The Crippled God smiled at him, with such love, such knowing.
The shadow rising behind him was out of place – it could not belong inside those raging fires. Yet Koryk saw it lifting, taking form. He saw two arms rising from that shape, saw the raw, dull gleam of dagger blades.
Shadow .
Koryk’s scream of warning ripped raw his throat – he flung himself forward—
Even as Cotillion’s knives plunged down.
To sink into the Crippled God’s back.
Shock took that otherworldly face – as if the smile had never been – and the head rocked back, the body arching in agony.
Someone slammed into Koryk, dragged him to the ground. He fought, howling.
The green fire ignited, shot spiralling into the sky – so fast it was gone in moments.
Koryk stared after it, one hand stretching upward.
Beside him, too close to bear, he heard Fiddler say, ‘It was the only way, Koryk. It’s for the best. Nothing you can—’
Suddenly sobbing, Koryk pushed the man away, and then curled up, like a child who lived in a world of broken promises.
Hedge pulled Fiddler away from the sobbing soldier. Fiddler shot him a helpless look.
‘He’ll shake out of it,’ Hedge said. ‘Once it all settles and he works it out, he’ll be fine, Fid.’
Quick Ben and Kalam joined the two sappers, and Fiddler fixed his eyes on the wizard. ‘Was it real, Quick? What I saw – did I …’
The wizard gestured and they followed him to one edge of the summit. He pointed down to a lone figure standing some distance away, little more than a silhouette, its back to them. ‘Care to ask him, Fid?’
Ask him? After all we’ve done … how to see this? Ask him? What if he answers me? ‘No,’ he said.
‘Listen, you were right – it had to be this way.’
Yes! It had to – we didn’t do all this for nothing!
Fiddler stepped back, eyed the three men standing before him. ‘Look at us,’ he 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. We thought 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.’
