Hammer Of God (65 page)

He felt his blood simmer, he felt the rage in his fist. My warhost. My warhost. You belong on a pyre. “Empress, there are slaves here, the god needs their blood. I will take those slaves prisoner and send them to you. If you are not here for sacrifice who will give the god their blood? Vortka? How can he do that when he does not believe?”

Hekat looked at Vortka, there was doubt in her eyes.

Yes, Empress, doubt him. Do not trust him, trust me. I am the warlord, this war is my war. I am the god's hammer. What are you? An old woman. Your time is come and gone, Hekat, this time is mine.

“Tcha!” said Hekat. “The god see me. Tcha!”

Dmitrak knelt before her, he knew how to make her feel strong. “You are Mijak's great empress, you are Hekat in the world. You are too precious for risking. Let the world come to you.”

She bared her teeth, she bent low. She fisted her fingers in his scarlet godbraids. His godbells protested, he did not say a word.

“I will kill the slaves you send me, warlord,” she whispered. “I will give the god its strongest blood. You will slaughter Kingseat and its outlying hamlets, I am the empress, I want this demons' nest dead.”

I am the god's hammer. I will smash Kingseat flat. Then I will smash you, Hekat. Mijak has Dmitrak, does it also need an empress? Aieee, the god see me. I think it does not.

He pressed his fist to his chest, he did not show her his heart. “Hekat.”

Kingseat harbour had grown fat with his warhost. With no demons to stop them, warship after warship reached Kingseat's docks. They lowered their ramps, their warriors rode from the ships' bellies, warriors on their horses crowded the docks. They shouted, they chanted, they were ready to kill.

Deserted by their demon masters, the people of Kingseat fired burning arrows and threw stones. Dmitrak laughed as his gauntlet destroyed them. Still laughing he leapt from his warship to the dock, he took his horse from the Ajilik shell-leader and vaulted onto its back. With the god's hammer raised high above his head, he sent its power streaming into the sky.

And then he led his warhost into the township, thousands of warriors to slay Kingseat for the god.

The first mad onslaught of Mijaki warriors into the township thrust Rhian into a nightmare beyond belief. With the witch-men of Tzhung-tzhungchai vanished, or vanquished, no sign of their emperor, no more help from the wind, the noble defence of Kingseat became a battle for survival, became desperate bloodshed and sheer brutal luck. Her army shattered into splinters, skeins and half-skeins, into wildeyed, bloodsoaked bands of soldiers and citizens, men and women, boys and girls. The fighting raged from street to street, roof to roof, door to door. It smashed into houses and out of them again, through bakeries and chandlers and grainstores and taverns, into attics and cellars, in sunlight and in shade.

There was only one gauntlet. The rest of it was knives.

She lost sight of Zandakar first, as the triple-skein of soldiers she led jointly with Alasdair was smashed and scattered by a wall of galloping warriors, chanting and shouting, their belled and braided black hair ringing echoes to the sky.

Not long after that she lost Alasdair as well.

She was dancing hotas with a girl who looked too young for bloodshed…but was old enough to die. As her shortsword sank into the girl's exposed belly, she caught sight of Ethrea's king running for his life down Dancer's Alley with three mounted warriors chanting in pursuit. But she couldn't help him, two more warriors leapt to kill her. She fought one, the soldiers with her fought the other. Both died, very messily.

By the time she could run after him, Alasdair was gone.

There was no time to look for him, dead or alive. She had a skein of surviving soldiers to pull together and lead. Man by man, as she encountered other swordsmen and archers, dazed and lost and too-often bleeding, Rhian gathered to herself a small, personal army. They followed her gratefully, their fierce, killing queen.

She danced her hotas and Mijak's warriors died. Cleaning her knife swiftly, with casual expertise, she thought: So much for staying safely out of harm's way.

Her royal castle was in ruins. Mijak's warriors roamed her streets. She might be a widow; she didn't know, and not a soldier she collected could tell her if Alasdair lived, or had died. And the man she'd championed as Ethrea's greatest ally against Mijak had simply…disappeared. Just like Han and his witch-men, Zandakar was gone.

He was gone. She was alone. All she had were her hotas…Ranald's dagger…a killing short-sword…and her furious, stubborn faith.

Kingseat township and its districts were home to some one hundred thousand souls. Not one of them had fled in the face of Mijak. All of them had stayed to fight, for her and for their kingdom. Terrified, mostly untrained, nothing in their history had readied them for this. But they were so brave, her beautiful people. From their windows and rooftops they dropped rocks on the heads of the warriors below. Dropped rocks, claypots of burning pitch, jars of stinking urine, plates and mugs and footstools and whatever they could find. Sprang the traps she and her council had carefully devised; weakened walls set to tumbling, glass windows loosened to fall in shards on Mijaki heads, alleys blocked with sudden barricades so Kingseat's soldiers could kill at will.

It wasn't enough.

Rhian knew, her heart weeping, that what happened here was happening all over her kingdom. In Hartshorn and Arbat, in Meercheq and Morvell and in the wider duchy of Kingseat where Ludo and Adric struggled to keep the kingdom safe, the warriors of Mijak plundered her people, and her gallant people fought to their deaths.

And she knew one other thing, in her weeping heart and in her bones.

If Ethrea must die…it would not die cheaply. She and her people would make Mijak pay in blood.

Hour after hour, the fighting raged on. Kingseat township echoed to the dreadful sounds of men and women and children screaming, fallen horses screaming, the crash of stone and timber as Dmitrak's gauntlet lashed out. Blood slicked the cobblestones. Smoke filled the air. The slain and mortally wounded lay in piles, like driftwood.

And Mijak's warriors chanted, chanted as they killed.

“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

In the Duchy of Hartshorn, so betrayed by its stubborn duke, Kyrin, the warriors of Mijak turned fallow fields to lakes of blood. In duchy Morvell, Edward's cherished domain, his son and his daughter watched him die, and died soon after. Rudi of Arbat, irascible and gruff, breathed his last in the arms of Damwin's son, Davin, who promised to tell Adric of his father's great love. But Adric, fighting for Kingseat, for the ducal crown he wore with too much pride, perished back-to-back with Ludo of Linfoi…whose last living words were of his cousin, the king. The great river Eth, lifeblood of Ethrea, turned scarlet with the lifeblood of the people it sustained. And the warriors of Mijak chanted as they rode: “Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

Dmitrak kept his promise only once he sent captured Ethreans to Hekat so she could slay them for the god. Vortka watched her slit their throats, he could not stop her, she would not listen. When she was finished killing she sheathed her snakeblade and prowled the harbour. She prowled it like a sandcat snatched from freedom, and caged.

She snarled at him if he tried to soothe her, so he waited in silence for her to speak. They were alone now on the harbour's docks, he had commanded his godspeakers to pray on the warships. He wanted them safely out of the way.

“Tcha!” spat Hekat, glaring up at smoke-wreathed Kingseat township. “I can still hear screaming, why is this nest of demons not dead? Is Dmitrak the god's hammer? Can he kill Ethrea for the god?”

Vortka did not answer, his heart was heavy in his chest. Somewhere in Ethrea, perhaps even in Kingseat, his beloved Zandakar must be fighting for his life.

“I was wrong to listen to him,” said Hekat. “I was wrong to listen to you. I am Empress of Mijak, I am godchosen and precious, I should have ridden with the warhost, let Dmitrak ride behind. How can this Kingseat not be fallen for the god? There are thousands in my warhost, thousands trained to kill!”

Vortka sighed. “Kingseat is a large city, Hekat, many thousands live here.”

“It is not so much larger than Jatharuj, Vortka. Jatharuj fell between newsun and highsun! We are past highsun. Kingseat still stands and Dmitrak sends me no more slaves!”

“Kingseat has demons, Hekat,” he said. “It has a warhost.” A warhost trained by Zandakar, I think. Any warhost he trains will not be easy to kill. “Jatharuj had no warhost, it had merchants and traders. Hekat—”

She stamped away along the row of moored warships, she was so angry her godbells growled. “Tcha! I will not stay here, Vortka, I will not wait like a slave who must stand where it is told. There are Ethreans alive for me to kill, I will kill them. I will give Ethrea to the god.”

Vortka stared after her, stabbed with fright. No. No. She must not do that. If she goes into Kingseat she might find our son. If she goes into Kingseat, she might die.

As Hekat stamped back again and pushed past him, he caught her by the hand. Before she could smite him, before she could call out, he pressed his palm to her face and prayed to the god.

She breathed out hard, her eyes rolled back. With her bones turned to water, she slumped into his arms. He carried her to a patch of shade, he let her rest against his breast.

I am sorry, Hekat, I am sorry, my love. You must be safe, I must save you.

Twisting his head round he looked up to the township, wreathed in smoke, soaked in blood, soaked in Dmitrak's rage.

Zandakar, my son, my son. Help me to end this, no more killing for the god.

Ursa's small clinic on Foxglove Way was crammed to collapsing with the wounded dragged in from Kingseat's killing streets. She and three other physicks struggled to help the wounded, but there were too many patients and not enough physicks. Not any more. One by one the other eight who'd been bringing back Kingseat's people for healing had failed to return.

Some nine hours after the killing began, Dexterity stood with Ursa beside a bloodstained pallet on which a girl of maybe thirteen lay drugged with poppy, and dying. Ursa folded her arms, as close to utter despair as he had ever seen her.

“Are you sure you can't do anything, Jones?” she demanded. “Rollin's mercy, she's just a child.”

Dexterity bit back a sharp retort. Everyone wanted a miracle today. If he could heal the girl, or any of these poor people, didn't she think he would? He'd tried his hardest, to no avail. The best he could do was fetch and carry basins of water and roll ban-dages, like the handful of unhurt townsfolk who'd taken shelter here and were helping. The best he could do was hold hands with the dying so they didn't die alone.

Ursa sighed. “I'm sorry,” she muttered. “I don't mean to nag.”

She was so weary. So grief-struck. Bamfield was one of the physicks who'd never returned. And she was a healer, Kingseat was in its death throes, but for the first time in her long life she had no help to give.

Beyond the clinic's barricaded doors, the sound of chanting, coming closer. The sound of Mijak's warriors with their knives and lust for death.

“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

The conscious wounded heard them, and cried out. The unhurt helpers cried out too. Dexterity looked at Ursa and saw resignation in her eyes. Saw that she expected to die now, with him and every helpless soul beneath her clinic's roof.

A booming thud of timber against timber. A second. A third. A fourth. There was a splintering groan – and the barred doors gave way. Suddenly the clinic's entrance was full of Mijak's warriors and languid afternoon light.

The warriors were covered in blood from their braided hair to their booted feet. The blades in their bloody fists dripped scarlet on the floor. There was nowhere to run. Dexterity snatched up an empty basin. Taking one step, then another, he picked his way towards them through the laden pallets crowding the floor.

“Wei,” he said loudly. “Wei chalava. Wei Mijak. Wei hotas, zho?” He brandished the basin. “Go away!”

Stunned, the warriors stared at him.

“Jones!” hissed Ursa. “Jones, what are you doing?”

Ignoring her horror, he brandished the basin again. “Wei chalava. Vortka, zho? Vortka wei—” He pretended to hold a knife and stab with it. “Wei. Wei.”

Still the warriors stared, as though they couldn't trust their ears.

And then he saw Hettie, standing in the corner. She was thinned to a shadow. Her voice, when she spoke, was the merest whisper of sound.

“Oh, Dexie…Dexie…I think it's over…Dexie my love, I think we've lost…”

Lost? No…no…they couldn't have. Rhian.

Desperate, he reached within himself, searching for the flames of God he'd never wanted or understood. It's here, the power must be here. Han felt it, didn't he? He felt something in me!

But he couldn't find it. They were going to die.

“Jones!” shouted Ursa. “You fool, what are you doing?”

He didn't have time for one of Ursa's scoldings. Shuddering, he tried to bring the power back. Something deep inside him shifted…or twisted. He felt the golden warmth, that suffusion of flame – and then he felt a searing agony. Felt the blood power of Mijak like rotten wine in his veins, clotting and clinging and choking his heart.

“Hettie!” he gasped. “Hettie, please, help me!”

He saw her shadow weeping, he saw her ghostly face twist. She screamed…and as she screamed she dissolved into the air.

Dexterity, screaming with her, burst into flames.

The warriors of Mijak cried out, their bloodied blades lifting. Burning and burning, Dexterity approached them. Every step was torment, the rotten blood power of Mijak in his own blood like acid. He pointed a trembling finger—

— and the warriors were consumed. Nothing left but a drifting of ashes. Just like Marlan, a lifetime ago.

“God be praised!” cried Ursa. “Jones, are you all right?”

Painfully burning, he stared through the clinic's splintered doorway at Kingseat township, and saw to his desolation that Garabatsas had been…nothing. Saw flames and ruination and slaughter.