The Godspeaker Trilogy (32 page)

The taskmaster frowned. “You desire me to—”

“Yes.”

“On the scorpion wheel ?”

“Has the god struck you deaf? Yes, the scorpion wheel.”

“Hekat warleader, you are in the god’s eye,” he said with care. “But this is Zandakar, the warlord’s son. It is custom that Nagarak—”

She dismissed his objection with a flick of her fingers. “Nagarak high godspeaker has healing business with the warlord. As Zandakar’s mother and the warlord’s voice I bring him to you.”

“And I receive him,” said the godspeaker. “But warleader, forgive me. He will one day be warlord, today he is a child. The scorpion wheel—”

“You talk of custom? Is it not true that custom says a warlord’s contrition is shown upon the scorpion wheel?”

Reluctantly, the taskmaster nodded. “Yes. It is true.”

“It is also true he will be the warlord. He is not too young to learn what that means. Take us to the wheel, taskmaster, and help my son appease the god.”

Zandakar swallowed, there were tears in his eyes. His bottom lip trembled, his fingers fisted at his sides. Hekat’s heart broke for him, that could not matter. He was old enough to make decisions, he was old enough to pay their price.

She followed the taskmaster to the scorpion wheel tasking room, trembling Zandakar by her side. She heard his breath catch in his throat at the sight of the cruel iron scorpion wheel.

The taskmaster fetched leather bindings from a box, then looked at her. “How angry has he made the god?”

She looked at Zandakar’s perfect body, so recently broken, so newly healed. “Five strokes should appease it, taskmaster. And do not be gentle. In the god’s time my son will rule Mijak, he must know how to be obedient so others might obey him.”

Zandakar whimpered softly as he was bound to the wheel. She forced herself to watch as the taskmaster took up his cane and raised five welts upon Zandakar’s flesh, she made herself listen to her precious son’s cries. His golden godbells cried out with him, he was a small and penitent boy.

When the tasking was over, she said, her voice hard, “Remember this moment, Zandakar. No man, however great, can thwart the god and remain unchastised. You will go into the godhouse shrine garden, now. You will kneel before a godpost unmoving until lowsun. A godspeaker will take you to the palace then, you will fast until newsun, you will speak no words unless you speak them to the god. At newsun a godspeaker will fetch you from the palace, you will pray alone in the shrine garden till lowsun, when the godspeaker will return you to the palace. You will do this every day for five days. By then your godspark should be purged of sin.” She looked at the taskmaster. “You will arrange this, taskmaster. I have business to attend.”

The taskmaster bowed. “Yes, Hekat warleader.”

She did not smile at her son, or kiss him, or touch him. She turned on her heel and walked away.

She fetched her red mare from the godhouse stables and rode it to the barracks. The constant stream of supplicants and penitents, godspeakers and novices, trudging up and trudging down, crowded around her on the Pinnacle Road. It was difficult not to trample them, she wished she could trample them, they were in her way.

They are stupid, they do not know who I am. But in the god’s time they will know. They will know better than to crowd me.

Hiklia and Gret, the warriors on duty at the barracks’ main gates, pressed their fists to their hearts when she rode in. She did not stop to talk to them, she kept her red mare walking. As she passed the godpost and godbowl she tossed in a single gold coin, it was a mean offering but it was all she could give.

I will give more, god. You know what I will give you.

She jog-trotted through the barracks, past curing fresh horsehides, their tails still attached, and three tall warriors arguing coin with an amulet-seller come to ply her wares, and another slave threading war-charms on the reins of a bridle. Neatly side-stepping a slave pushing a cart piled high with new-sewn tunics, she headed more deeply into her warrior city.

After so long away, returning to the barracks was a physical pleasure. Whenever she left it, to go border skirmishing or on missions like riding to the Heart of Mijak, she missed its rough and violent charm. She did not miss the palace, that place was rich and scented with flowers, soft floor rugs underfoot, honey-sweet pastries in a green glass dish. There she had only to raise one eyebrow, lift a finger, and slaves fell to their knees begging to serve her. They fanned her with feathers, they lulled her with lutes, they dulled her sharp edges with comfort and smiles. She found it distasteful. Knife-dancers needed regular whetting if they wished to stay alive.

Sometimes, wallowing in her palace bath, she thought if she wasn’t careful she might melt completely, turn into soap. Barracks life was robust, it was muscular. There were slaves in the barracks but their service served the warlord, they pampered no-one. Barracks slaves shouted, they argued, they laughed at the warriors, they knew their value and were not afraid. The air here stank of horse shit, of sheep pish, of smoky fires and heated iron, of butchered goats and roasting fowls. Music was made by hammers on anvils, by the chanting of warriors as they danced their hotas , the rattle of chariot wheels as the horses trotted by. This was a real place, the palace was a rancid dream, life in it rotted by not enough strife.

She felt herself smile. There will be strife enough to please me now, even in that stupid palace. The god has made me its warleader. Every snakeblade in Mijak is mine.

She rode to the stables and gave the red mare to one slave, sent another to find Arakun shell-leader. He came to her running and pressed his fist to his breast.

“Hekat knife-dancer. How is Raklion? He brought us the warriors of those fallen warlords, he did not stay for sacrifice. Nagarak led him away. He looked—” Arakun swallowed. “Weary.”

The stables were bustling, they always bustled. She jerked her chin and led Arakun outside, to some empty shadows behind a blacksmith’s forge.

“He is weary, Arakun, and more than that,” she said, her voice soft. “Wicked Banotaj tried to slay him. I killed that sinning warlord, his flesh rots in the sun. Nagarak heals Raklion in the godhouse, he will be himself again. Until he rides among us I speak with his voice.”

Arakun’s slanted grey eyes widened. “Aieee! Hekat knife-dancer!”

“No longer, Arakun. I am Hekat warleader. Hanochek is banished, you will never see him again.”

“ Banished?” said Arakun. “Because of Zandakar?”

She frowned. “Because of many things. It is a lesson. No man is mightier than the god.”

Still Arakun was staring. “You are the warleader . . .”

“And I speak with the warlord’s voice. I say to you, shell-leader, summon every warrior to the warhost field. Have the warriors of those fallen warlords taken there under close guard.”

His fist thumped his breast, he seemed almost overcome. “Warleader.”

He turned to leave her, on impulse she stopped him. “Arakun!”

“Warleader?”

“Zandakar’s dead pony. Was its hide stripped for tanning?”

Arakun looked puzzled. “I think so, warleader.”

“I want that hide given to the barracks seamsters. I want it swiftly made into leggings for my son.”

“Yes, warleader. I will take the hide to them myself.”

She bared her teeth at him. “That was my meaning,” she told him, still softly, and laughed in her heart at the fear in his eyes.

Ram-horns were sounded throughout the barracks, the warhost assembled on the warhost field. Hekat stood on the warlord’s dais and waited for the last warrior to arrive. The sixty warriors serving those fallen warlords came last of all, chivvied before her by Arakun and some spear-throwers. They stood uncertain in their plain tunics and leggings, their sigiled breastplates were taken from them, they were slaves without masters. Men and women, they needed a leader.

Hekat considered them. I am your leader. I am your master. From this moment forward you will serve me .

Then she looked at her warhost. “Warriors, it is I! Hekat knife-dancer, mated to Raklion. Zandakar’s mother and Bajadek’s doom. Raklion was wounded by wicked Banotaj, he recovers in the godhouse, in the god’s healing eye. Until he returns my voice is his voice. I speak with his tongue. His tongue says I am your warleader. Hanochek is gone. Banotaj is dead by my hand, the other warlords are thrown down. The god has spoken in the Heart of Mijak. Raklion is its chosen man. Raklion is now the warlord of Mijak. Where the sun shines in Mijak, he is Mijak’s warlord. Where the rain falls on the ground, he rules over all.”

In the humming silence, one fallen warlord’s warrior broke free. “ Lies !” he cried, waving his fists in fury. “I have a warlord, his name is Takona. Raklion is nothing, I spit on his name!”

Smiling fiercely, Hekat leapt from the dais. She killed the warrior, danced her snakeblade through his heart. He fell at her feet, his blood on the outside, his eyes were empty as they stared at the sky.

“Now you are nothing,” she told his corpse. “You are in hell.” She looked at the others. “Who wishes to join him?”

Not one of them answered. There was whispering in her gathered warhost. Some of her warriors even laughed. She did not chastise them, they were pure in her eyes.

She said to the fallen warlords’ warriors, “The god has spoken. Mijak has one warhost, one warleader. Hekat . You will serve it, warriors. You will serve me. If you refuse I will give your godsparks to demons. You will join this stupid man in hell. Arakun !”

“Warleader!” said Arakun. He was not stupid.

“Take them away, keep them under guard. They will be assigned to their own shells, in the god’s time.”

Arakun nodded, he summoned the spear-throwers. They herded the chastened warriors away.

She turned her back on them, and looked at her warhost. The faces that were close enough to see belonged to warriors she knew, had trained, had fought with. She had no friends among them, but they were still familiar. She saw confusion, uncertainty, doubt and fear.

She raised her hands to them, the god was in her voice. It was in her scorpion amulet, heavy round her neck. “Do not be concerned, brave warriors of Et-Raklion. Warriors of Mijak. You are the god’s chosen, it has chosen you. It sees you in its admiring eye, it knows there are no greater warriors under Mijak’s burning sun. You will lead Mijak’s warhost, the other warhosts will kneel at your feet. The god has blessed me, to make me your warleader. I would lead no other warhost, you are precious in my eye!”

Her carrying voice freed them from silence. If they thought of Hanochek, they did not say his name. They surged towards her with their arms outstretched.

“Hekat! Hekat! The god sees Hekat! Raklion’s warleader, Zandakar’s mother! Bajadek’s doom and the doom of his son!”

She let them surround her, crowd her, touch her. She greeted them kindly, they were hers to kiss or kill.

Aieee, Zandakar, my son, my son. See the gift I have to give you. See how I love you, all these warriors are yours.

S
o. Vortka. You are returned from the wilderness a tested godspeaker.” Nagarak’s fingers drummed his stone desk. “In a time of upheaval, the god sees you in its eye.”

Vortka’s hands were clasped behind him, he felt his knuckles crack. The high godspeaker had summoned him after lowsun sacrifice, he had stood waiting outside the high godspeaker’s chamber for a finger, maybe more. The standing was a punishment, he knew that. He had expected it, and was resigned. Nagarak was not happy he had been waiting at the Warriors’ Gate.

He nodded. “Yes, high godspeaker.”

Nagarak sat back, his eyes were half-lidded. He blinked like a sandcat, slow and dangerous. “I am told you were present when the warlord’s son was injured.”

Of course someone had told him. He had not said so himself, there had been no time. Nagarak had dismissed him to the godhouse after the briefest of explanations on the road. “Yes, high godspeaker.”

“What were you doing in the barracks, Vortka? You are not a barracks godspeaker. I am told you were assigned to the library until my return from the Heart of Mijak.”

“I was ill, high godspeaker. I—”

“A fever,” said Nagarak. “Yes. I am told. The healers say it was a strange fever. It came on you suddenly and no other godspeaker was afflicted. Can you explain that?”

No. He could not. Feverish maladies were common in Mijak, a legacy from the distant past, but they claimed many victims. Not just one. He had his suspicions, he would not voice them to Nagarak.

I can hardly bear to voice them to myself.

He said, “Forgive me, high godspeaker. I am at a loss to understand it.”

“It is known, Vortka godspeaker, that a demon in the flesh brings with it strange fevers.”

Vortka felt himself go cold. “You think I am demonstruck ?”

Nagarak pretended he did not hear the question. “So. Vortka godspeaker. You were in the barracks because you had been ill.”

“I was walking, high godspeaker,” he croaked. “Regaining my strength. Sidik godspeaker said I should. It is peaceful in the barracks, where the warriors are not training. It is a pleasant place to walk with the god.”

Nagarak’s eyebrows lifted. “And you walked there when the warlord’s son fell from his pony. When the animal lost its footing, I am told, and crashed to the ground.”

He nodded, his mouth dry. “Yes, high godspeaker.”

“Is it not a wonder the pony did not fall on Zandakar and crush him to death.”

Aieee, a great wonder. When he closed his eyes to sleep in the godhouse, that dreadful moment rose to torment him. Zandakar galloping, laughing, his godbraids flying with his joy. Hanochek watching, encouraging, shouting. A falter, a mis-step, and the pony was twisting, falling, its hindquarters flailing, its neck snapping like wood. And Zandakar, vulnerable Zandakar, tossed from his saddle and into the air, striking the hard ground and screaming his pain.

Repressing a shudder, he made himself meet Nagarak’s piercing, lidded stare. “Yes, high godspeaker. The god sees Zandakar in its eye. It kept him safe.”

Nagarak sat forward. “Your godchosen sacrifice knife, Vortka. Show it to me.”

His true knife was hidden in the trunk of a half-dead tree in the godhouse shrine garden. It was the only safe place he’d been able to think of, no tree was cut down in the godhouse, not until it was fully dead. He gave Nagarak the other knife, the one he had chosen without the god’s guidance, and waited as the high godspeaker held it before his eyes.

The god has kept my secret safe, Peklia has not told him of that other knife. If Nagarak knew of it I would be on the scorpion wheel, screaming. The god will protect me now, be still.

“Your hand,” said Nagarak.

Vortka held out his hand. Nagarak seized it and sliced the knife’s blade through his palm. Blood welled, pain blazed. Nagarak dropped the knife to his desk and dragged his fingers through the thick red blood. Then he raised them to his lips and sucked.

Vortka watched light-headed as Nagarak tested him. “Your blood is clean. I taste no demon-taint in you,” the high godspeaker said at last. He sounded grudging. Disappointed.

Vortka released the air from his lungs and willed his knees not to give way. “High godspeaker.”

Nagarak took out his godstone and healed the deep cut he had made. Then he handed back the sacrificial knife. “I do not like that you were there when the warlord’s son fell from his pony. I do not like that you waited at the Warriors’ Gate for the warlord to return from Mijak’s Heart. I do not like that you are afflicted with strange fevers. Before you went into the wilderness I told you, Vortka: you are not humble, there are secrets in your heart. I told you I would pluck them out.”

“Yes, high godspeaker,” he whispered.

Nagarak sat back again, his expression disgruntled. “You are tested in the wilderness, the god has seen you in its eye. You are tested in this godhouse, I have tasted your blood and it is clean. It makes no difference, I do not trust you .”

He almost protested, he bit his tongue to blood. One ill-considered word and Nagarak would smite him to pieces. Aieee, god. If I am sent away now . . . whisper in his heart, god. Do not let him send me away!

Dropping to his knees before Nagarak’s stone desk he said, “If that is true, high godspeaker, I have failed you. I beg your forgiveness. I swear to you I serve the god, the god dwells in my heart, I feel its presence. I believe the god guided my feet to the barracks horse-field. I waited with Zandakar as Hanochek warleader ran for help, I staunched Zandakar’s bleeding wound, I kept him calm and quiet until the healers came.”

In his dreams he still heard his son, weeping, heard him call for his mother, heard his piteous moans of pain. The sounds woke him, sweating, as he woke he heard his own voice, saying again what he’d said then: Hush, Zandakar. Hush, little warlord. Vortka is with you. Do not be afraid .

Nagarak slammed his fist to his desk. “You are arrogant, Vortka! You do not presume to say what the god has done! That is my purpose, I am high godspeaker.”

Vortka bowed his head. “Yes, high godspeaker.”

“You are godseen and tested, you are here to serve the god.” Nagarak stood, he loomed over his desk. “You will not serve it far from my sight. You will present yourself to Hadrik godspeaker, he is in charge of the godspeakers who walk Et-Raklion in the quiet time. Every night until I say the god desires your different service, you will walk the city’s streets, you will smite any sinner who dares violate the god’s peace. If you are not walking the streets you will remain in the godhouse. You will not set foot in the barracks again. You will not see Zandakar in your eye. You will not speak with the warleader, Hekat’s voice is forbidden to you.”

He felt a jolt of shock. Hekat was the warleader? What had happened to Hanochek? Had she killed him in her rage?

The fault was not his, Hekat. God, let her not have killed him.

“Lift your head, Vortka! Look into my face!” commanded Nagarak. “Do you hear my words? Do you hear them in your heart?”

Beneath his worry for Hanochek seethed a harsh relief. I will stay, I will stay. He does not banish me. Thank you, god . He looked up. “Yes, high godspeaker. I hear your words in my heart. In the god’s eye I swear to you, I am its true and honest servant.”

Nagarak smiled, it was a smile filled with rage. “Your mouth dribbles sweet words, do not think I am swayed. If you disobey even one of these commands, Vortka, the god will throw you down in the dirt. It will destroy you. I will destroy you. I am the god’s smiting hand in the world.”

Vortka nodded. “Yes, high godspeaker. I hear your commands, I will obey them. I serve the god.”

“See that you do. I will be watching,” said Nagarak. “Go now. You begin your service on Et-Raklion’s streets after lowsun sacrifice.”

Sweating beneath his godspeaker robe, Vortka escaped the high godspeaker’s impotent fury. He presented himself to Hadrik godspeaker, who expected him. Hadrik gave him a godstaff, for the smiting of sinners abroad in the quiet time, and left him alone with tablets that explained all he must know of sins, and sinners, and how to smite them for the god. When the godbells rang he went to lowsun sacrifice, and after that ate soup and flat bread in the godhouse kitchen. It was three more fingers until the quiet time, he returned to Hadrik to be tested on his understanding. Hadrik pronounced him competent enough. He took his godstaff and walked the almost empty Pinnacle Road down to the city.

As he neared the barracks he saw a familiar figure walking towards him in the godmoon’s half-light.

Aieee. Hekat. She said she would find me . . .

She saw him. She stopped. She said, “We must talk together, Vortka.”

He cast an anguished look up and down the road but, for the moment at least, they were alone. “Hekat, we cannot,” he whispered, as though Nagarak might hear him. “The high godspeaker forbids me your company, I will be thrown down if I disobey.”

“Nagarak forbids you?” she said, disgusted. “Tcha! What is Nagarak to us, the god sees us in its eye.”

“Hekat. I cannot thwart the high godspeaker. I serve in his godhouse, I answer to him. He tested me for demon-taint , he knows I hide something. I must take care, would you have me discovered?”

She folded her arms, she still wore her dusty linen tunic. “Nagarak knows nothing, he is a stupid man.”

Aieee, she was stubborn, she thought no man could touch her. “You have seen Zandakar?”

“I have seen him.”

He smiled, he could not help it. “I told you he was healed, and whole.”

“Yes. You told me.” In the half-strength moonlight her face was cold and hard. After a moment, it softened slightly. “You are very thin. Have you been ill?”

“A fever. I am better. Hekat,” he said, though he was foolish to keep on talking, “what has happened to Hanochek?”

Her teeth shone, she was smiling. Vortka felt his flesh crawl. “Hanochek is an unknown man. Never speak his name again.”

Unknown? What was that, some obscure warrior ritual? “Hanochek lives? You did not kill him?”

“You think I should have killed him?” She pulled a face. “Vortka, I wanted to.”

“No! I am glad he lives! What happened to Zandakar was not Hanochek’s—”

“ Do not defend him!” She had her fingers on her snakeblade, her fury was so fierce he thought it might scorch him. “Or I will smite you, there will be no need for Nagarak!”

“I am sorry,” he said, stepping back. “I will not speak of him again.”

She took a deep breath and leashed her temper. “The large crystal, Vortka. The one you buried beyond the city. Did you fetch it while I was gone to Mijak’s Heart? Is it hidden in my palace garden?”

“No,” he said. “I—”

“ No ?” she echoed, and her rage again unleashed. “Did I not tell you—”

“It was not safe!” he protested. “I retrieved it from the woods but I did not dare risk the palace. Hekat, I do not walk in the god’s eye as easily as you. Only with you do I trust myself fully hidden. The crystal is buried in the godhouse shrine garden, no demon can touch it there. And Nagarak says he desires me within his reach, only the god knows if or when he will send me from Et-Raklion. I will guard the crystal, Hekat. I will keep it safe for Zandakar.”

She released a hard breath. “You are the god’s chosen. If you say it is safe I must believe you.” Her hand brushed her breast beneath its covering of linen, and some memory shifted behind her eyes. “But if Nagarak should decide to send you from his godhouse—”

“Yes. Then I will make sure it is left in your safekeeping. I promise, Hekat. I want that weapon for Zandakar as much as you do.”

“ Zandakar . . .” she whispered. “Aieee, Vortka. He nearly died.”

There were tears in her voice, he would not say so. “I know,” he said. “But he did not.”

She nodded slowly, her face was so troubled. “No. He did not.”

He longed to hold her. Comfort her. Kiss her. I cannot touch her. She would not let me . He said, “Tell me quickly, what happened at Mijak’s Heart? What happened to the warlord, did the god smite him?”

“No, of course not. Stupid Vortka. The god has thrown down those sinning warlords, they knelt before me on the ground.”

“But Raklion—”

“Was injured, he is not dead. He will see Mijak united, he will make of it a gift for my son. That is his purpose, he is not finished yet.”

She had fed his curiosity, not sated it. There was no time to ask her more. No time to ask her about his strange fever. Do I really want to? I did not die, do I need to know more? I do not think so. My fever is passed, let it stay behind me .

He was being a coward, he knew it, he did not care. If the god wanted him to know more, the god would tell him. I will leave that decision to the god . He looked towards the distant godhouse, shadowy figures were approaching. “Hekat, I must go, I am expected in the city. I am tasked to keep the god’s peace in the quiet time. I do not know when or how we will speak again. I have told you Nagarak’s edict, I must obey him. To disobey the high godspeaker is unwise, and unsafe.”

“Yes. Go,” she said. She seemed distracted, her eyes were still troubled. “You are expected in the city, I must see Raklion and consult with Nagarak. If the god desires us to speak again it will make that possible. The god see you, Vortka.”

“The god see you, Hekat.”

They walked swiftly away from each other. Despite his misgivings, he tried not to care.

“Well, Nagarak?” said Raklion faintly. “Does the god say I will recover my strength?”

Nagarak looked up from the healing chamber’s red-spattered altar, where he read the omens in a dead dove’s blood. After his confrontation with sinful Hanochek, Raklion had all but collapsed. He had been so weak a healing had been too much for him, he was put to bed and allowed to sleep for a time. Woken now, with some vitality restored, he had tolerated his high godspeaker’s godstone and the god’s power pouring into his faltering flesh. Nagarak was relieved, he had never seen Raklion laid so low.

He said, “The knife struck you deeply, warlord, in many vital places. You will recover, but not completely. Your strength will never fully return. You are Mijak’s warlord, that is your purpose, you must live carefully if you would live long.”