Page 117 (1/1)
‘The young etfulness There are always enemies beyond the borders, and if none exist in truth, then oneout of the indifferent earth Slights and open insults, or the rumours thereof A suddenly perceived threat where none existed before The reasons matter not – what matters is that war is fashioned froun, an irresistible momentum is born
‘The old warriors are satisfied The young are on fire with zeal The king fears yet is relieved of does blast withlike temple bells Grain-sellers and armourers and clothiers and horse-sellers and countless other suppliers sripped the kingdom, and those few voices raised in objection are quickly silenced Charges of treason and summary execution soon persuade the doubters’
The Crippled God spread his hands ‘Peace,warrior, is born of relief, endured in exhaustion, and dies with false remembrance False? Ah, perhaps I am too cynical Too old, witness to far too much Do honour, loyalty and sacrifice truly exist? Are such virtues born only from extremity? What transforms them into empty words, words devalued by their overuse? What are the rules of the economy of the spirit, that civilization repeatedly twists and htly and Withal sensed the god’s regard ‘Withal of the Third City You have fought wars You have forged weapons You have seen loyalty, and honour You have seen courage and sacrifice What say you to all this?’
‘Nothing,’ Withal replied
Hacking laughter ‘You fear angering ive you leave to speak your mind’
‘I have sat in my share of taverns,’ Withal said, ‘in the corown so blind with sentiia from times of horror and terror Did we spin out those days of our youth? No Did we speak of war? Not if we could avoid it, and orked hard at avoiding it’
‘Why?’
‘Why? Because the faces co, one after another A flash of life, an eternity of death, there in our minds Because loyalty is not to be spoken of, and honour is to be endured Whilst courage is to be survived Those virtues, Chained One, belong to silence’
‘Indeed,’ the god rasped, leaning forward ‘Yet how they proliferate in peace! Crowed again and again, as if solemn pronouncement bestows those very qualities upon the speaker Do they not make you wince, every tirip hard your throat? Do you not feel a building rage-’
‘Aye,’ Withal growled, ‘when I hear them used to raise a people once more to war’
The Crippled God was silent a moment, then he leaned back and dismissed Withal’s words with a careless wave of one hand He fixed his attention on the young warrior ‘I spoke of peace as anathema A poison that weakens the spirit Tell me, warrior, have you spilled blood?’
The youth flinched beneath his furs Tremors of pain crossed his face Then fear ‘Spilled blood? Spilled, down, so much of it – everywhere I don’t – I can’t – oh, Daughters take me-’
‘Oh no,’ the Crippled God hissed, ‘not the Daughters I have taken youChosen you Because your king betrayed ered for the power I offered, but not for conquest No, he siht to ers curled into fists ‘ Not good enough! ’
The Crippled God seehed wretchedly
So abated More seeds on the coals, roiling sift Do you reely blue, the young warrior’s face underwent a series of fraught expressions, ending on dread He nodded ‘I died’
‘Well,’ the Crippled God ift has a price There are powers buried in that sword, Rhulad Sengar Powers uniined But they are reluctant to yield You must pay for them In combat With death No, I should be precise in this With your death, Rhulad Sengar’
A gesture, and the mottled sas in the Crippled God’s hand He tossed it down in front of the young warrior ‘Your first death is done, and as a consequence your skills – your powers – have burgeoned But it is just the beginning Take your weapon, Rhulad Sengar Will your next death prove easier for you to bear? Probably not In time, perhaps…’