The Crippled God (60 page)

‘You were wrong,’ said Maybe in a growl.

‘We got us a good sergeant, is what I’m saying.’

Maybe nodded, and glanced back at Crump. ‘You listening, soldier? Don’t mess it up.’

The tall, long-faced man with the strangely wide-spaced eyes blinked confusedly. ‘They stepped on my cussers,’ he said. ‘Now I ain’t got any more.’

‘Can you use that sword on your belt, sapper?’

‘What? This? No, why would I want to do that? We’re just marching.’

Lagging behind, breath coming in harsh gasps, Limp said, ‘Crump had a bag of munitions. Stuck his brain in there, too. For, uh, safekeeping. It all went up, throwing Nah’ruk everywhere. He’s just an empty skull now, Maybe.’

‘So he can’t fight? What about using a crossbow?’

‘Never seen him try one of those. But fight? Crump fights, don’t worry about that.’

‘Well, with what, then? That stupid bush knife?’

‘He uses his hands, Maybe.’

‘Well, that’s just great then.’

‘We’re just marching,’ said Crump again, and then he laughed.

Urb glanced back at the squad trudging five paces behind his own. She had nothing to drink now. She was waking up. To who she really was. And maybe she didn’t like what she saw. Wasn’t that what drinking was all about to begin with? He rubbed the back of his neck, faced forward again.

Sober now. Eyes clear. Clear enough to see … well, it wasn’t like she’d really shown any interest. And besides, did he really want to get tangled with someone like that? Standing up only to probably fall down again. It was a narrow path for people like her, and they needed to want to walk it. If they didn’t, off they went again, sooner or later. Every time.

Of course, if what Fid had said was true, what did any of it even matter? They were the walking dead, looking for a place to finish up
with all the walking. So in the meantime, if there was a chance at anything, why not take it? She’d not be serious about it, though, would she? She’d just mock the whole idea of love, of what he would end up cutting out and slapping down wet and red on the table between them – she’d just laugh.

He wasn’t brave enough for that. In fact, he wasn’t brave at all, about anything. Not fighting Nah’ruk, or Letherii, or Whirlwind fanatics. Every time he had to draw his sword, he went cold as ice inside. Loose, quaking, dread shivering out from his stomach to steal the heat from his limbs. He drew his sword expecting to die, and die poorly.

But he’d do what he could to keep her alive. Always had. Always would. Usually she was too drunk to even see it, or maybe she was so used to him being there when it counted that he was no different from a stone wall for her to throw her back against. But wasn’t even that enough for him?

It would have to be, because he didn’t have the courage for anything more. Being the walking dead didn’t have a thing to do with bravery. It was just a way of looking at the time left, of ducking down and pushing on and not complaining. He could do that. He’d been doing that all his life, in fact.

I’ve been the walking dead all along, and I didn’t even know it
. The thought left him weakened, as if some hidden knife had just pushed deep inside, piercing his soul.
I’ve been telling myself this was being alive. This here. This … hiding. Wishing. Dreaming. Wanting. And all the while, what does anyone else see when they look at me?

Quiet Urb. Not much going on in there, is there? But a fair soldier. Adequate. Made sergeant, sure, but don’t ever think he’ll go higher. Hasn’t got it inside, you see. It’s quiet as a cave in there, but you got to, well, admire him. He’s a man without troubles. He’s a man who lives it easy, if you know what I mean
.

That’s Sergeant Urb. He’ll do until a better sergeant comes along
.

Hiding ain’t living. Hiding’s just walking dead
.

He looked up into the jade-lit night sky, studied those grim slashes cleaving the darkness. Huge now, seeming ready to slice into the face of this very world. Urb shivered.
But if I’m the walking dead, why am I still so afraid?

Corporal Clasp dropped back from her position alongside Urb, until Saltlick, who’d been taking up the rear, reached her, and she fell in beside him. ‘Can I have a quiet word with you?’ she asked.

He glanced over, blinked. ‘I can be quiet.’

‘I’d noticed, Saltlick. Is that how it is in this squad?’

‘What do you mean?’

She nodded ahead. ‘Sergeant Urb. You and him are the same. You
don’t say anything, don’t give yourselves away. You know, we all knew there was a … well, a kind of elite group. Squads and a few heavies. Somehow all closer to Fiddler, back when he was a sergeant. Closer than the rest of us. We knew it. We could see it. Fiddler, and round him Gesler and Stormy, Balm and Hellian, Cord and Shard. And Urb. With Quick Ben dropping in, and then Hedge. And finally, some of you heavies. Shortnose, Mayfly, Flashwit. You. I know, it was all about Fiddler, and the ones he drew in around him. The ones he picked.’

Saltlick was staring at her now.

Clasp grimaced. ‘Look at my soldiers,’ she said under her breath. ‘Look at Sad. You know what she is? A damned Semk witch.
Semk
. You know what she does when she gets ready for a fight? Never mind. You’ll see for yourself, assuming we survive this desert. Then there’s Burnt Rope. Sapper. But he surprised me at the trench. So did our cutter – you know, he once went and sought out Gesler and Stormy – fellow Falaris, right? We sent him. We sent Lap Twirl to Ges and Stormy, to test them out. To see if we could get in.’

‘Get in?’

‘To those elites. To the insiders, right? Well, he didn’t get anywhere. They were friendly enough, and the three of them got drunk – it was in Letheras. Got beastly drunk, and hired up a whole whorehouse of women. But Lap kept a bit of himself cold sober, and when he judged it right he just went and asked. Asked in. You know what Gesler said?’

Saltlick shook his head.

‘The bastard denied it to Lap’s face. Said it didn’t exist. Lied to Lap’s face. That’s how we know there’s no getting in.’

Saltlick continued studying her. ‘So,’ he said after a few strides, ‘why are you telling me?’

‘Urb’s one of the finest sergeants we marines got left to us. We know that. In fact, it’s got us pissing in our boots. The pressure’s getting unbearable, Saltlick. We can’t get a word outa him. And you can see in his eyes – he’s damned disappointed to be saddled with us.’

‘All right,’ said Saltlick.

She frowned up at him. ‘All right what?’

‘You’re in, Corporal. You and your soldiers. You’re all in.’

‘Really? You sure?’

‘You’re in.’

Smiling, she moved ahead again, paused to glance back and nod. He nodded back, saw the lightness in her step. Watched as she leaned in close to Lap Twirl, and the two soldiers spoke in whispers and gestures, and a moment later Sad and Burnt Rope closed up to listen in. Faces turned, looked back at him.

He waved.

I can’t wait till Flashwit hears this one
.

Saltlick shifted uncomfortably. He’d sweated a lot in his tent, and now his sack was chafing. He could almost feel the skin peeling off.
Fuck, that stings. Better air out my balls tomorrow
.

The sergeant was glaring at her, gesturing. Flashwit frowned.

Mayfly nudged her. ‘Wants to talk to you.’

‘Why?’

‘He has seven questions. How would I know? Go on, Princess. The idiot lost his whole squad. He probably wants to try and explain. So he doesn’t get a knife in his back.’

‘I wouldn’t stick a knife in his back,’ Flashwit said, shaking her head. ‘No matter what he did.’

‘Really?’

‘If he killed them all and told me about it, I’d just break his neck. A knife in the back, that’s cowardly.’

‘No it ain’t,’ Mayfly objected. ‘It’s making a point. Victim’s not worth a look in the eye when y’kill him. Victim’s not s’posed to know what ended it, just that it ended, and there’s Hood’s Gate calling ’im.’

‘But sometimes you miss.’

‘Better go, he’s gettin’ cross.’

Grunting, Flashwit made her way up to Sergeant Gaunt-Eye. Wasn’t a friendly face, that one. But a face a person would remember anyway. For all the wrong things in it. ‘Sergeant?’

‘You don’t know the hand-talk, soldier?’

‘What talk? Oh, that. Yah, I know it. Mostly. Advance. Stop. Hit the ground. Fight. Go fuck yourself. Like that.’

‘A marine should know how to put together whole sentences, Flashwit.’

‘Yah? I’m a heavy, Sergeant.’

‘Tell me about the girly one.’

‘Using my hands? Can’t, Sergeant. I mean, I’d have to try and ask, “What girly one?” and I don’t know how to do that.’

‘Skulldeath. Talk to me, soldier. With words – but keep your voice down.’

‘I ain’t never raised my voice, not once, Sergeant, in my whole life.’

‘Skulldeath.’

‘What about him?’

‘Why’s he so girly, for one?’

‘He’s a prince, Sergeant. From some tribe in Seven Cities. He’s the heir, in fact—’

‘Then what in Hood’s name is he doing here?’

She shrugged. ‘They sent him to grow up somewhere else. With us. T’see the world and all that.’

Gaunt-Eye bared crooked teeth. ‘Bet he’s regretting that.’

‘No reason why,’ Flashwit said. ‘Not yet, anyway.’

‘So, he grew up all pampered and perfumed, then.’

‘I suppose.’

‘So how did he get that stupid name?’

Flashwit squinted at the sergeant. ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, Sergeant, but where was you and your squad? Back at the Trench, I mean.’

He shot her a vicious look. ‘What difference does that make?’

‘Well, you couldn’t have not seen him then. Skulldeath. He jumps high, y’see. He was the only one of us cutting Nah’ruk
throats
, right? Jumps high, like I said. See those eight notches on his left wrist?’

‘Those burns?’

‘Aye. One for each Nah’ruk he personally throat-cut.’

Gaunt-Eye snorted. ‘A liar, too, then. About what I figured.’

‘But he never counted, Sergeant. Never does. Eight is what we saw him do, those who saw him at all, I mean. We talked about it, comparing and all that. Eight. So we told him and he burned those marks on his wrist. When we asked him how many he gutted, he said he didn’t know. When we asked him how many he hamstrung, he didn’t know that either. The rest of us couldn’t come up with numbers on those. Lot more than eight, though. But since we seen him burn himself, we decided not to tell him how many. He’d be one big burn now, right? And since he’s so pretty, well, that’d be a shame.’

She fell silent then, to catch her breath. She’d broken three or so ribs in the fight, so talking hurt. More than breathing, which hurt bad enough. Talking was worse. That had been the most words she’d used all at once since the battle.

‘Drawfirst and Mayfly,’ said Gaunt-Eye, ‘and you. All heavies.’

‘Aye, Sergeant.’

‘Get back in line, Flashwit.’

She gave him a bright smile that seemed to startle him, and then fell back, past one-armed Corporal Rib – who eyed her with something like suspicion – and then Drawfirst and Skulldeath, before positioning herself beside Mayfly.

‘Well?’ Mayfly asked.

‘You was wrong,’ Flashwit said with deep satisfaction.

‘About what?’

‘Hah. He only asked
six
questions!’

Gaunt-Eye was throwing more looks back at his squad.

‘Who’s he want now?’ Mayfly wondered.

And then the sergeant pointed at Skulldeath. ‘You blow me one more kiss, soldier, and I’ll wrap your guts round your Hood-damned neck!’

‘Well now,’ Flashwit muttered.

Mayfly nodded. ‘The prince ain’t missed yet, has he?’

Hedge could hear howling laughter behind him, and the breath gusted from him. ‘Listen to that, Bavedict! Fid slapped ’em up and down all right – I knew it!’

The Letherii alchemist tugged again on the ox lead. ‘Alas, Commander, I don’t know what you mean by that.’