment with the Adjunct.’
    ‘First I’ve heard of it,’ said Kindly.
    ‘Well, as I recall,’ said Lostara, ‘the remaining heavies and marines are now under the command of Captain Fiddler, and he answers only to the Adjunct.’
    ‘I mean to address that with the Adjunct,’ said Kindly.
    There’s no point . ‘That will have to wait until after the parley, Fist.’ Gesturing, she led the marines between the company commanders. And will you all stop staring? Their attention tightened the muscles of her neck as she walked past, and it was a relief to duck into the tent’s shadowed entranceway.
    Most of the interior canvas walls had been removed, making the space seem vast. Only at the far end was some privacy maintained for the Adjunct’s sleeping area, with a series of weighted curtains stretching from one side to the other. The only occupant Lostara could see was Banaschar, sitting on a long bench with his back to the outer wall, arms crossed and seemingly dozing. There was a long table and two more benches, and nothing else, not even a lantern. No, no lantern. The light stabs her like a knife .
    As the squad drew up behind Lostara, one of the curtains was drawn back.
    Adjunct Tavore stepped into view.
    Even from a distance of close to ten paces Lostara could see the sheen of sweat on that pallid brow. Gods, if the army saw this, they’d melt like snow in the fire. Vanish on the wind .
    ‘What are these marines doing here, Captain?’ The words were weak, the tone wandering. ‘We await formal guests.’
    ‘This squad’s healer thinks he can do something for you, Adjunct.’
    ‘Then he is a fool.’
    The soldier in question stepped forward. ‘Adjunct. I am Corporal Deadsmell, Ninth Squad. My warren was Hood’s.’
    Her bleached eyes fluttered. ‘If I understand the situation, Corporal, then you have my sympathy.’
    He seemed taken aback. ‘Well, thank you, Adjunct. The thing is …’ He held up his hands and Lostara gasped as a flood of icy air billowed out around the healer. Frost limned the peaked ceiling. Deadsmell’s breaths flowed in white streams.
    The mage, Widdershins, said, ‘Omtose Phellack, Adjunct. Elder.’
    Tavore was perfectly still, as if frozen in place. Her eyes narrowed on the healer. ‘You have found a Jaghut for a patron,