The Broken God by Gareth Hanrahan (desktop ebook reader .TXT) 📕

though something has slithered out of the ocean. They follow it to Erephis, finding the footprints of two women in the dirt as they go. Artolo lies down, laps rainwater from Carillon’s footprint like a dog, and tastes her scent.

But in the chaos of the ruins there they lose the path. Some foe has torn up the land, drawn arcane sigils that baffle Damala’s divinations. Artolo’s hunters scout the surrounding lands, come back empty-handed. The last one to return, Artolo strangles without noticing. Two do not return at all.

Carillon has escaped him again. For a day and a night, he screams, and his screaming is like a storm at sea. His anger as jagged and sharp as broken glass.

He drowns another offering in a pool of mud, and the gods reward him. Aerial saints, devotees of Cloud Mother, spot them from the heavens. Cloud Mother whispers that there is a city to the south, the city of Gissa.

Damala speaks with her fellow priests and soldiers of the Sacred Realm and explains their quest. At the mention of the name of Carillon Thay, the heavens quake. The gods of Ishmere share his hate. His quest for vengeance is more than sanctified, it is fundamental, as true and certain as day follows night. He could no more turn from this quest than water could flow uphill.

The world is like Moonchild, huge and ponderous to turn, but driven by great engines on a course he dictates, and he directs it at Carillon Thay.

The world is like his rifle, heavy and hard to aim, but it shall wreak such terrible suffering, and he directs it at Carillon Thay.

Not just Artolo.

Cari hides amid the wandering ruins, behind a low pile of stones that’s only a wall if you worship Rhan-Gis, and watches her enemies approach Gissa under a banner of truce. A bunch of Eshdana, and some old hag that seems to be in charge. No sign of a dragon, which is a small mercy. Weirdly, they’re all damp and shivering despite the heat, and there’s a small boat stranded in the mud outside town, even though they’re miles from the sea.

They’re met by Rhan-Gis and his courtiers, who emerge from the temple into the great square to meet the newcomers. Rhan-Gis strides out, fragments of a beautiful mosaic appearing under his feet. His courtiers follow, pomp diminished by the need to struggle through the mud, their gold hats made to resemble the towers and palaces of the vanished city, their procession forming a cityscape in miniature. At Rhan-Gis’ right hand slithers a Crawling One, clad in the standard-issue dark cloak and porcelain mask that all the worm-colonies favour. Do you know that Artolo’s dragon torched the Crawling One colony on Ilbarin? she wonders. Maybe she can turn the Crawler to her advantage.

She can’t eavesdrop on the conversation between Rhan-Gis and Artolo. All she can do at this distance is read body language. Spar, I really wish you were here, she thinks. You could drop chunks of masonry on them all. Help me spy on Artolo. Find sodding Myri. And I miss you. Cari’s never been homesick before. You need a home for that.

Rhan-Gis is preening and disdainful, which clearly pisses off Artolo. The big bastard’s face turns so purple it’s visible even from far away, and he clenches his fists. There’s something weird about his hands, Cari can tell, and he’s not wearing his gloves. The old woman seems to be playing mediator. Several times, she gestures off to the north-west, towards the front lines with Ishmere. When she does, the Crawling One stretches up and whispers in Rhan-Gis’ ear.

From the size of the crowd in the square, Cari guesses that half the temple clerics and servants have followed Rhan-Gis out. Plenty of those motley brick-and-mortar guards, too. So, the temple’s only lightly guarded, right? She slips away, circling the fringes of the great square, sneaking along in the shadow of the massive oiled runners that allow the temple to be dragged across the land, bringing the ghost of the city with it. She scans the temple’s crumbling walls, looking at the little barred windows, the doors that once led out on to the street, and now step out into empty air ten feet above the muddy ground. Ancient weathered statues of the god Rhan-Gis, depicted as a sphinx, but the god’s face is identical to that of the saint who’s negotiating out in the market square right now. The temple’s scarred in places – targeting temples and shrines is a standard tactic in the Godswar. Maybe she can climb in through one of those breaches, then sneak around until she finds Myri. And then… then she’ll come up with something.

Rescue missions aren’t like stealing. If she was just going to rob the temple, she’d shove a handful of jewels into her bag and run. Myri’s going to be harder to rescue, assuming she’s even still alive. This is a stupid idea, Cari, she tells herself. But her voice in her head doesn’t sound like Spar’s voice, so she doesn’t give it much credence.

“Ho there!” calls a voice from a balcony above her. She glances up, and it’s Beard Priest from the market, the sleazy courtier who tried to show her the fountains.

Con artistry of this sort isn’t Cari’s strong suit, but she knows when to grab a lucky break.

She looks up, waves, puts on her biggest smile. “Isn’t it wonderful to be in Gissa in its glory!” she calls. “Why, the only thing that could make this perfect city even more perfect would be that cup of wine you spoke of!”

Another thing Cari’s learned: one of Myri’s painkilling drug vials, mixed with a cup of wine, makes for a quick-acting sedative. Within twenty minutes of Beard Priest admitting Cari into the temple through a side door, he’s snoring on the couch in his little chamber. He told Cari his name at some point, but she wasn’t listening.

From the look of the