Hammer Of God (64 page)

“Don't distress yourself,” said Alasdair. “Come the morning, Kingseat will be no safer than anywhere else. So. Do we attend Litany, Your Majesty?”

For the briefest moment, she rested her head on his shoulder. “Your Majesty, I think we must.”

It was a solemn service. The townsfolk crowding the great chapel and the streets outside were resolute, but afraid. They echoed her own mood, and Alasdair's as he sat beside her before Helfred's pulpit.

Helfred's sermon made her weep.

“Though yet we may perish…though as we pray here tonight our brothers and sisters in Ethrea give their lives for this kingdom…we are a blessed people, for Rhian is our queen. God bless her. God keep her. May God keep us all.”

Dear Helfred.

She stayed some time in the great chapel, afterwards, rallying her people. Showing them a brave face.

She wondered how many of them realised it was a lie.

The murky half-light before dawn saw her back at the harbour, with Alasdair and Han, Zandakar and Dexterity. With Helfred, and Idson, and several thousand soldiers.

She and Zandakar had not danced their private hotas. The next hotas they danced would be with the warriors of Mijak.

Idson and his soldiers lined the harbour foreshore. They'd spent most of yesterday and half the previous night setting up their barrels of pitch, their stores of arrows, extra swords and knives and many piles of stout wooden staves in every alley, doorway and cranny they could find. There were soldiers and townsfolk on every roof, at every window, in every tree that could be climbed. Various traps were set. Preparations were complete.

All they had to do now was wait.

Rhian looked over at Han, who stood a small distance apart with his eyes closed. Doubtless he was communing with his witch-men, in their twilight. A twilight he'd told her was yet far from healed. She didn't want to imagine how lost they'd be without him. Weakened witch-men were better than none at all.

Alasdair, so self-contained, was engaged in quiet conversation with Helfred. Glancing at Zandakar, she tapped him with a finger and beckoned him a few paces to the side.

“Rhian?” he said.

He was neatly dressed in a linen shirt and leather leggings. His blue hair was tightly bound in a sailor's queue. The scorpion knife, his only weapon, was sheathed at his hip.

She nodded at it. “You're certain your blade won't fail you?”

“My blade will not fail me,” he said quietly. “I will not fail you.”

She stared at him, unable to speak. Too many thoughts, too many emotions, not enough time.

“Thank you,” she said simply. What else could she say?

His eyes so pale, his remarkable face grave, he pressed his fist to his breast. “You are welcome, Rhian hushla.”

“Listen,” said Alasdair abruptly, turning away from Helfred to stare across the boat and barge-choked harbour. The sky was turning pink, and there was light enough now to see by. “Listen, do you hear that?”

Across the water…through the cool morning air…an ominous chanting, growing louder.

“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

Mijak's invasion of Kingseat had begun.

A hunting horn sounded long and loud: Commander Idson was rallying his soldiers, rallying the people of Kingseat township to war. The call echoed through the streets, was returned, and returned, as captains and sergeants and tavern-keepers and seamstresses sounded their own horns in courageous reply.

And again that chilling chant drifted over the water, thousands of voices, united and cold.

“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

“Look!” cried Helfred. “God have mercy!”

The warships of Mijak had reached the blockaded harbour. Rhian stared, and felt her heart falter.

Sail upon sail upon sail upon sail…the horizon was blotted out. The ocean had disappeared beneath a carpet of black and red hulls.

“Sweet Rollin,” she whispered, and turned. “Alasdair.”

He came to stand with her, and rest his hand on her shoulder. “I know,” he said, his fingers tightening. “Even if the armada had managed to sink half their fleet I doubt…”

“Did I not tell you, Rhian?” said Han. “Myriad, like locusts.”

Without warning, a bolt of crimson fire leapt from the leading warship. It struck the centre of the chained barges blocking the harbour's entrance, blowing them apart in splinters and flame. A second bolt hit, and a third, and a fourth.

“Chalava-hagra,” said Zandakar, grimly. “Dmitrak. My brother.”

Rhian tore her gaze from the burning blockade, and stared in horror at the knife sheathed on his hip.

He'll never stop them with that. We'll never stop them. Ethrea is done…

She looked again at Mijak's warships. Those bolts of crimson were coming faster and faster, and it seemed the harbour itself was on fire. Their pitiful blockade was burning to the waterline, smoke billowing, sparks surging towards the rising sun. Fire spread through the crowded boats and makeshift barges like an incoming tide. From across the water the sound of chanting, and the greedy roar of flame.

She'd felt helpless before, but never like this. Standing on the harbour docks, watching the timber blockade burn, watching Zandakar's brother clear his path to her capital, with no way of stopping him. No hope of destroying him.

Han's right. They're locusts…and we're a field of waiting wheat.

“Han,” she said, “your witch-men—” But Tzhung's emperor couldn't hear her.

“Oh dear,” said Dexterity. “Is he sick? Should I fetch Ursa, perhaps—”

“He's not sick,” said Alasdair. “He's witching.”

Even as they stared at him, Han stirred from his trance, his face masked with pain. Leaving Alasdair and Zandakar, Rhian moved to his side and touched him, gently.

“Does the twilight still scream?”

“Yes.” He shuddered. “Mijak clouds all.” He staggered a little, as though blown by a strong wind only he could feel, then steadied and looked at her. Such pity in his eyes. “Your duchies are laid waste, Rhian. Your people fight bravely, but the warriors of Mijak…”

Sickened, she looked at Zandakar. My people…my people…

He met her gaze. “Yatzhay.”

“What of the dukes?” Alasdair demanded. “Edward? Rudi?” He swallowed. “My cousin?”

Han shook his head. “I can't tell you the fate of one—”

“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

Dmitrak's warship was entering Kingseat harbour.

Alasdair turned. “Rhian, go. There's still time.”

“Run and hide?” she said, staring. “No!”

“Rhian!” He was distraught. “You promised me you'd—”

“I know. But Alasdair, where in God's name can anyone hide from this? If you want to run to the castle, then run. I am staying here, to fight with my people!”

“You mean die with your people!” He rounded on Dexterity. “We need a miracle, toymaker. Give us a miracle!”

“Majesty, I – I can't do that,” Dexterity stammered. “I don't know how it works, I don't—”

“Han,” said Alasdair, turning away. “You can witch Rhian away from here. Take her to Tzhung-tzhungchai. Please. Save her life.”

“Alasdair, stop it!” Rhian said before Han could reply. Almost, she slapped him. “Are you mad? How can you of all people ask me to leave?”

Alasdair's eyes were brilliant with tears. “How can I not? You're my wife, Rhian.”

“I'm Ethrea's queen first!”

His head snapped back as though she'd struck him. Then he turned to Zandakar. “You tell her. She'll listen to you.”

But Zandakar was staring as though Alasdair were a stranger. “Rhian hushla cannot leave. She is a warrior, zho?”

“You want her dead?” Alasdair demanded. “You want your brother to kill her? All she's ever done is defend you, Zandakar, and this is how you're going to repay her? Or maybe this is what you always had planned. A gift for your mother, the Empress of Mijak! Give Rhian to her and all will be forgiven, is that it?”

“Alasdair!” Rhian tried to touch him, but he knocked her hand aside. “Please. There's no time. We have to join Idson and the soldiers. We're going to be fighting in a handful of—”

A swirling breeze, tainted with smoke. A whisper of windchimes. And dozens of witch-men stepped out of the air.

She spun round, disbelieving. “Han?”

His smile was a travesty of the cool, self-contained calm she'd come to expect. “Sun-dao says Tzhung-tzhungchai must help. A wise man always listens to his brother.”

She stared at him, and he stared back.

“These are all the witch-men I have to give,” he added. “I have none left to defend your duchies.”

She nodded, drowned in sorrow. “It's all right. Han, thank you. You've been a better friend than I could hope for.”

“Little queen,” he said. His eyes were warm.

“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

The incoming tide of fire was almost upon them. The smoke was thickening, choking, burning everyone's throat and eyes. Only minutes remained, surely, before the last of their desperate blockade was destroyed and the warships of Mijak reached the harbour piers.

Crimson bolts searing, the promise of death.

Han's witch-men were spreading along the harbour front. Turning, Rhian glimpsed more witch-men on Kingseat's streets and scattered rooftops. One by one they spread their arms wide, tilting their faces to the morning sky. A wind started rising, it whipped their unbound hair, whipped clouds out of thin air, whipped the debris-choked waters of the harbour to life.

“Helfred, return to the great chapel,” she told her prolate. “We need your prayers as never before, and you'll at least be a little protected there.”

“I don't want to leave you,” said Helfred white-faced with fright. “You've always been in my care, Rhian.”

Oh, Helfred. “I'm in God's care now. Help my people, prolate. Dexterity—”

“I promised Ursa I'd help her tend any wounded,” Dexterity said unsteadily. “Majesty – Rhian—”

“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

The chanting was so loud she could feel it in her bones. The warships of Mijak were pouring into the harbour behind the ship carrying Dmitrak and his gauntlet. Even through the gusting smoke and dancing fire she could see them, each full-bellied sail painted with a black scorpion. She could hear the steady thud and splash of their oars.

Her eyes stung, her vision blurred, as she looked at Dexterity. In a moment he'd leave her…and they might never meet again.

“God keep you, my dear friend,” she whispered, holding him tight.

Dexterity's embrace threatened to crack her ribs. “You're a good girl, Rhian. You always were. God bless.”

“Rhian,” said Zandakar. The scorpion knife was in his hand now, blue fire flickering up and down its thin blade. His eyes were fierce. “We go now, zho?”

Like his witch-men, Han was summoning the wind. It was too late to wish him luck, too late to—

A searing bolt of crimson soared high above her head. Rhian spun on her heels, watched it fly over Kingseat's huddled buildings and strike her castle's wall. Flame and stone gouted into the air.

“God's mercy!” cried Helfred.

Too late to do anything but take Alasdair's hand, and run.

Dmitrak laughed as he sailed into the harbour, sailed through the smoke and Ethrea's pitiful, shattered defences, sucking pleasure from the moment like it was a bitch's tit. He could have obliterated in heartbeats the choke of wooden boats meant to stop him, but aieee, the god see him, it was better done slowly.

The demons of Kingseat deserved to fear.

As he laughed, his godbells sang. The god was pleased with him, he had pleased the god. Its power surged in his blood, thicker and hotter than ever he had felt it, his bones were burning for the god. He stood in his warship's bow and poured the god through his hammer, watched the blood-red flame destroy everything it touched, watched the flimsy defence of wooden boats burn and sink in his path.

The warriors of his warhost – his warhost, his warhost – were chanting to shake the sun from the sky.

“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

This township of Kingseat was as large as any he had thrown down before, larger than any dead Zandakar had destroyed when he was in the god's eye.

I serve the god now. Dmitrak warlord, hammer of the god.

Then Hekat behind him screamed in rage. “Demons! Demons! Dmitrak, there are demons!”

He turned on her, his gauntlet pulsing, the power in it barely contained. “You will not kill any more of my warriors! I will kill these demons, I am the god's hammer!”

Never in his life had he spoken to Hekat like that. Never in his life had she looked at him with fear. He could see the fear in her, he could see she was afraid.

“The warlord is right, Empress,” said Vortka. “Heed his words. Dead warriors cannot ride into this Kingseat, dead warriors cannot dance with their snakeblades for the god.”

Hekat was so afraid, she did not strike Vortka for speaking.

Dmitrak laughed again, his godbells were laughing. Hekat was silenced. He had silenced Mijak's empress.

Turning his back on her, he stared at Kingseat township, at the buildings crowded around the harbour, at the streets sloping up towards the craggy outcropping behind it, at the looming palace with its glittering windows and high walls. There were people on those walls, there were people in the streets. He could see the flash of sunshine on metal. Aieee, tcha, they were stupid. These breathing dead people of Ethrea thought their metal skins could save them.

A sharp wind rose in the harbour, power danced over his skin. He had felt that power before, it was not his or the god's. There were demons in this place.

“Dmitrak!” shouted Hekat. “The demons are waking!”

I know that, I can feel that. Do I need you to tell me? I think I do not.

Below the decks of his warship he could hear the horses stamping, they were eager to fight. His warriors were eager, they felt the demons and chanted.

“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

He turned again to Hekat, her eyes were blazing. “Empress, I will give you the blood of Kingseat. I will kill all of Kingseat's people and the demons will die.”

“No!” shouted Vortka. “Mijak needs slaves!”

Stupid man, stupid godspeaker, old and worn out and blind in the god's eye.

Beneath his feet the warship lurched as its rowing warriors battled the rising wind and rising waves those demons woke against the god and the warhost.

It was time for those demons to die.

As the demons' wind howled, as black clouds boiled into the sky, as lightning stabbed them and the harbour whipped to white foam, as killing waterspouts writhed and lashed, Dmitrak summoned the god to its hammer, he poured the god from his blood into the world.

He smashed Kingseat's palace, and the people in it. There were demons in that palace, as they died he felt them scream.

“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

Warship by warship his warhost filled the harbour. Warship by warship they plunged towards the docks.

The demons were desperate, they flung their power against him. He rode in his warship's bow and smashed them with his fist. His warship had almost reached the dock, he could see the demons around the harbour with their black hair and their black clothes whipping in the wind. He could see the bright metal skins of the Ethreans who served them, they milled in the streets like goats loosed from a pen. They would be dead soon. Their blood would serve the god.

He heard a great cry, a roaring of fury, he saw three of his warships plunge splintered beneath the harbour's waves. Then two more were ruined, huge stones flying through the air. They were flying from the palace, they had catapults, like the demon ships that had sailed against him.

He clung with one hand to the railing of his warship and aimed his gauntlet at that palace. He hammered it to rubble and the catapults, too. He hammered the people in the palace and on the streets.

And then he saw the waterspouts collapsing, he felt the wind falter, he saw the black-cloud sky clear. He looked at the harbour docks and saw demons dying, he felt them die as their power bled away. They died, they dropped, they could not stand against Mijak.

Before he could kill the demons who were not dead, they stepped into the air and disappeared from sight. He was angry, he did not let his anger blind him.

They cannot hide forever. I will find them, they will die.

With no howling wind to hide voices, he heard Vortka shouting at Hekat.

“You are the empress! You cannot ride to war!”

She shoved her fist against his chest. “Vortka, you are stupid! Hekat always rides to war!”

“When she was young, yes,” said Vortka. “She is no longer young, the power that was in her from those ten thousand slaves, that power is gone. You are weary. You will die.” Vortka was weeping, he was a soft weeping man. “I do not want you to die, Hekat. You must stay here with me and live.”

Dmitrak watched Hekat. Will she soften? I think she will not.

“Vortka high godspeaker is right!” he said. “You are Hekat, you must give the god the world. Can you give it the world if you are dead in your blood? I think you cannot do that, I think you must stay here!”

She stepped forward and struck him, her hand struck his cheek. She was old, she was powerless, the blow still hurt. “I am Hekat of Mijak, I am empress for the god. Do you give me orders, Dmitrak? I think you do not. I will ride with my warhost, it is where I belong.”