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

Anyway, Thay isn’t his quarry today.

The witch points up the slope. “There’s the shrine,” she says, pointing with her armoured hand. She sounds breathless from the effort of weaving protective spells around Artolo, but this is dangerous work – the hunting of a god.

The shrine on the shoulder of the Rock of Ilbarin is an ugly thing, squat and rough-made, cut from the same stone as the mountain. There were other shrines and temples dedicated to the goddess of the mountain, but they’re all gone now. The rising seas drowned most of them, and the Ishmerians defiled the rest. This little shrine, high on the upper slopes, is perhaps the last.

He hesitates. “You said tearing down this shrine would provoke her.”

The witch shrugs. “She’s already provoked. She’s already active. Demolishing the shrine will make it harder for her to reform coherently. She’ll come back even more disorganised.”

Artolo raises the rifle, presses his eye to the scope. He trains it on the shrine. There’s a statue there, depicting the goddess Usharet. The statue is beautiful, a work of ecstatic devotion, every careful chip with the chisel a prayer. It depicts a young woman, tall and athletic, defiant as the mountain. Usharet, before the war.

“We’d better be quick, before she finds someone to saint,” mutters the witch. No doubt there are many souls among the survivors of Ilbarin who know the rites and prayers to please Usharet, to attract the attention of the goddess; if the whirling pattern of Usharet alighted on some compatible soul, that’d be trouble he doesn’t need.

Especially with Great-Uncle on the way back to inspect the yliaster refinery.

He sweeps the scope left and right, up and down the slope. Other than a few lazy whirls of dust, there’s no sign of movement in the blasted landscape.

“Nothing,” he mutters. “The bitch must be over on the west side of the Rock.”

“You’re thinking like a mortal,” replies the witch. Her armoured suit whirs as she surveys the landscape. “She’s everywhere on the mountain. She is the mountain. We need to get Her to concentrate Her being. Make Herself manifest. And then you shoot Her.”

The other two riflemen on either side of Artolo signal their acknowledgements. When the goddess Usharet was at the height of her power, she’d have shrugged off attacks from little weapons like these. But like the other gods of Ilbarin, she was broken by the Sacred Realm. She’s nothing but a mindless godhusk now. Greatly diminished, and soon, she’ll be diminished again.

Artolo grunts in acknowledgement. He checks his gun again, checks his fingers. There was a time when he’d have laughed in the face of a broken little goddess like Usharet. Laughed, then shot her in the face. But he’s not laughing now.

“Martaine!” he calls. Dol Martaine turns and hurries over to Artolo.

“Aye, sir?”

“Take four men. Blow up that shrine. Be on your guard – this will call Her, my witch says.”

“I’ve set up trigger-wards,” adds the witch. “They’ll go off before She manifests. That’ll give you a little warning.”

“How much warning?”

“Better than none. But not by much.”

“My life’s in your hands, boss,” says Martaine, shooting a sidelong glance at Artolo’s gloved fingers. That borders on insolence, and Martaine’s only Eshdana. He doesn’t get to speak out of line.

“Go,” snarls Artolo.

Martaine picks four men from the gaggle of beaters and sentries they’ve brought to this not quite godforsaken hillside, and they begin their slow ascent, carrying a bundle of alchemical explosives. They walk gingerly over the unstable rocks. Avoid the tangles of dead thorn bushes. Flinch at every shift in the wind.

Some of them look back, as if worried they’re being abandoned on this cursed hillside as sacrifices to Usharet. Martaine, to his credit, never looks back.

Artolo’s still not completely sure about Martaine, but it’s obvious the man has ambitions beyond this ruined island. Most of the other survivors just stumble around, hollow and confused, unable to reconcile their memories of what Ilbarin was with what it’s become. They cling to what can be salvaged from the past, as if they can wait out the destruction. Artolo’s seen survivors out of Ilbarin City dragging furniture with them, as if the floodwaters might soon recede and they can return to their homes. Trying to find some government official to complain to, when there hasn’t been a functioning government in Ilbarin in months. Wasting food on children, though there’s no hope of them seeing the next year. Idiots, all of them.

Martaine’s not like that, reflects Artolo. Maybe it’s a mark of a well-travelled man – seeing the world gives a breadth of vision that’s necessary to survive. You learn there are possibilities elsewhere, and there’s no sense tethering yourself to a dead cause, a dead past. There are always new lands to conquer.

“You travelled before I found you, yes?” he mutters to the witch.

“I did. All over the south, then up through the trading cities. Nearly went to the Archipelago. Ended up in Guerdon instead.”

She’s distracted, working her magic. He should pay attention himself. The goddess could manifest at any moment.

The glow of the warding runes laid down by the witch is unchanged. Martaine and his men have nearly reached the shrine.

His mind returns to Carillon. She deserves a slow death at his hands. Yes, it’ll have to be with his hands. She wasn’t the one who cut off his fingers – it was a punishment decreed by Great-Uncle – but it was her fault. Curse the gods, and all their fucking mad blessings. Handing out power on a whim, or according to some twisted philosophy that meant nothing in the real world – it disgusted him. Power should go to those strong enough to claim it, brave enough to use it. When Great-Uncle punished him, hard as it was it made sense. He’d failed the dragon, and so he suffered. Not because of some nonsensical sin, not because the gods were randomly cruel, and not because of some heavenly war. No, the dragons knew how the world