War among the gods.
Is this an attack? A salvo in truth?
Paran bared his teeth. 'If you're out there,' he whispered, glaring at the eastern sky as his horse shied nervously beneath him, 'you're not playing fair. And… I don't like that.' He straightened, stood in his stirrups, and looked about.
'Ormulogun! Where in Hood's name are you!'
'Against this,' Iskaral Pust muttered, 'I can do nothing.' He hugged himself. 'I think I should start gibbering, now. Yes, that would be highly appropriate. A crazed look in my eyes. Drool, then froth, yes.
Who could blame me? We're all going to die!'
These last words were a shriek, sufficient to shake Mappo from his insensate lethargy. Lifting his head, he looked across at the High Priest of Shadow. The Dal Honese was huddled beside his mule, and both were bathed in a strange light, green-hued – no, the Trell realized, that light was everywhere.
Spite descended from the forecastle, and Mappo saw in her expression cold rage. 'We are in trouble,' she said in a grating voice. 'Out of time – I had hoped… never mind-' Suddenly her head snapped round and she stared southwestward. Her eyes narrowed. Then she said, 'Oh… who in Hood's name are you? And what do you think you are up to?' Falling silent once more, her frown deepening.
Blinking, Mappo Runt pushed himself upright, and saw that the sky was on fire – almost directly above them. As if the sun had spawned a host of children, a string of incandescent pearls, their flames wreathed in haloes of jade. Growing… descending. What are those?
The sea seemed to tremble around them, the waves choppy, clashing in confusion. The air felt brittle, hot, and all wind had fallen away.
And there, above the mass of land to the east that was Otataral Island… Mappo looked back at Iskaral Pust. The High Priest, crouching now, had his hands covering his head. Bhoka'rala were converging, around him, mewling and whimpering, reaching out to touch the shivering old man. As he babbled, 'We didn't plan for this, did we? I don't remember – gods, I don't remember anything! Mogora, my dear hag, where are you? This is my moment of greatest need. I want sex! Even with you! I'll drink the white paralt later – what choice?
It's that, or the memory of most regrettable weakness on my part!
There is only so much I can suffer. Stop touching me, you vile apes!
Shadowthrone, you miserable insane shade – where are you hiding and is there room for me, your most devoted servant, your Magus? There'd better be! Come get me, damn you – never mind anyone else! Just me! Of course there's room! You mucus-smeared knee-in-the-groin fart-cloud!
Save me!'
'Spirits below,' Mogora muttered at Mappo's side, 'listen to that pathetic creature! And to think, I married him!'
Spite suddenly wheeled and ran back to the bow, bhok'arala scattering from her path. Once there, she spun round and shouted. 'I see them!
Make for them, fools! Quickly!'
And then she veered, rising above the wallowing, rocking ship, silveretched wings spreading wide. Swirling mists, writhing, growing solid, until an enormous dragon hovered before the ship, dwarfing the craft in its immensity. Lambent eyes flared like quicksilver in the eerie, emerald light. The creature's long, sinuous tail slithered down, snake-like, and coiled round the upthrust prow. The dragon then twisted in the air, a savage beat of the wings-and with an alarming jolt the ship lunged forward.
Mappo was flung back into the cabin wall, wood splintering behind him.
Gasping, the Trell regained his feet and clambered towards the bows.
She sees them? Who?
The sky was filling with spears of green fire, plunging towards them.
Iskaral Pust screamed.
Over a thousand leagues away, westward, Bottle stood with the others and stared at the eastern horizon – where darkness should have been, crawling heavenward to announce the unending cycle of day's death and night's birth. Instead they could see distinctly a dozen motes of fire, descending, filling a third of the sky with a lurid, incandescent, greenish glow.
'Oh,' Bottle whispered, 'this is bad.'
Fiddler clutched at his sleeve, pulled him close. 'Do you understand this?' the sergeant demanded in a harsh whisper.
Bottle shook his head.
'Is this – is this another Crippled God?'
Bottle stared at Fiddler, eyes widening. Another? 'Gods below!'
'Is it?'
'I don't know!'
Swearing, Fiddler pushed him away. Bottle staggered back, shouldering into Sergeant Balm – who barely reacted – then he twisted through the press, stumbling as he made his way clear, looked across the waters.