Hammer Of God (63 page)

He did not love her, he hated her, but Dmitrak smiled. “The god sees you, Empress. It sees you in its eye. This is how we will give it the world.”

She said nothing, she did not look at him. She looked only at the high godspeaker, an old man blind in the god's seeing eye. “Vorkta, remember Raklion,” she whispered. “Remember him on the scorpion wheel. Remember Hekat in the god's eye beside him, where Nagarak could not see her. Remember Hekat among the scorpions, remember Hekat dancing with Bajadek, with Hanochek, remember Abajai and Yagji. Vortka, remember Hekat. Remember all she has done.”

Vortka was weeping. Tears fell from his eyes. “I remember everything,” he whispered. “How can I forget? Do you forget Vortka and how he has served the god?”

Hekat stared at Vortka. Weeping Vortka stared in return. They were silent, they said no more to each other, yet Dmitrak thought they were shouting bitter words. Bitter shouting was in their eyes, in their faces, the salt air was crowded with the words they did not say.

She turned. “Fetch me paper and ink, warlord. I have messages for my warhost.”

Dmitrak nodded. My warhost. My warhost. “Yes, Empress,” he said, and did as he was told.

As the warhost sailed for the god towards Ethrea, Hekat wrote her messages for the warhost. The messages were sent from warship to warship, so every warrior knew what soon would come.

Another demon boat was spied by their lookouts. This one did not vanish, it tried to sail away. It could not sail fast enough to escape the warhost. Dmitrak sank it, his warhost chanted as it burned.

The godspeakers of Mijak went below the warships' decks to the horses, they used their healing crystals to stir the horses from their slumber, they used their healing crystals to wake the god in their blood. The warriors who were tasked to the rowing of the warships took hold of their oars, the trade winds blew, those warriors rowed hard, and the warhost flew the waves.

Ethrea came closer…and closer…

Rhian sat on the grass by the old castle tiltyard, methodically sharpening her knife, Ranald's knife. She'd already danced her hotas privately, with Zandakar. Now she waited alone, which suited her, for the day's first skein of soldiers to arrive so she could train with them. Sharpen them. Prepare them for battle.

It was four weeks and three days since the armada's return.

Autumn had sunk itself deep in Ethrea's bones. It was a cool morning, softly misted. The day promised fair. She could hear the bustle of the castle stables, behind the high brick wall at her back. Smell the hot mash cooking for the horses. There came a shout. A snatch of laughter.

We can still laugh, then. Surely all's not lost if Ethrea can still laugh.

Every day she received messages from Edward and Rudi to the north, from Adric and Ludo as they patrolled beyond duchy Kingseat's home districts, from Helfred's tireless clergy as they toiled in their parishes. Her people were ready. As ready as they could be.

Four weeks and three days. Ethrea was holding its breath. She held her breath with it. What else could she do?

I can dance my hotas. I can sharpen my blade. I can pray that somehow, this nightmare is spared us.

When Han stepped out of the air beside her she was so startled she fumbled her whetstone, nearly slicing off her fingers with her blade's newly keen edge.

“Han,” she said, sounding stupid. Feeling stupid. She'd abandoned hope of ever seeing him again.

Like the last time they'd met, he was wearing black silk. Four weeks later he still looked exhausted. His eyes were still angry. And yet…and yet…

“Mijak is sighted.”

Slowly, disbelieving, she unfolded to her feet. Her fingers slid the knife home in its sheath on her hip. “It can't be. I've not been given word, and I have boats patrolling—”

Han raised an eyebrow. “Is Ethrea the only nation with boats?”

“You mean you've been—” She took a deep breath, let it out in a rush. “And you're certain it's Mijak? There's no chance Harbisland or Arbenia or one of the other trading nations have miraculously changed their minds and—”

“No,” said Han. “Trust me on this, Rhian. Once seen, the warships of Mijak can't be mistaken for a Keldravian galley or a trireme from Barbruish.”

“No,” she whispered. “I don't suppose they can.”

“My witch-men have told me they are sailing not for Kingseat, but towards the coastline of Hartshorn.”

“Hartshorn?” she said, staring across the tiltyard. That first skein of soldiers would be here soon. “So Zandakar was right. He said Mijak would send some of its warriors into Ethrea to harry the duchies while it sailed on to attack Kingseat harbour directly.”

“Zandakar,” said Han, tightly. “Rhian—”

“I couldn't do it,” she said, and looked at him. “Han, I couldn't give him to you. Not just because I needed him for Ethrea, but because—”

“I would've hurt him,” said Han. “I'd have killed him, for my slain witch-men.”

“Yes.”

“And that would be wrong.”

“Very wrong. Yes.”

Han sighed. “So Sun-dao told me, blown by the wind to reprove me for my anger.”

“Sun-dao…” Well, why not? First Hettie, then Marlan. Why not the emperor's dead brother? “I suppose I'd look foolish if I asked how he is.”

“Foolish?” said Han. He was almost smiling. “Perhaps. But kind, also.”

“Kind?” Rhian looked down at herself, at the battered huntsman's leathers that had become her second skin. At the knife-hilt calluses that roughened her fingers and palm. “Han, I don't remember the last time I felt kind.” She looked up again. “Your presence. Your warning. Does this mean Tzhung-tzhungchai has forgiven me? Do Han and his witch-men pledge their help to Ethrea, again?”

He placed his hands palm to palm and offered her a formal bow. “Your Majesty, we do.”

She lost sight of him for a moment, in a blurring of tears. “Thank you,” she said, her voice husky. “And…thank you for returning my horse, by the way.”

Surprise and amusement flashed vivid across his face. “Rhian, little girl-queen…Tzhung's emperor has missed you.”

She touched his silk-clad arm with her fingertips. “And Ethrea's queen has missed you, Han.”

Then they both turned at the sound of her soldiers, approaching. Their private moment was over…

It was time to go to war.

Dmitrak stood in his warship's bow with Hekat, he stood beside the empress his mother and fed his eyes on Ethrea as the warhost prowled the walled edge of Ethrea, of Hartshorn, past fields and woodlands and snarling rocky places. They sailed close enough to the edge of Ethrea to see the faces of the men standing on their little stone wall, that could not protect them though they thought it would. They were dead men, standing, they were dead men shouting and waving their fists in defiance. They shot little arrows that plunged into the sea. They were dead men whose blood would please the god when it spilled.

“Dmitrak,” said Hekat. That was all she had to say.

He turned to his warriors, he raised his gold-and-crystal fist in the air. His warriors saluted, they drummed the deck with their feet. Laughing, he summoned the god to his gauntlet and killed those defiant shouting men on their wall. His warriors shouted as the Ethreans died.

“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

Every warrior in the warhost took up the chant. Their voices sounded like thunder, they pounded the air. The air shivered with their voices, it shuddered with their might.

“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

Dmitrak smashed and smashed the stone wall with his fist. He was drunk on the god's power, it fed him like wine. It poured from his blood in a river unstoppable, he felt as though he could burn the whole world.

Hekat smiled when he killed those defiant Ethrean men. She smiled as he smashed the stone wall to sand. She laughed when he killed three black-clad demons who tried to smother him with the wind.

Aieee, the god see him. She smiled. She laughed.

When at last the warhost came to the first stopped harbour, he smashed the stone wall that was keeping them out. Twenty at a time, two hundred chosen warships sailed close to the sloping pebbled beach. The defiant Ethreans there had no hope of stopping them, they ran from the god's hammer, they died as they ran.

Mijak's warriors on their horses leapt from the warships into the water, the god's power was in them and they swam to the shore. More Ethreans ran towards them with arrows and swords. Dmitrak did not wait to see those Ethreans die. He did not need to see it. They were already dead.

With Hekat the empress he sailed on in his warship, leading the warhost to the next landing place. His warriors were chanting as Ethrea died.

Vortka high godspeaker stood alone beside the godpost mast. He did not say a word, watching Ethrea die.

Five times more, as they sailed so swiftly for Kingseat harbour, Dmitrak smashed their way into a long-abandoned port. Five times more, the warhost on its horses laid claim to Ethrean soil and watered it with Ethrean blood.

Hekat smiled, and smiled, and smiled.

They sailed around the walled edge of Ethrea. He smashed and smashed and smashed that stone wall, like Zandakar in the godless lands, he smashed it all to pieces.

Zandakar? Who is Zandakar? Did he live? I do not think so.

A week earlier, Alasdair and the master of Kingseat's harbour had overseen the blockading of its wide, inviting mouth and every inch of water between the ocean and the docks.

Working by daylight and through the torchlit nights, soldiers and townsfolk laboured to build as many makeshift boats and barges as could be contrived. Whatever was made of timber, and would float, they used. Word went out from Ethrea's pulpits: the help of Ethrea's people was needed. Tables, doors, even the sides of barns, came down the Eth in every river-barge that could be spared, that would also be used to keep Mijak at bay.

When their duty as workhorses was done, they were chained bow-to-stern, four deep, to form a wide, wooden gate across the harbour's mouth. And crammed in behind them were those other, makeshift barges, the kingdom's fishing fleet, its rowboats, its skiffs and its skillies.

When the task was done, one fool scallywag ran across the harbour from side to side and never once got his feet wet.

Rhian, touring the township, changed from huntsman's leathers into her now-familiar black doublet and leggings, encased in the breastplate so lovingly crafted by Armourer Sandiman, left her personal skein of soldiers to its own devices and made her solitary way through the harbour's Royal Gate to stand on the docks. Ranald's dagger was belted at her hip and her shortsword – the one she'd used to kill Damwin and Kyrin – dangled at her side. Staring at the choked harbour, she felt her heart pounding within her metal breast.

It's not enough. How can that hold back Mijak? How can it stand against Dmitrak's gauntlet?

But it was all they could do. They'd done their best. How could she ask her people for more?

The light was fading. Dusk would be upon them soon. Torches and lamps were being lit in the streets behind her. The township was busy like an angry hive of bees. With Mijak approaching, their careful plans were come to life.

Rhian closed her eyes in brief prayer.

God, turn my peace-loving Ethreans into a rogue swarm. Let them sting and sting Mijak until it drops dead.

Brisk footsteps sounded, and she turned.

“Alasdair.”

He nodded as he joined her, his expression strained. “Rhian.”

The last four weeks had seen deep grooves carved into his face. If her hands were rough and callused from her knife and sword-hilts, so were his. If she'd become a warrior queen, he was made a warrior king. She scarcely saw him any more. He slept as many nights in Kingseat's garrison, with his soldiers, as he did with her in their castle bed. Time had blunted his sharp anger over the slaughtered armada. Still, his anger remained, no less painful because it was blunted. A bludgeoned wound could hurt as keenly as a swordcut.

They weren't…fighting. They just weren't happy. He'd retreated somewhere, and she couldn't find him.

Beyond discussions of tactics and training, Zandakar was never mentioned.

She glanced at her much-absent husband. “You bring me fresh news from Tzhung-tzhungchai?”

In the nearly ten hours that had passed since Han came to her at the tiltyard, his witch-men had twice sent their emperor word from her duchies, and he had straight away sent it to her. Warriors of Mijak were rampaging through the middle of her kingdom. Some had been killed, but not nearly enough. Edward and Rudi's soldiers were trying, but their lines had been broken in a dozen places and three times, at least, Mijak had crossed over the Eth. Its warriors had killed and burned in Hartshorn, in Morvell and in Meercheq. They hadn't yet broken through to Arbat…but surely it was a question of when, and not if.

Han had told her: The warriors of Mijak are like locusts. Do you know of locusts, Rhian? Marauding flying insects, their appetites are insatiable. They descend in swarms upon Tzhung's farmland and leave nothing living in their wake.

Mijak was a plague of human locusts, come to plague Ethrea.

“Yes, Han's sent fresh news,” said Alasdair. “Mijak's warships are making steady progress around the coastline. The witch-men have slowed them, but…” He shrugged. “Whether it's because they're so weakened, now, or the priests of Mijak are grown more powerful, they can't be stopped. They should reach the harbour at first light.”

“Which means a dawn attack,” she said. “How…dramatic…of them.”

He nodded. “You look tired.”

“No more tired than you. Is there any further word from the duchies?”

“Only that the fighting continues. Ludo and the others are still safe.”

Thank God, thank God. “We've no idea how many are killed? Or how long before Mijak's warriors will break through into duchy Kingseat?”

“No, and no.” Alasdair's hand came to rest on her shoulder. “But Helfred says we're welcome in the great chapel, for Litany. Half an hour.”

Rhian folded her arms, struggling for composure. “I can't help feeling I shouldn't be safe here, in Kingseat, while my people are fighting and dying to the north.”