‘This has happened more times than I’d care to count,’ Withal said, sighing.
‘How is it you speak my language?’
‘I’d a smattering, from traders. My master has, it seems, improved upon it. A gift, you might say, one of a number of gifts, none of which I asked for. I suspect,’ he continued, ‘you will come to similar sentiments, lad. We should get going.’
Withal watched the young man struggle to his feet. ‘Tall,’ he observed, ‘but I’ve seen taller.’
Pain flooded the youth’s features once more and he doubled over. Withal stepped close and supported him before he toppled.
‘It’s ghost pain, lad. Ghost pain and ghost fear. Fight through it.’
‘No! It’s real! It’s real , you bastard!’
Withal strained as the youth’s full weight settled in his arms. ‘Enough of that. Stand up!’
‘It’s no good! I’m dying !’
‘On your feet, dammit!’
A rough shake, then Withal pushed him away.
He staggered, then slowly straightened, drawing in deep, ragged breaths. He began shivering. ‘It’s so cold…’
‘Hood’s breath, lad, it’s blistering hot. And getting hotter with every day.’
Arms wrapped about himself, the young man regarded Withal. ‘How long have you lived… lived here?’
‘Longer than I’d like. Some choices aren’t for you to make. Not for you, not for me. Now, our master’s losing patience. Follow me.’
The youth stumbled along behind him. ‘You said “our”.’
‘Did I?’
‘Where are my clothes? Where are my – no, never mind – it hurts to remember. Never mind.’
They reached the verge, withered grasses pulling at their legs as they made their way inland. The Nachts joined them, clambering and hopping, hooting and snorting as they kept pace.
Two hundred paces ahead squatted a ragged tent, the canvas sun-bleached and stained. Wafts of grey-brown smoke drifted from the wide entrance, where most of one side had been drawn back to reveal the interior.
Where sat a hooded figure.
‘That’s him?’ the youth asked. ‘That’s your master? Are you a slave, then?’
‘I serve,’ Withal replied, ‘but I am not owned. ’
‘Who is he?’
Withal glanced back. ‘He is a god.’ He noted the disbelief writ on the lad’s face, and smiled wryly. ‘Who’s seen better days.’
The Nachts halted and huddled together in a threesome.
A last few strides across withered ground, then Withal stepped to one side. ‘I found him on the strand,’ he said to the seated figure, ‘moments before the lizard gulls did.’
Darkness hid the Crippled God’s features, as was ever the case when Withal had been summoned to an attendance. The smoke from the brazier filled the tent, seeping out to stream along the mild breeze. A gnarled, thin hand emerged from the folds of a sleeve as the god gestured. ‘Closer,’ he rasped. ‘Sit.’
‘You are not my god,’ the youth said.
‘Sit. I am neither petty nor overly sensitive, young warrior.’
Withal watched the lad hesitate, then slowly settle onto the ground, cross-legged, arms wrapped about his shivering frame. ‘It’s cold.’
‘Some furs for our guest, Withal.’
‘Furs? We don’t have any-’ He stopped when he noticed the bundled bearskin heaped beside him. He gathered it up and pushed it into the lad’s hands.
The Crippled God scattered some seeds onto the brazier’s coals. Popping sounds, then more smoke. ‘ Peace . Warm yourself, warrior, while I tell you of peace. History is unerring, and even the least observant mortal can be made to understand, through innumerable repetition. Do you see peace as little more than the absence of war? Perhaps, on a surface level, it is just that. But let me describe the characteristics of peace, my young friend. A pervasive dulling of the senses, a decadence afflicting the culture, evinced by a growing obsession with low entertainment. The virtues of extremity – honour, loyalty, sacrifice – are lifted high as shoddy icons, currency for the cheapest of labours. The longer peace lasts, the more those words are used, and the weaker they become. Sentimentality pervades daily life. All becomes a mockery of itself, and the spirit grows… restless.’
The Crippled God paused, breath rasping. ‘Is this a singular pessimism? Allow me to continue with a description of what follows a period of peace. Old warriors sit in taverns, telling tales of vigorous youth, their pasts when all things were simpler, clearer cut. They are not blind to the decay all around them, are not immune to the loss of respect for themselves, for all that they gave for their king, their land, their fellow citizens.