The Godspeaker Trilogy (200 page)

And with a bold leap and a screamed curse, Nagarak's son attacked.

T
hey were losing the light when Rhian found Alasdair, wounded and bleeding in a sprawl of dead soldiers on the doorstep of a burned-out potter's shop in Gimcrack Lane.

By that time her personal army had dwindled to three, and they were the only living soldiers she'd seen in some time. Kingseat's air remained thick with smoke. The fading blue sky was hazed with it, and the cooling autumn air stank of burned wood and flesh. Mijak's warriors still roamed the streets, chanting, though she'd not seen any for perhaps half an hour, and not killed one for longer than that. She'd seen glimpses of survivors: Ethrean faces pressed to windows and swiftly withdrawn, a flash of skirts whisking round a corner, a voice in an alleyway, hurriedly hushed.

Well. Mijak had been in Kingseat for less than a day. They couldn't kill a whole city in less than a day…could they?

Maybe not, but God knows they're trying.

She found Alasdair by accident. Stumbling with exhaustion, hurting so badly from her own wounds, half-blind with thirst and hunger, she was leading her three men by touch and luck down the dark lane, and so was the first to trip over the bodies. When one moaned, she nearly screamed. When she discovered it was Alasdair, she nearly screamed again.

“Oh, dear God,” she said, hauling the corpses off him as though they were so many broken tiltyard mannikins. “Alasdair! Alasdair !”

Mijak's warriors had left him for dead. Rollin's mercy, he looked dead, he was stabbed through his arms and legs and chest. He was covered in blood, hardly breathing at all.

Oh, no. Oh, Alasdair. No no no no…

Weeks of coolness. Estrangement. Hurt feelings on both sides. Misunderstandings, frustration. Marriage was hard. And then their fight at the harbour, only this morning. This morning? It felt a lifetime ago. The look in his eyes when he'd begged her to leave.

I told you to go but, Alasdair, I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it. Are you listening? Can you hear me? You have to stay.

She looked at Revin, the oldest of her soldiers. Sixteen or seventeen, if he was a day. “He's not dead. We can save him.” I hope we can save him . “But he needs a physick, he needs—”

Ursa. He needs Ursa. He needs Dexterity. He needs a miracle.

But here was Alasdair living, when she'd given him up for dead so perhaps she could hope.

“Take his shoulders, Revin,” she said curtly. “Bothy, take his legs. Be careful. Don't drop him.” She looked at her third soldier, a mere child of twelve. One of the harbour taverns' cheeky cellar brats, rough as guts and twice as tough as nails. He'd killed six Mijaki warriors all by himself. “Tob, do you know Ursa the physick? Do you know her clinic on Foxglove Way?”

Tob nodded, so solemn. “Aye, Majessy. Ursa's allus physickin' us cellar brats. Foreign sailors get rough when their beer's slopped too slow.”

Really? She didn't know that. Something to frown over, when this day was done. “I've no idea if she's dead or alive. But if she's alive, Tob, she'll save the king. Run to her. Tell her we're coming. And be careful , you hear me? Avoid any warriors you see.”

Tob scarpered, and she led the others with their precious burden, scouting ahead to be sure the way was clear.

God granted another miracle. They reached the clinic safely to find Ursa and Tob waiting, and nearly two score of townsfolk huddled in fear. Along one clinic wall marched a line of sheet-covered bodies.

For some reason Rhian found them more upsetting than any pile of hacked limbs.

“Mind now, mind now!” Ursa scolded, as they laid Alasdair on a pallet. “Rollin's mercy, those heathens have made a collander of him.”

“Maybe, but he's breathing,” snapped Rhian. “So you have to—”

“Ah,” said Ursa turning to follow her stare. “Jones. Yes. That's a story.”

Dexterity stood in the corner, gently wreathed in golden flames. His eyes were open but he seemed to see nothing. He didn't move, he didn't speak, he didn't come to greet his queen.

“He's been like that for hours,” said Ursa, briskly tallying Alasdair's wounds. “Killed a band of Mijaki warriors, healed everyone here who could be saved, killed two more bands of warriors, and hasn't said a word since.” She shrugged. “I can't explain it. It's like he's…gone away.” And then she sighed. “Majesty – Rhian—”

Rhian saw in Ursa's face what the old woman didn't want to say. She looked down at Alasdair, beneath the blood so still, so pale. She felt a dreadful shudder, rage and grief shaking her, and pushed to her feet.

“ No , Ursa. I won't have it. I'm telling you, I won't .”

She marched over to Dexterity and glared into his serenely burning face. “Mister Jones! Pay attention. Your queen has need of you.”

Nothing. Nothing. He burned and said nothing.

“Mister Jones! For the love of God, I'm begging you! Look at me!”

Still nothing.

He was burning. She shouldn't touch him. She shouldn't take that dreadful risk. But she needed him, she needed him. Alasdair needs him. Oh, God, please …

With the last of her strength, with the dregs of her faith, she slapped Dexterity as hard as she could.

“Mister Jones!”

He stirred, then stared at her through the near-translucent flames. “Rhian?”

She pointed. “Alasdair's dying. Heal him. Hurry .”

Dexterity nodded, and drifted to Alasdair. Arms folded, chewing on a ragged thumbnail, Rhian watched as her toymaker made Ethrea's king – her husband – whole.

When it was over, and Dexterity stepped back, she knelt beside Alasdair and took his quiet hand. Looked into his dear face, so plain, so bony. “My love, it's me. It's Rhian.” Alasdair, wake up .

He didn't stir.

“Look out now, Majesty,” said Ursa. “Give me some room.”

Standing, Rhian gave Ursa room, then looked at Dexterity. “I thought you healed him. Why doesn't he wake?”

“He'll wake in his own time,” said Dexterity, then frowned. “You're wounded too. Poor Rhian. Poor queen.”

His sympathy nearly ruined her. She gritted her teeth and forced back the tears. “If you can heal me, heal me. And that's all I need.”

So he healed her, for the second time.

“Thank you,” she said.

But he didn't say, “You're welcome.” Instead, he turned his head to stare through the clinic's broken doors, towards the harbour.

“What?” she said. “Dexterity? What is it?”

“Zandakar,” he whispered. “Take my hand, child. We have to run.”

Zandakar? She shook her head. “No, I can't, I can't leave Alasdair, I—”

Dexterity's flames flared high and hot. “ Yes, you can, Rhian! Now run! ”

So they ran hand-in-hand through the last of the light. The lowering dusk was a kindness. She couldn't see what had been done to her capital. No warrior challenged them and she didn't burn.

Just as they reached the harbour's Royal Gate they heard the dreadful searing sound of Dmitrak's gauntlet, and the faded evening lit up as a Mijaki warship burst into fire and splinters. A heartbeat later a blue flame streaked through the air, and smoke from scorched stone seared their lungs and stung their eyes.

“Rollin's mercy,” Rhian gasped. “Is that—”

“Yes,” said Dexterity. “That's Zandakar. He's at war with his brother.”

They ran through the gates, past the smouldering harbourmaster's office, down the stone steps to the harbour-front and the docks, just in time to see a shadowed figure roll away from another killing crimson streak.

Zandakar.

“God help him,” said Rhian, her voice catching on a sob. “Dexterity, stop them, before—”

“I can't,” said her toymaker, still gently burning. “It's not my place.”

“ What? Dexterity—”

“Hush,” he replied. “Rhian, you must have faith.”

And then, to her gasping shock, he pulled the flames inside himself. All that remained of them was a golden flicker in his eyes…and a soft glow in his hands.

She didn't resist when he tugged her into the shadows.

A blast of power from Dmitrak's gauntlet set fire to six more warships. Within scant moments the docks were bathed in a merry, dancing light. Rhian could see everything, and what she saw stole her breath.

Dmitrak was hunting his brother.

Shorter than Zandakar by perhaps two handspans, he was brutally muscular, not long and lithe. He reminded Rhian of a wild boar in the way he paced the docks, shoulders hunched, head lowered. In the light from the burning ships his hair glowed blood red. Like all of Mijak's warriors, it was long and plaited into many fine braids, festooned with amulets and pretty silver bells. Every step he took shivered them into song.

Dexterity touched her arm. “See there.”

She dragged her frightened gaze from Dmitrak and looked where he nodded. Two flame-flickered bodies sprawled on the ground.

“That's Vortka.” He sounded sorrowful. “Zandakar's father is dead. The woman is poor mad Hekat, Empress of Mijak.”

“And who are they?” she asked, pointing to the other bodies scattered around the docks.

“Godspeakers,” he said, still sorrowful. “The unholy priests of Mijak.”

She didn't ask how he knew, or how he could feel pity. He was her burning man of miracles, and that explained it all.

As she turned again to stare at Dmitrak, to look for Zandakar, a streak of blue fire burst from the shadows further along the harbour, where the warships were yet to burn. Zandakar burst into the light after it, his scorpion knife pointing. A second stream of blue fire lanced from its tip. But it didn't kill Dmitrak, it seared a thin line across the stone of the harbour-front, so the prowling warrior had to leap back.

“ Dmitrak !” Zandakar shouted, and then something else, something in his Mijaki tongue Rhian couldn't understand. He didn't sound angry. He sounded desperate and so sad.

Dear God, he's trying to reason with him. Kingseat's burning, it's littered with corpses and running with blood, and he thinks to reason with the man responsible.

If he'd been within reach, she'd have stabbed him herself.

Dmitrak's answer was a stream of crimson fire. Zandakar raised his ugly scorpion knife and met the crimson fire with blue. The two flames collided in a screaming of sound, the light and heat so intense Rhian threw up a hand to protect her eyes.

But still she watched. She couldn't look away.

The two streams of power burned hot and bright as the brothers struggled to destroy each other, as blue fire and crimson melded and writhed and screamed. And then came a great flash, a boom that echoed round the harbour. Zandakar cried out as the scorpion knife flew from his grasp to strike the dock and skitter far out of reach. In the same heartbeat Dmitrak shouted as his gauntlet belched stinking smoke…and died.

Breathless, silent, the brothers stared at each other.

Then Dmitrak laughed. Rhian felt her skin crawl, felt the hair on her nape rise. She watched, cold sweat sliding, as Zandakar's brother pulled his knife from its sheath and crouched, ready to dance.

But Zandakar was unarmed. His scorpion knife was gone.

Rhian whipped Ranald's tiger-eye blade out of its sheath. “ Zandakar !” she shouted. “ Zandakar! Here! ”

He caught the thrown knife, no time to acknowledge her. Dmitrak was not distracted, he launched into his hotas , so fast, so deadly, so implacable in his hate. Zandakar answered with hotas of his own.

Rhian stood at the edge of the firelight and watched the hotas as they were meant to be danced, between bitter enemies, to a bitter death. And she saw, for the first time, how kind Zandakar had been.

He and his brother fought with a ferocity that stole her breath. She could hardly distinguish one hota from the next, they slashed and leapt and whirled and kicked so fast. How long could they fight like this? Their speed was inhuman. Surely not even these two could keep up this pace…

And as though they read her thought, the brothers broke apart, gasping harshly, staggering a little as they sought a brief respite. Dmitrak's blade had opened Zandakar's arms, his legs, his face and his chest. His fine linen shirt and leather leggings were sodden red. Dmitrak was just as wounded, but he wasn't wounded nearly enough.

And then Rhian realised – Zandakar wasn't trying to kill him. He still believed in a victory without death.

God knew, she understood him. Had it been Ranald or Simon she'd have felt the same. No matter their crimes, no matter their wickedness, she'd want to save them. She wouldn't want them to die.

But he doesn't love you, Zandakar. Dmitrak wants you dead.

It was her fight with Kyrin all over again. She felt a flare of anger, that Zandakar could be so two-faced. He'd scolded her for being sentimental, for not dispatching Hartshorn's duke swiftly…and now here he was, making the same mistake.

I'm sorry, Zandakar. You don't give me a choice.

She thought of Alasdair, healed and waiting. Thought of her kingdom, torn apart. Then she stepped from shadow into firelight, where there was nowhere to hide.

“ Zandakar ,” she said coldly, her skin hot with fear. “You said you'd not betray me. Was that a lie?”

He was too tired and hurt to school himself. Everything he felt for her blazed in his face. Dmitrak saw it. Dmitrak laughed. He said something in Mijaki and then he grabbed his crotch, hips pumping suggestively, greed in his eyes. Zandakar's blood on his knife-blade shimmered scarlet.

“ Rhian ,” said Zandakar. In his face, love and pain. He looked at his brother. He looked back at her. Watching his face, she felt a cruel stab of grief. How could she do this, make him choose between them? Who was she, what kind of woman, to force a good man to slaughter his brother?

I'm what you made me, Zandakar. Rhian hushla, a killing queen.

Dmitrak leapt for her, and Zandakar killed him.

The silence afterwards was broken only by the sound of warships, burning. Zandakar stood over the body of his brother, so neatly slain by an Ethrean knife.

Rhian looked into his face and wept. “ Yatzhay , Zandakar. Yatzhay. Yatzhay .”

He couldn't hear her. Or if he could, had no desire to answer. He turned away from Dmitrak and walked to his mother and father, tumbled together in death a little distance away. She didn't follow him. Gave him what privacy she could.