Karsa Orlong stared down at the Crippled God.
And his sneer broadened, a moment, before he turned away.
‘Do not leave it here! It is for you! Karsa Orlong, it is for you!’
Someone was coming up from the sand. A wide, heavily muscled man, and three black-skinned bhokorala.
Karsa limped to meet them.
Withal felt his heart pounding in his chest. He’d not expected… well, he’d not known what to expect, only what was expected of him.
‘You are not welcome,’ said the giant with the tattooed face and the wounded leg.
‘I’m not surprised. But here I am anyway.’ Withal’s eyes flicked to the sword lying in the grass. The Tiste Edur’s head was resting on it like a gift. The weaponsmith frowned. ‘Poor lad, he never understood-’
‘I do,’ growled the giant.
Withal looked up at the warrior. Then over to where crouched the Crippled God, before returning once more to his regard of the giant. ‘You said no?’
‘As much.’
‘Good.’
‘Will you take it now?’
‘I will-to break it on the forge where it was made.’ And he pointed to the ramshackle smithy in the distance.
The Crippled God hissed, ‘You said it could never be broken, Withal!’
The weaponsmith shrugged. ‘We’re always saying things like that. Pays the bills.’
A horrid cry was loosed from the Crippled God, ending in strangled hacking coughs.
The giant was studying Withal in return, and he now asked, ‘You made this cursed weapon?’
‘I did.’
The back-handed slap caught Withal by surprise, sent him flying backward. Thumping hard onto his back, staring up at the spinning blue sky-that suddenly filled with the warrior, looking down.
‘Don’t do it again.’
And after saying that, the giant moved off.
Blinking in the white sunlight, Withal managed to turn onto his side, and saw the giant walk into a portal of fire, then vanish as the Crippled God screamed again. The portal suddenly disappeared with a snarl.
One of the nachts brought its horrid little face close over Withal, like a cat about to steal his breath. It cooed.
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Karsa Orlong stared down at the Crippled God.
And his sneer broadened, a moment, before he turned away.
‘Do not leave it here! It is for you! Karsa Orlong, it is for you!’
Someone was coming up from the sand. A wide, heavily muscled man, and three black-skinned bhokorala.
Karsa limped to meet them.
Withal felt his heart pounding in his chest. He’d not expected… well, he’d not known what to expect, only what was expected of him.
‘You are not welcome,’ said the giant with the tattooed face and the wounded leg.
‘I’m not surprised. But here I am anyway.’ Withal’s eyes flicked to the sword lying in the grass. The Tiste Edur’s head was resting on it like a gift. The weaponsmith frowned. ‘Poor lad, he never understood-’
‘I do,’ growled the giant.
Withal looked up at the warrior. Then over to where crouched the Crippled God, before returning once more to his regard of the giant. ‘You said no?’
‘As much.’
‘Good.’
‘Will you take it now?’
‘I will-to break it on the forge where it was made.’ And he pointed to the ramshackle smithy in the distance.
The Crippled God hissed, ‘You said it could never be broken, Withal!’
The weaponsmith shrugged. ‘We’re always saying things like that. Pays the bills.’
A horrid cry was loosed from the Crippled God, ending in strangled hacking coughs.
The giant was studying Withal in return, and he now asked, ‘You made this cursed weapon?’
‘I did.’
The back-handed slap caught Withal by surprise, sent him flying backward. Thumping hard onto his back, staring up at the spinning blue sky-that suddenly filled with the warrior, looking down.
‘Don’t do it again.’
And after saying that, the giant moved off.
Blinking in the white sunlight, Withal managed to turn onto his side, and saw the giant walk into a portal of fire, then vanish as the Crippled God screamed again. The portal suddenly disappeared with a snarl.
One of the nachts brought its horrid little face close over Withal, like a cat about to steal his breath. It cooed.
‘Yes, yes,’ Withal said, pushing it away, ‘get the sword. Yes. Break the damned thing.’
The world spun round him and he thought he would be sick. ‘Sandalath, love, did you empty the bucket? Sure it was piss but it smelled mostly of beer, didn’t it? I coulda drunk it all over again, you see.’
He clambered upward, swayed back and forth briefly, then reached down and, after a few tries, collected the sword.
Off to the smithy. Not many ways of breaking a cursed sword. A weapon even nastier would do it, but in this case there wasn’t one. So, back to the old smith’s secret. To break an aspected weapon, bring it home, to the forge where it was born.
Well, he would do just that, and do it now.
Seeing the three nachts peering up at him, he scowled. ‘Go bail out the damned boat-I’m not in the mood to drown fifty sweeps from shore.’
The creatures tumbled over each in their haste to rush back to the beach.
Withal walked to the old smithy, to do what needed doing.
Behind him, the Crippled God bawled to the sky.
A terrible, terrible sound, a god’s cry. One he never wanted to hear ever again.
At the forge, Withal found an old hammer, and prepared to undo all that he had done. Although, he realized as he set the sword down on the rust-skinned anvil and studied the blood-splashed blade, that was, in all truth, impossible.
After a moment, the weaponsmith raised the hammer.
Then brought it down.
EPILOGUE
She walked through the shrouds of dusk
And came to repast
At the Gates of Madness.
Where the living gamed with death And crowed triumphant At the Gates of Madness.
Where the dead mocked the living And told tales of futility At the Gates of Madness.
She came to set down her new child There on the stained altar At the Gates of Madness.
‘This,’ said she, ‘is what we must do, In hope and humility At the Gates of Madness.’
And the child did cry in the night To announce bold arrival At the Gates of Madness.
Have we dreamed this enough now? Our promise of suffering At the Gates of Madness?
Will you look down upon its new face And whisper songs of anguish At the Gates of Madness?
Taking the sawtoothed key in hand To let loose a broken future At the Gates of Madness?
Tell then your tale of futility to the child All your games with death At the Gates of Madness.