Hammer Of God (54 page)

Tcha, Dmitrak. I want Zandakar. I will find him in the world.

Not every warrior in Icthia would sail with her, she had more warriors than warships to carry them. The warriors not chosen would stay behind in Icthia, they would fight for the god in Icthia if the god's enemies appeared. The warriors not chosen had wept out their pain, they had begged for her mercy, she had no mercy to give them. Only her best warriors could sail for the god.

Those left-behind warriors lined the streets of Jatharuj. As she and Vortka and Dmitrak walked down to the harbour they stamped their feet, shouting, they chanted in the sun.

“The god sees our Empress, the god sees Hekat of Mijak, the god sees Dmitrak warlord and its high godspeaker Vortka!”

The trade winds she had saved from those demons blew in the harbour, they blew the scorpion sails of her warships, they blew her praise that they were free. The warships were ready, they were full of warriors and horses and godspeakers and sacred beasts for sacrifice, they waited for her so they could sail into the world.

Her warship with its blood-red hull stood ready, eager for her presence. She boarded it lightly, Vortka and Dmitrak boarded it after her. A path had been cleared from the dock to the open water. The warriors trained to sail her warship worked its oars and eased it from the harbour.

She stood at its bow and watched the open water come closer; she stood and laughed to hear her godbells singing in the trade winds. She felt young, she felt strong, she was Hekat in the god's eye. Godchosen and precious, she would give the god the world.

Vortka stood beside her, his godbells singing in the wind. Did he look happy? She thought he did not. She defended him to Dmitrak but in her heart she wondered.

Why is he not happy? The god is in the world.

Ship by beautiful ship, the warhost followed her from the harbour. Her warhost was beautiful. It was beautiful under the sun.

“This is our glory, Vortka,” she whispered as the wind blew and the oars ceased their splashing and their scorpion sail bellied with the god's breath, as they sailed majestic upon the open water. “We were born for this.”

Vortka said nothing, he was silent for the god.

That did not matter, her heart was singing.

See me, god. See Hekat in the world.

Preparations to counter Mijak's onslaught picked up pace. Church and ducal messengers brought Rhian daily reports from around the kingdom. The news of Mijak had been calmly received, on the whole. To her surprise, one person in the great chapel's congregation the night of her rallying speech wrote down what she'd said, and soon copies began to appear – first in Kingseat township, then around the duchy, and then all over Ethrea.

Her words became a battle cry and were repeated in taverns, in school houses, in chapels, in village shops on the streets of Ethrea's townships and in its verdant fields: Be every woman a huntsman queen, and every man a King Alasdair. The past is the past. We must preserve the future. Ethrea is not alone.

Save for her privy garden, which Alasdair refused to sacrifice, the grounds of Kingseat Castle were transformed with tents and pavilions into sprawling barracks, and the flower beds torn up to make more tiltyards for training. Those soldiers selected from the duchies' garrisons, and the men Zandakar had trained on the road from Linfoi, arrived on foot and by barge in Kingseat and were sent straight to the castle.

Every day Zandakar trained Rhian first. After her, he trained Alasdair and her dukes, showing them no mercy, showing them Mijak. If the armada failed and warfare came to Ethrea, her dukes would be spread across the kingdom. It was important that they know what to expect.

After that, Zandakar and Rhian trained her soldiers not to dance the hotas, but to find ways of killing a warrior for whom the hotas were as natural as breathing. They trained the foreign soldiers too, and all the officers from Kingseat's garrisons.

So much mock warfare. The grounds of her castle might never recover.

When he wasn't training soldiers, or dancing hotas with Rhian, Zandakar schooled his Ethrean with Dexterity. His fluency improved rapidly, as though at last he was really trying, not just getting by.

The last trading vessels in Kingseat harbour departed for their home ports, not to return until Mijak was defeated. In their place came the warships of Tzhung-tzhungchai, of Harbisland, of Arbenia and the lesser trading nations. They came in piecemeal, in dribs and drabs, and quickly filled the harbour so that latecomers were forced to wait in the open water. Han's witch-men were tireless in bringing the warships to Ethrea, and to spare the sensibilities of Ethrea's people, and some of their allies, they worked at night, so that with every new dawn in the days following the signing of the war treaty, the trading nations' armada had seemed to swell by magic.

Kingseat township filled with foreign sailors whose business was war, not trading. Mindful of their temperaments, and the heightened nervousness of the townsfolk, and the likelihood of disaster, Idson and his garrison soldiers increased their presence on the streets. Furloughs were strictly rationed. Taverns were forbidden to serve ale and wine for more than one hour each day. Soldiers from each trading nation joined Idson's garrison, commissioned to keep the streets of Kingseat trouble-free in this time of impending violence.

Across the kingdom, Helfred's clergy helped keep the peace, helped the people to stay strong and believe in their queen, and helped the duchies maintain their defences where their borders met the sea. Devouts and chaplains and even venerables laboured with novices and regular folk and soldiers to make sure their barrier wall remained fortified, especially where once there had been ports and there was a vulnerability to Mijaki attack.

The duchy garrisons struggled to cope with the number of men and women eager to learn swordplay, so they could protect their homes from the heathen invaders. The kingdom's chapels filled to overflowing, as Rhian's people prayed for a swift deliverance…or a miracle.

And despite all of that, life in Ethrea continued. Babes were born. Their grandparents died, and were buried. The hens laid their eggs and dogs chased straying cats.

With the trading nations at long last reconciled to this war, their rulers and representatives clogged the ambassadors' district, its residences and its streets. They met Rhian and her council daily in the castle's war room to thrash out the particulars of the armada, and how to proceed should their desperate sea defence fail.

Dexterity was her godsend. When he wasn't gently bullying Zandakar to “speak Ethrean proper, drat you!”, or working with Ursa to marshall her army of physicks, he was her council's friendliest face. Toymaking forgotten, he laboured without respite to see every fractious official soothed and every querulous demand met – or tactfully declined. Cheerful with Ven'Cedwin, who led a horde of clerical scribes, he kept meticulous track of who agreed to what, with whom, and why, diffusing dozens of brewing altercations every day.

Even the Count of Arbenia was pleasant to Dexterity. And if that wasn't a miracle, then miracles didn't exist.

Fifteen days after the first Tzhung warships appeared in Kingseat, the last Barbruish carrack was witched safely to the harbour…and the trading alliance armada was finally assembled. Six hundred and thirty-seven warships in all, bristling with catapults and barrels of pitch, vicious with battering rams and fire-dragons and knife-wheels and grapplers.

Only the ships of Tzhung-tzhungchai were naked.

Rhian asked Han why that should be, after he surprised her – again – in her privy garden. It was early, and she'd retreated there after her hotas, to gather her thoughts before the first war council of the day.

“Tzhung's witch-men are my weapons,” Han said. “We have the wind. We need nothing of metal and fire.”

Looking at him, severe in black silk, she felt a pang of guilt pierce her. Han and his witch-men were working so hard. Han looked almost as exhausted as Zandakar, who pushed himself brutally from sunrise to sunset and beyond, into torchlight, training the soldiers who poured daily into Kingseat.

And even if he were to work twice as hard, it wouldn't be enough. We need months and months to make this army, not a few weeks. We're facing an enemy who's been training for years. Dear God, have we lost before the first blow is struck?

“Stop that, Rhian,” Han said sternly. “No leader can afford to surrender to despair.”

She glowered at him. “I know. I'm not. But neither can a leader afford to hide from the truth.”

“The truth,” said Han, “is that no man is ever truly prepared for war. A man can spend his whole life training for battle…and faint with fear before the first blood is spilled. What point then his years and years of training? Another man, who has never trained a day in his life, can pick up a pitchfork and be more valiant than that soldier. Not even the wind knows who will break, and who will bend.”

“All those warships,” Rhian murmured, staring down at the exotic flock of vessels riding the harbour. “And three witch-men to sail on each one. Can you spare so many, Han? You must know they won't all return from their encounter with Mijak, even if we're victorious.”

Han shrugged. “Perhaps fewer will die than you fear. They are witch-men.”

What did he mean? That if the battle looked hopeless they'd simply…walk into the air? Abandon the ships they'd been given to protect?

Oh, God. Let the slainta or the count suspect treachery from the Tzhung…

“I did not hear you say that, Han. Never say it again.”

“If the battle is lost, you think my witch-men should not save themselves?” he demanded. “You think our cause is best served by fewer witch-men in the world?”

“Of course I don't!”

“Then do not tell me my witch-men must die for nothing!”

Buffeted by the sharp cold wind of his anger's calling, Rhian stood her ground before him, fists clenched, eyes narrowed. It took all her strength not to let herself be blown backwards.

As abruptly as it sprang up, the wind died.

“Han,” she said, struggling to breathe slowly, to not show him her fright, “your witch-men will do what you tell them. Just…whatever you tell them, don't forget the consequences.”

Han gave her a mock bow. “The girl-queen of Ethrea schools Tzhung's emperor in his business. Truly, Rhian, every day you're a surprise.”

“Well, I shouldn't be,” she retorted. “How do you think I grew up?”

“Like the princesses of Tzhung-tzhungchai,” he said. “It would seem I was mistaken.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, striving to tease. Striving to find some harmless way to ease the tension that gnawed constantly at her guts. “You have princesses in Tzhung-tzhungchai? I never knew that. I'd like to meet them, when this is over.”

He looked down his nose at her. “I prefer that you don't. Women like you give other women…ideas.”

She sighed. “Han, did you seek me out for a reason?”

“You think to send Zandakar with the armada.”

From his tone, she could tell he didn't approve the plan. “And you've come to say that's a poor idea?”

“Yes.”

“I don't agree. His scorpion knife is a formidable weapon. What point is there to having it, if it's not to be used?”

“Would you believe me if I said the wind whispered this warning in my ear?”

“Will you try to blow me down the side of the cliff again if I say I find that claim suspicious?”

His lips tightened. “No. But a witch-man tells no lies about the wind.”

Rhian folded her arms. “And am I bound to obey your wind when it whispers?”

“No,” said Han. “But you're foolish if you don't. Think, Rhian. Where does Zandakar's value lie? How can his strengths best serve you? Can he dance his hotas on a ship? Can he train your army in the middle of the ocean?”

She hadn't asked herself that. She hadn't looked past the hope that Mijak's onslaught would be halted by the armada…and that to stop Mijak they needed Zandakar.

“And are you certain,” Han persisted, “that his scorpion knife can overcome his brother's gauntlet?”

No, she wasn't. And neither was Zandakar. But the thought of not using their only true weapon against Mijak…

“If the knife's not powerful enough to defeat Dmitrak, then why did Vortka give it to him?”

“I can't tell you that,” said Han. “I can only tell you not to send him.”

Frustrated, Rhian scuffed her toe in the dirt.

“You can't sail with the armada, either,” he added. “You're Eberg's daughter. The last of your great House. Your people look to you for strength and comfort. Does a mother leave her children when they are lost and frightened?”

She looked at him. “Han, am I stupid? Of course I'm not sailing. I wish I could, the thought of staying behind is torture, but I know where my place is. I know my duty.” She felt tears sting her eyes. “Alasdair sails with them. Unless,” she added, indulging in sarcasm, “the wind has an opinion to share on that, too?”

He answered her by wrapping the air about himself, and vanishing.

Feeling cross-grained and blown in all directions, she returned to the castle to find Alasdair breakfasting with his cousin.

“At last,” he said, smiling. “I was beginning to wonder where you were.” He patted the table. “Come and sit. Eat. There's—”

Waving a hand, she perched on the window's embrasure. “I'm not hungry. Alasdair, my love, about the armada—”

“No,” he said. He sounded almost vicious. “You're not sailing with it, Rhian.”

Ludo swallowed his mouthful of egg and put down his fork. “Ah…should I go?”

“There's no need,” said Alasdair. “The subject is closed.”

Rhian stared, incredulous. Does every man of my acquaintance believe me suddenly stupid? “Alasdair!”

He looked weary too. So did Ludo. The battle had scarcely begun and dear God, they were all so tired.

How will we be when the fighting starts in earnest?

“Alasdair,” she said again, more gently. “This is about Zandakar. Han's advised me he should stay behind too…and I'm inclined to agree with him.”

“I should go,” said Ludo, pushing back his chair.

Alasdair took hold of his forearm. “Stay.”

“No, really—”

“Stay.”

Ludo stayed.

“Han advised you?” said Alasdair. “When? We've not laid eyes on the emperor for days.”

“Just now. In the garden.” Rhian pulled a face. “You know what he's like. He treats the world as though everything in it belongs to him.”

“I thought,” said Alasdair carefully, “that the council was in agreement on this. Zandakar is our best hope against Mijak.”

Helpless, she stared at him. “Han says the wind says Zandakar mustn't sail.”

Alasdair sat back and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Well,” he said, muffled. “Helfred will dance to hear that.”

“I'm not pleased either,” she said. “You're right, Zandakar is our best hope against Mijak. But perhaps we're being foolish, thinking one knife – even that scorpion knife – can defeat all of Mijak's warships. Surely it's Zandakar's knowledge that makes him a weapon. The armada's greatest strength lies in Han's witch-men, and the brute battering force of the trading nations' ships.”

Slowly Alasdair lowered his hands. “So you agree with Han? You want to keep Zandakar here?”

There was a knot beneath her breastbone, strangling her breath. “I want whatever serves Ethrea best.”

“As do I,” he replied. “Zandakar stays.”

The strangling knot tightened. It was painful to breathe. “It means you'll be alone on the Queen Ilda.”

Their eyes met, and she struggled not to weep.

Almost forgotten, Ludo cleared his throat and ran a hand over his short blond hair. “You needn't fear for him, Rhian. Where Alasdair goes, cousin Ludo's his shadow.”

“No!” said Alasdair, turning. “Are you mad?”

“Completely,” said Ludo, with a fine attempt at bravado. “Because if you're sailing, then so am I. How did you so graciously phrase it? Ah yes. The subject is closed.”

Rhian pressed tentative fingers to the pink, knotted scars in her face. They still itched, though the stitches had been out for days. “Ludo, it's a grand gesture, and I appreciate it, but you're needed here.”

“Not as much as Alasdair will need me on the Ilda,” said Ludo. “No king worth his salt travels without at least one titled gentleman companion. For the look of things, if nothing else. I'll be his adjutant. His go-between. His nursemaid – you know he needs one.”