The Crippled God

Deadsmell?’
    To that question the man seemed at a loss for an answer.
    ‘The God of Death is no more,’ Widdershins said, his teeth chattering as the temperature in the chamber plummeted. ‘But it may be that Hood himself ain’t quite as dead as we all thought he was.’
    ‘We thought that, did we?’ Tavore’s lips thinned as she regarded Deadsmell. ‘Healer, approach.’
    One hand twisting tight to keep the man upright, Balm guided Deadsmell back outside. Throatslitter and Widdershins closed in from either side, the looks on their faces fierce, as if they were moments from drawing weapons should anyone come close.
    The Fists backed away as one, and the sergeant scowled at them all. ‘Make room if you please, sirs. Oh, and she’ll see you now.’ Without waiting a reply, Balm tugged Deadsmell forward, the healer staggering – his clothes sodden as frost and ice melted in the morning heat. Twenty paces away, behind a sagging supply tent, the sergeant finally halted. ‘Sit down, Deadsmell. Gods below, tell me this’ll pass.’
    The healer slumped to the ground. His head sank and the others waited for the man to be sick. Instead, they heard something like a sob. Balm stared at Throatslitter, and then at Widdershins, but by their expressions they were as baffled as he was. He crouched down, one hand resting lightly on Deadsmell’s back – he could feel the shudders pushing through.
    The healer wept for some time.
    No one spoke.
    When the sobs began to subside, Balm leaned closer. ‘Corporal, what in Togg’s name is going on with you?’
    ‘I – I can’t explain, Sergeant.’
    ‘The healing worked,’ said Balm. ‘We all saw it.’
    He nodded, still not lifting his head.
    ‘So … what?’
    ‘She let down her defences, just for a moment. Let me in, Sergeant. She had to, so I could heal the damage – and gods, was there damage!Stepping into view – that must have taken everything she had. Standing, talking …’ he shook his head. ‘I saw inside. I saw—’
    He broke down all over again, shaking with vast, overwhelming sobs.
    Balm remained crouched at his side. Widdershins and Throatslitter stood forming a kind of barrier facing outward. There was nothing to do but wait.
    In the moments before the Fists trooped inside, Lostara Yil stood facing Tavore. She struggled to keep her voice steady, calm. ‘Welcome back, Adjunct.’
    Tavore slowly drew a deep breath. ‘Your thoughts, High Priest?’
    To one side, Banaschar lifted his head. ‘I’m too cold to think, Adjunct.’
    ‘Omtose Phellack. Have you felt the footfalls of the Jaghut, Banaschar?’
    The ex-priest shrugged. ‘So Hood had a back door. Should we really be surprised? That devious shit of a god was never one for playing straight.’
    ‘Disingenuous, High Priest.’
    His face twisted. ‘Think hard on where your gifts come from, Adjunct.’
    ‘At last,’ she retorted, ‘some sound advice from you, High Priest. Almost … sober.’
    If he planned on a reply, he bit it off when Kindly, Sort and Blistig entered the chamber.
    There was a stretch of silence, and then Faradan Sort snorted and said, ‘And here I always believed a chilly reception was just a—’
    ‘I am informed,’ cut in the Adjunct, ‘that our guests are on their way. Before they arrive, I wish each of you to report on the disposition of your soldiers. Succinctly, please.’
    The Fists stared.
    Lostara Yil glanced over at Banaschar, and saw something flickering in his eyes as he studied the Adjunct.
    Their approach took them down the north avenue of the Malazan encampment, winding down the crooked track between abattoir tents, where the stench of butchered animals was rank in the fly-swarmed air. Atri-Ceda Aranict rode in silence beside Commander Brys, hunched against the bleating of myrid and lowing of rodara, the squeal of terrified pigs and the moaning of cattle. Creatures facing slaughter well understood their fate, and the sound of their voices crowding the air was a torment.
    ‘Ill chosen,’ muttered Brys, ‘this route. My apologies, Atri-Ceda.’
    Two soldiers crossed their path, wearing heavy blood-drenched aprons. Their faces were flat, expressionless. Their hands dripped gore.
    ‘Armies bathe in blood,’ said Aranict. ‘That is the truth of it, isn’t it, Commander?’
    ‘I fear we all bathe in it,’ he replied. ‘Cities permit us to hide from that bleak truth, I think.’
    ‘What would it be like, I wonder, if we all ate only