Hammer Of God (53 page)

Dexterity sidled over to Zandakar. “There was no trouble?” he asked softly.

“Wei,” said Zandakar, equally soft. “They believe now. They will fight Mijak.”

Oh, Hettie. “Largely because of you, Zandakar. Ethrea owes you a great debt, my friend.”

“Wei,” said Zandakar. “Debt is mine, zho?”

In his eyes and voice, that burden of guilt. Memories of the dead that he couldn't escape.

“Zandakar—”

“Mister Jones?” said Rhian, turning. “Shall we go?”

“Congratulations, Majesty,” said Dexterity, puffing a little as they hurried through the castle. “A job well done.”

“It wasn't easy,” she replied. “Arbenia's count is as brutish as Gutten. I'd not have succeeded without the slainta…and Han.”

“And Zandakar?”

“Fortunately, Zandakar scared them stupid.”

“And you, Rhian?” he asked, because the corridor they travelled was empty of servants and courtiers. “Are they sufficiently frightened of you?”

She glanced at him sidelong. “If they're not, they soon will be.”

They reached the infirmary, only to be told Ursa was tending a castle groom kicked by a horse.

“I'll send for her,” said the clerk, who was attempting to transcribe Ursa's notes, the poor man. “I believe the lad's bruised, not broken.”

Restless, Rhian paced the herb-scented chamber. Dexterity perched on a stool and watched her, torn between pride and worry.

“Are you sure you want scars, Majesty? It's dreadful to think of your beauty spoiled.”

“If I thought beauty was the key to keeping the trading nations in my pocket, I'd care,” she replied. “But it's not, so I don't.”

He pulled a face. “Their leaders are all men. I don't know a man who's not moved by beauty.”

“Tcha,” she said. “Beauty may get their trousers stirring, but it won't keep them by my side. Fear and blood will do that – and the visible reminder I'm a warrior queen, not a simpering miss. They'll see the scars before they see me, and they won't look any further.”

He doubted that: scars or no scars she was a striking young woman, and in her supple leather doublet and leggings a shocking sight for men used to women wrapped in brocade.

But if lust can inspire them to follow her, can I complain? We need all the followers she can get.

Ursa returned. “I'm told you're hurt, Majesty,” she said, marching through the open door. “You must have a greater care of your person, for – tcha!”

“No scolding, Ursa,” said Rhian, unsmiling. “I've not the time or the patience. Stitch me quickly so I can get back to work.”

Ursa blinked, taken aback. “Majesty,” she said, and did as she was told.

Rhian refused a poppy potion when the stitching was done. “I need a clear head.”

“Majesty,” said Dexterity. “I know I'm wanted in council, but if I might take a moment?”

“A moment only,” she replied.

“Jones?” said Ursa, when they were alone.

“She's talked Harbisland and Arbenia to our cause, Ursa,” he said quickly. “Looks like we'll have our armada. But if that should fail—”

Ursa nodded. “I know. We'll be fighting Mijak in Ethrea. I've already started a list of the physicks I think will make the best leaders. And another of all the supplies we'll need if, God forbid, it comes to that. Another day or so, I'll have it ready for the council.”

He kissed her cheek. “God bless you. Rhian will be pleased to hear it.”

“Rhian.” Ursa snorted. “There's a change come over that girl, and I'm not sure I like it. Are you going to tell me she didn't use a blade on herself?”

“No,” he said, sighing. “She's got the bit between her teeth, Ursa. All we can do is hold on.”

“God help us,” muttered Ursa. “What have we started, Jones?”

“Whatever it is, we must help her to finish it,” he said, and with a strained smile hurried after their queen.

Her stitched face burning, and regretting the refusal of something to dull the pain, Rhian strode into the ballroom to find the platter-laden trestles gone, and in their place a square of tables around which sat her council, the slainta, the count, and the ambassadors. Han was there too, having returned from Lai's residence after briefly withdrawing to set in motion plans for his witch-men. He'd used the time to change, as well. His tunic now was shaded deep violet. She hoped he'd healed the wound in his chest. Ven'Cedwin sat apart at his own little table, poised to record this historic meeting.

“Gentlemen,” she said, taking her seat. “Allow me to formally welcome you to our first council of war. Ethrea appreciates your attendance.” She bared her teeth, not quite smiling. “Let us first admit the obvious: we are not all friends here. Even now some of you are involved in disputes. They do not matter. All that matters is Mijak. It does not care if you are friend or foe. It cares only for how swiftly you die.”

A stirring around the table, as the trading nations swallowed her unpalatable truths. A stirring at the ballroom door, as Mister Jones finally joined them. She gave him a sharp look, and waited for him to take his seat.

“And now,” she continued, “let us devise our war.”

With an ease she hadn't expected, terms for a new charter were teased out and settled.

In the end it was decided Han's witch-men would take the slainta, the count and the various ambassadors to meet with the rulers of the lesser trading nations. They would carry with them a new treaty to be signed, outlining what was required from each nation in quantities of ships, sailors, weapons and soldiers. Once the letters were delivered and ratified, the trading nations would meet in Kingseat to draw up plans for the armada. And once those plans were ratified, Han's witch-men would see each nation's fleet brought to Ethrea, ready for sailing out to meet Mijak.

“We must not delude ourselves, gentlemen,” Rhian told them in closing. “The battle at sea will be desperate. We won't escape unscathed. But no matter how dire that prospect, it pales before the losses we'll face should Mijak conquer Ethrea and have a safe haven from which to sail to your lands.”

As they broke for refreshments, waiting for Ven'Cedwin and his clerks to return with the copies of the new treaty to be signed, she took Han aside.

“Your witch-men are ready?”

He nodded. “Even now, those I can spare from Tzhung-tzhungchai ride the wind to Ethrea. In the morning they will do their part against Mijak.”

She wished she could embrace him. “Thank you, Han.”

“There's no debt,” he said. “You're the only one who could unite the trading nations.”

It was reassuring, and frightening, to hear him say it. Somehow the support of Tzhung-tzhungchai increased her burden, instead of easing it.

Ven'Cedwin returned then, and the three great trading nations signed the new treaty. The council of war ended with an agreement to resume again at first light – when Han's witch-men would join them, and the hard work would truly begin.

Once she and her council were alone, she at last let a little of her weariness show.

“So, gentlemen,” she said. “Here we stand. Prolate Helfred, it's time for your venerables and chaplains to preach courage in the face of terror. Alasdair, my lord dukes, the garrisons must be told the truth now too, and recruiting among the duchies undertaken. Those soldiers you've selected for personal training by Zandakar must be brought to the castle within the next two days. I take it plans for converting our grounds to a barracks are in hand?”

“They're completed,” said Alasdair. “Work can commence immediately.”

“See it done. Zandakar—”

“Rhian hushla.”

“You're ready to begin this intensive training?”

He nodded. “Zho.”

“Dexterity—”

“Majesty?”

She smiled at him, even though the pain in her face was now ferocious. “I have a special task for you. It's past time Zandakar was made fluent in Ethrean. Most of us understand him well enough but with what we'll soon be facing, well enough won't be good enough.”

Dexterity nodded. “Yes, Majesty.”

She looked at Zandakar. “He will train you to speak Ethrean as you have trained me in the hotas, zho? And when you're not training your tongue, or my soldiers, you and I will dance?”

“Zho,” said Zandakar. “We will dance.”

She looked around the table. “Are there any questions?”

No. Not even Adric had anything to say. Helfred and her dukes were subdued. Stunned, even, that after so much talking the time for action had arrived.

“Come,” said Alasdair, his fingers warm around her wrist. “You need rest, and one of Ursa's potions.”

Even if she'd wanted to argue, she was too tired. They left the ballroom together, returned to their apartments, and she let sleep claim her for too short a while.

That night she and Alasdair went to Litany in Kingseat's great chapel. She wore her leathers again which Dinsy, cursing, had cleaned of the blood spilled upon them from her cut face. The people of Kingseat murmured to see her martial attire, and the two neatly stitched wounds in her face.

Helfred's sermon that night was taken from Admonition 12: God in his greatness places great burdens upon us. Trust in his mercy and be brave in the face of all dangers. When he was finished, he addressed the congregation.

“Good people of Kingseat, this night shall our sovereign queen complete our sermon, with solemn speech and a dire prediction.”

Startled, Rhian looked up at him. “Prolate—”

He stepped down from his pulpit, leaving her no choice.

The faces of her people, so innocent and trusting, looked up at her from the great chapel's pews. The chapel was crowded, with many folk standing round the walls and by its closed doors.

“People of Kingseat,” she said, her voice slurred a little from weariness and pain. “It has of late come to the crown's attention that a darkness rises against us in the east. A nation known as Mijak, hidden for many lifetimes, has stirred from its slumber and bends its dread gaze upon Ethrea. Already nations have fallen to its ravages. Thousands are slain. Thousands more are enslaved. But we must not despair. An armada is being gathered, that will sail out to meet the warriors of Mijak and, with God's grace, destroy them before they set one foot on Ethrean soil.”

She paused, to give the congregation time to consider her words. The discipline of the chapel surrendered to murmurs, exclamations, cries of fear and anger. She raised her hands.

“I know you're frightened. I don't scorn to tell you, when first I learned of this I was frightened too. But Ethrea does not stand alone. The trading nations stand with us. They are pledged to our defence, sworn to fight by our side. Emperor Han himself, of mysterious Tzhung-tzhungchai, has pledged the might of his great empire to aid us. I tell you again, we are not alone. With friends such as these, and God's merciful grace, Ethrea will prevail in this dark hour.”

“God bless Queen Rhian!” a voice cried from the congregation. “God bless the trading nations and even Tzhung-tzhungchai!”

The cry was taken up around the great chapel. Shod feet drummed the stone floor. Moved almost to tears, Rhian let her people shout, let them loose their emotions in what Helfred must surely deem a disrespectful display. Glancing at him, though, she was surprised to see him smiling. Alasdair was smiling too, though there was pain in his eyes.

She raised her hands, again calling for calm. When most of the voices had subsided, she took a deep breath and released it, slowly.

“You see I have come to this chapel dressed not like a queen, but a huntsman,” she said. “In truth, I'm become both. I am your huntsman queen of Ethrea, determined to defend you to the length of my life. And now it falls upon me to ask of you a dreadful promise. I am your queen, it's true, but I am also one woman. I must ask every woman here to become a huntsman queen. Queen of your home, queen of your family. Ready to stand and fight for what is yours. And every man here, you must be a King Alasdair. Sworn to stand by your queen, sworn to fight and die for her, and for Ethrea, and for every soul you know and even those you never met. In this chapel tonight there are friends, and there are enemies. People who live in your hearts and people who don't. I say to you now: every Ethrean is your friend. Every Ethrean is your family. Let the past be the past. We must preserve the future.”

They leapt to their feet, her people, her subjects, the sound of their voices like a cresting wave. She stood dazed in the pulpit, her face hurting, her heart full of fear and love.

“Well done,” said Helfred as she joined him. “God inspired you.”

“My people inspired me,” she said, then relented. “And yes. God, too.”

“The word has gone out,” he said, lowering his voice. “Starting tonight every chapel in Ethrea calls your people to war.”

An icy shudder ran through her. “Oh, God. I so hoped this day wouldn't come.”

He touched her arm, lightly. “So did I, Rhian.”

She returned to Alasdair, who took her hand and squeezed it very hard. “Well said.”

She sighed, even as the congregation continued to shout and cry praise. “I hope so. My simple words must lift a kingdom, and give them courage for the days ahead.”

It took so long to leave the chapel she was nearly babbling with exhaustion by the time they reached their carriage. She dozed all the way back to the castle, her head on Alasdair's shoulder. Somehow she walked up the stairs, along the corridors and through the doors of their privy apartments. Then she surrendered, and let him carry her to bed.

On the newsun she led her warhost from Jatharuj, Hekat dressed in her most threadbare linen training tunic. She laced sandals on her feet, she stitched more amulets and godbells into her godbraids. Godbells for singing, amulets for the god. Her hair was so heavy she could barely lift her head. Its weight hurt her, she did not care.

I lead the god into the world.

Vortka and Dmitrak walked with her to the harbour. Vortka wore a plain godspeaker robe, like herself he did not need clothes to shout his importance. Jatharuj knew Hekat, Jatharuj knew the high godspeaker. It knew Dmitrak warlord but still he had to shout. He wore linen and leather, he wore gold and bronze ornaments. He wore gold in his godbraids, he wore precious stones.