Hammer Of God (68 page)

Dexterity joined her. Dear God, she'd forgotten him. His eyes still flickered golden, his hands glowed like a lantern. He smiled at her, unspeaking, and stripped the gauntlet from Dmitrak's arm. It was an extraordinary thing, crafted from red crystal and gold wire. Beautiful, despite its brutal purpose. But it was ruined now, all but one crystal cracked and blackened, much of its thin gold wire melted.

Dexterity stroked it, glowing fingers running its length. The fire in him flared, for a heartbeat he was too bright to look at…

… and then he faded again, and the gauntlet was whole.

After all she had seen, she shouldn't be surprised. But she was surprised. She was breathless. Shocked.

“Why, Dexterity? Why would you—”

He smiled again, gently, and took the gauntlet to Zandakar. The warrior was seated on the dock between his mother and his father, one hand touching each of them, his face so desolate Rhian had to look away.

Dexterity dropped to a crouch before him. “You're not finished yet, Zandakar. The warriors they brought here still ravage this kingdom. You are their warlord. It's time to lead them home.” He held out the gauntlet. “No-one but you can wield this now. And when you die, it will die with you and there will be the end of all dark power in Mijak.”

Zandakar took the gauntlet. Slid it onto his arm, and flexed his gold-and-crystal fingers. Then he pushed to his feet. Raised his gauntleted fist above his head. Looked at the starred sky…and sent a bolt of blue fire towards the waxing moons.

Rhian heard herself gasp. “Rollin's mercy!”

He lowered his fist and looked at her. Walked to her, his pale eyes wide with grief. Standing before her, he pressed his fist to his chest. “Yatzhay, Rhian hushla. Yatzhay for Ethrea.”

She laid her palm against his bloodied cheek. “Yatzhay, Zandakar. Yatzhay for your family.”

And then she held him, lightly, so he could weep.

Alasdair woke not long after dawn. Rhian, steadfastly by his side in Ursa's emptied clinic, felt the change in him. Felt him stir beneath her hand. Watched his eyes open, and blink in the new light.

“Be still, my love,” she told him softly. “Everything's all right.”

“Mijak?” he croaked. “Defeated?”

She reached for the cup of water Ursa had left ready, and helped him sip a little. “Yes. It's defeated.”

He closed his fingers round her wrist. Oh God, his touch was warm. He wasn't dead. She nearly wept.

“You? You're all right?”

She smiled. “I'm fine.”

“Zandakar?”

“Lives,” she said. “Mijak's empress is dead, and all her priests. Many of her warriors. Her other son, Dmitrak.” She closed her eyes, remembering that death: so swift, so brutal. Dmitrak had stood no chance. And Zandakar had cried for him, like a man without a future.

“Rhian…”

She looked at her beautiful, breathing husband. “I don't know about Ludo. Or any of the others. I hope to hear soon. I hope…”

He nodded, so close to grief. “And Han?”

“Nothing,” she whispered. “I'm afraid – I'm afraid—”

He held out his arms. “Come, my love.”

With a muffled sob, she lay her head on his breast. Let him hold her. Let him comfort her. Beyond the clinic's walls her people were rising from Kingseat's ashes. Soon she'd leave to help them. Soon. But for now…for a moment…let the woman rule the queen.

Dexterity sat with his back against the harbour wall, letting the noon sun's thin autumn warmth seep into his bones. One way and another he'd been busy since dawn yesterday and he was oh, so very weary.

Weary, sad…but in a strange way, content. Even as he sat here like an old dog with arthritis, the warriors of Mijak were being rounded up and tamed. Those Zandakar confronted on the streets of Kingseat township, overnight, did not think to question him, for he wore the god's hammer. In their eyes the god had chosen him to lead them, and so they would follow. At first light they followed him out of Kingseat altogether.

“Rhian hushla,” he'd said, so solemn, at the head of his tamed army. “Mijak's warriors trouble your kingdom. I will find them, I will smite them, and then we will leave.”

Standing on the steps of Kingseat's great chapel, Rhian had nodded. “Zandakar,” she told him. “That would be best.”

Helfred and four of his most venerables rode out with him, lest there be any unfortunate misunderstandings. He and his Court Ecclesiastica had hidden themselves and as many people as they could manage in the crypts and cellars beneath the great chapel. The church was badly damaged, but it could be repaired.

Rhian stayed behind in her capital, with Alasdair. Kingseat's people needed her. She was their queen.

Bemused, Dexterity squinted over the harbour and what remained of Mijak's warships, across the distant ocean to the empty, far horizon. A horizon that would see no more raiding warriors from Mijak.

We did it, Hettie. Not tidily, but we did it.

“You certainly did, my love. And I'm so proud of you, I could burst.”

He turned his head to look at her, sitting beside him in the sunshine. Her gilt hair was soft and curling, she wore his favourite dress: the green one, with pretty pink ribbon on the bodice. She smelled of lavender and roses. To his surprise, she looked…well.

“Hello, Hettie,” he said, smiling.

She smiled back, her brown eyes warm. “Hello, Dex.”

“I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again.”

“To be honest, Dex,” she sighed, her smile fading, “neither was I.”

“But all's well that ends well,” he added, then showed her his glowing hands. “I don't suppose you'd care to make this go away? I've tried and I've tried, but…”

She bit her lip. “Let's talk about it later.”

He didn't like the sound of that, but it was a beautiful day…and he'd had all the fighting he cared for in one lifetime. “If I ask how the rest of Ethrea fares, will you tell me? Do you know?”

She took one glowing hand in hers and held it. Her touch was cool and welcome. She felt real. Alive. “Of course I know. And yes, Dex. I'll tell you.”

He sighed, contentment vanished. “So it's that bad, is it?”

“Dex…” Her fingers tightened around his hand. “My love, it's bad enough.”

In the sunshine, by the harbour, breathing the tainted salt air, he listened as she told him what had befallen Ethrea's duchies. Edward dead. Rudi dead. Adric dead. And Ludo.

“Ludo?” he cried. “Oh, Hettie.” It would break the king's heart and Rhian's. It broke his, and he wept. Everyone who knew him loved Alasdair's cousin.

But it wasn't only Ludo, and Rhian's faithful dukes. It was farmers and potters, shepherds and tailors, weavers and beekeepers, and chaplains and devouts. It was schoolmistresses and their pupils, physicks and their patients. Babies and grandfolk and soldiers and their kin.

“How many, Hettie?” he whispered. “How many are perished?”

“Not so many that Ethrea is perished with them,” she said. “Ethrea will survive this. It will rise again.”

Of course it would, with Rhian to lead it. God had chosen her after all.

As the sun dried his tears, he looked again at his wife. “So, my love. Are you my love? Are you in truth my dear, sweet Hettie?”

She broke the silence with a sigh. “Yes, I am, Dex. And then again…I'm not. I'm…the memory of Hettie. Your memory. Your love of her. I'm the bridge between this world, and the world that lies beyond.”

He frowned, and gently pulled his hand free of her clasp. “But you told me you were Hettie, and I believed you. So that makes me a gullible fool.”

“A fool?” she said. “No. You're the nails holding that bridge together, Dex. You're why the bridge is important.”

He pulled a face. “Is that so? Well, right now I'm feeling like a nail that's been hammered one time too often.”

“Oh, Dex,” she said, and giggled. She was Hettie. She was Hettie.

“Can I ask another question, Hettie?”

“Of course,” she said. “And I'll answer, if I can.”

“Where does the power of the witch-men come from?”

Hettie smiled. “I think you know, Dex.”

He thought he did too, but he was almost afraid to say it. If he was right, Helfred would have a fit. “So…God is God, no matter where you live? My miracles, everything Han and his people have done, the dreamers of Harbisland…it's all the same?”

“It comes from the same source, yes,” said Hettie. “God is too big to be just the one thing, Dex. He's too big to belong only to Ethrea, or Keldrave, or Barbruish or the Tzhung. Wherever there is good in this world, there is God.”

He shivered. “And wherever there's evil, there's Mijak?”

“In a way. Every light throws a shadow, my love.”

He fell silent a little time, considering that. “You make it sound simple. But I suspect God is far more complicated than that. I suspect he's not even really a ‘he’. Is he?”

Hettie smiled again, and kissed him. “Oh, Dex. You'll find out, one day.”

“So…it is over, then?” he asked her. “The world's safe? The world's saved?”

“Yes, my love. It's safe and saved. At least…for now.”

Horrified, he stared at her. “For now? What does that mean?”

“It means the world's always in danger, from greed and cruelty and misguided passions,” she said. “That's why good men and women must be vigilant. That's why the fight against evil never ends.”

He looked down at his hands. His persistent, glowing, lamplike hands. They were quite useful last night, he'd been his own torch. But now it was morning…and he wanted his old life back.

“Why do I have the feeling I'm not going to like this?”

“You're a good man, Dex. Zandakar's a good man too…but he can't save Mijak on his own. And Mijak's in desperate need of saving. The dark blood power of its godspeakers is weakened, not broken. To make sure that happens, Mijak needs a new high godspeaker. Dex, it needs you.”

“Me,” he said blankly. “Oh, no, Hettie. I can't.”

“Yes, you can. Dexterity Jones in Mijak will be a good thing for the world.”

“And who thinks that, Hettie?” he retorted. “You or God?”

Another smile, sweet and teasing. “Yes.”

Oh, Rollin's mercy. Go to Mijak? With Zandakar? Two men against an empire that had soaked in blood for centuries?

“Hettie, no. I can't.”

She stared at him, so earnest. So stubborn. So like Hettie. “The world needs you, Dex. How can it stay safe if good men say, ‘Hettie, no. I can't.’”

“But – but—” He tugged at his beard. “Surely I'm not the only good man you can find!”

“No. But you're the best good man I know, my love.”

Go to Mijak. Go to Mijak. Hettie was mad.

Except…he remembered Jatharuj. He remembered Garabatsas. If he closed his eyes he'd see poor Kingseat township, a stone's throw behind him. And everywhere the shadow of Mijak had fallen, there was a Jatharuj, a Garabatsas, a Kingseat to be healed.

I suppose Hettie's right. Zandakar can't do it without help. And he shouldn't be alone. He's lost his family, and I know how that feels. He's got the weight of an empire on his shoulders now, and no-one to help him bear it. I suppose I could go to Mijak…at least for a while.

“Oh dear, oh dear, Hettie,” he moaned. “Ursa's going to kill me.”

When Zandakar returned to Kingseat capital five days after killing Dmitrak, his chastened warhost at his heels, he was greeted by Dexterity.

“We have to talk,” said the toymaker. “Are your warriors safe to leave in the garrison? What's left of it?”

He nodded. “Zho.”

“Then leave them, and we'll sit for a spell.”

Numb, he did as Dexterity told him. The warhost – his warhost – obeyed without question. He wore the god's hammer. Why would they disobey?

He sat with Dexterity on a bench outside the partly ruined garrison. After five days, the air still reeked of smoke and blood. The city rang to the sound of hammers and voices. Already Rhian's people were rebuilding what his had destroyed.

Rhian. Rhian. Will you speak to me? Will I see you?

“Wei,” he said, when his friend stopped speaking. “You would not like Mijak, Dexterity. It is harsh. It is angry.”

Dexterity shrugged. “It's not a question of what I'd like, Zandakar. Hettie's asked me to do this, and I said I would.”

Tcha. Hettie. Was she so meddlesome when she was alive? He could not ask Dexterity that.

“You can't pretend you won't need help, Zandakar,” said Dexterity, and held up his glowing hands. “And I think this will be as persuasive as any scorpion pectoral.”

Yes. That was true. The people of Mijak, so long on the wrong path, had a blind belief in miracles. They could do worse than believe in this toymaker…

He sighed, and nodded. “If you are sure, Dexterity. If you are sure…”

“I'm sure of Hettie,” said Dexterity, tugging his beard. “And I'm sure of you, if you must know the truth. Like it or not, we've been chosen, Zandakar. And I suppose we'll have to see this through to the end, whatever that is. As Helfred would say, we just have to have faith.”

Faith. It was an Ethrean word. Perhaps he could learn it.

If Dexterity comes with me, I will not be alone. Yuma is dead…Vortka is dead…Dimmi, aieee, Dimmi. Dimmi is dead. I have wept, I have wept, I have no more tears for them. I am Zandakar warlord, I do not wish to be alone.

“Zho,” he said, and looked at Dexterity. “You will come with me to Mijak…and we will have faith.”

Six days after Zandakar killed Dmitrak, Mijak was ready to leave Ethrea forever.

Rhian stood in the dressing chamber of the town-house she and Alasdair had been given, staring at her reflection in the mirror. She still wore her huntsman leathers. The scars on her face were two thin, pink lines. The scars on her heart were…less well-healed.

So many dead. So much destruction. I know we're rebuilding, but…dear God. It will be a different Ethrea. There'll be a new trading charter. New alliances. Nothing can be the same as it was.

And Dexterity was leaving. She'd tried and Ursa tried, but they couldn't dissuade him. “Hettie said,” he said, and that was that.

“It's not so bad,” he'd told her, with tears in his eyes. “You won't miss me really. You've got Helfred, remember?”

She'd laughed, and then she'd wept. So much weeping in Ethrea, even though the war was won.