The Godspeaker Trilogy (41 page)

“ Tcha !” said Hekat, she spat upon him. “How well do I know the savage north! Goat men, lizard men, men who are blinded to the god. If those men fight for you, Hano, you are dead in my eye!”

Hanochek ignored her, to him she did not breathe. “Zanda, little Zanda, not only warriors from the savage north fight for me in Raklion’s name. Others have joined me, from all over Mijak. Throughout this brown land there are men and women who do not worship your Empress, they remember their dead or thrown-down warlords and their slain high godspeakers. They chafe for release from their cruel Et-Raklion chains. For season after season I have worked, I have waited, I have drawn these people to me, I have promised them relief. They want their freedom, I will give them you ! In the god’s nameless name I beg you, Zandakar, do not cross the Sand River. It will be your undoing. Stay here, in Mijak. Save your people from hell.”

Shaking his head, Zandakar backed his stallion two more paces. “Your heart is eaten by demons, Hano. You are deaf to the god, you are blind in its eye.”

“I know this is difficult, I know my words hurt you,” said Hano, still weeping. “I am sorry for it, I hurt you for love. Turn your back on this Empress, Zanda, throw down your mother so Mijak might live. The god requires it, Mijak will die if you do not throw her down.”

Who was this man, this demoncrazed jabberer who wore the face of a loved, dead friend? “I will never do that, I will never turn against the Empress. Hano, this is madness.” Zandakar shook his head. “If you are truly a warleader do not spend your warriors’ lives for nothing . You cannot defeat us. Your rebellion is finished.”

Hano’s wet eyes opened wide. “Not if you join me! If you join me, Zanda, the victory will be ours. Mijak’s warhost will follow you, it will follow Raklion’s son.”

Helpless, Zandakar glanced at his mother. Her face was peaceful, Hano’s death was in her eyes. “Stupid Hanochek,” she said, her voice was a knife. “You think you can cajole Zandakar from my side? You think he will turn on me, his Empress, his mother? The savage north has rotted your brain. You knew Raklion all his life, he did not choose you over me. And now you think to steal my son ?”

“Zandakar!” cried Hano, and kicked his horse close. “You cannot follow her, she did not love your father, she cursed him with demons, Zanda, she ruined Raklion. Jokriel’s godspeakers tell me she fucked outside his bed, she—”

Before he could strike the man for his wicked lies, the Empress his mother screamed and threw herself on Hano. Her snakeblade was unsheathed, her godbraids were flying, she leapt from her mare’s back as though she were a lithe girl of twelve. Her knife flashed in the red newsun, it plunged into Hanochek, her arms were around him, they crashed to the ground.

As though it were a signal, Hanochek’s ragged warhost attacked. Howling, screaming, they galloped forward from a standstill, makeshift weapons above their heads. The god’s warhost responded, five thousand warriors on Et-Raklion’s best horses, surging on a roar of righteous fury towards Hano’s rebels. Arrows whistled through the air overhead, some struck the hard earth and stuck there, quivering. Others found living targets, four enemy horses cartwheeled to the ground, crushing their riders to death beneath them.

On the plain at Zandakar’s feet, demonstruck Hanochek and Mijak’s Empress tangled together in a desperate embrace, grunting, shouting, rolling over and over on the blood-slicked dry grass. Both of them were panting, both of them flailing, both of them striking with their blades.

Aieee, god, protect my mother! She will kill me if I interfere!

He wrenched his fretting stallion round on its haunches, his galloping warhost was almost upon them, Hanochek’s rebels were heartbeats away.

Forgive me, Yuma! I cannot see you killed !

He slid from his stallion, his gloved hammer hand holding fast to the reins, his other hand reaching— reaching—

As his fingers brushed his mother’s bloody shoulder she gave a shout of wild triumph and sank her knife hard between Hano’s ribs. Hanochek screamed, his eyes wide and staring. His mother rolled off him, she was covered in blood.

Zandakar hauled her barely conscious from the slick grass, he flung her facedown across his stallion, then vaulted behind her and looked down at Hanochek.

“You stupid man, you demonstruck sinner! The Empress has killed you. Hano, you are dead !”

“Zandakar—” Hano’s voice was a moan, almost lost in the thunder of oncoming hooves. “She is evil . . . evil . . . you must destroy her . . .”

His mother’s blood stained his stallion red. He wheeled away from Hanochek— Hano, I loved you, how could you, how could you —and galloped for Vortka as the opposing warhosts clashed in battle.

Behind him he heard Hano’s despairing, choked scream, as the first of the god’s warriors trampled him to pulp.

Hano . . . I loved you . . . I thought we were friends . . .

Blinded by tears he urged his stallion onwards, to the distant slow rise and the waiting, watching godspeakers. Vortka ran to meet him, helped Hekat from the horse. Her plain linen tunic glistened wet, bright red. Zandakar flung himself beside her, he caught up her hand.

“Yuma— Yuma —”

Her beautiful scarred face was masked with blood. She opened her eyes and frowned. “Wicked boy,” she whispered, her voice was a thread. “You have abandoned your warhost. What warlord does that, you must lead them, you must fight.”

On the plain below them shouts and knife-clashes, howls of men and horses, screaming. His beloved warriors were fighting, dying, his mother was right, he should be fighting beside them—

“ Go ,” said Vortka, looking up as he and his godspeakers worked furiously with their godstones to staunch her pumping blood. “The god sees the Empress, it will not let her die.”

Zandakar nodded, he released his mother’s hand. It fell to the grass like a dying bird. Fighting grief and weakness he stood and turned away from her, reaching for his stallion’s reins.

“ Zandakar . . .”

He turned back, she would scold him now for weeping. “Are you my son, Zandakar? I think that you are.” Her eyes were shining, with love and rage. “I think you will smite that sinning Jokriel city. I think you will smite its people to hell .”

She did not scold him . “I will,” he promised. “Empress, I will.”

She did not reply. Her voice had faded to silence, he could not see her ribcage lift, her hands were still, she did not see him.

“Empress! Yuma !”

“You heard her, Zandakar!” Vortka’s face was terrible. “You are the warlord, obey her command!”

He leapt on his stallion and galloped to the battle, unsheathing his snakeblade as he rode. He entered the bloodbath with his mouth wide, screaming. Hanochek’s warhost was no match for his. Hano had been demonstruck to pit them against him.

How long he fought for he never knew, after. He knew he was wounded, he knew he was bloody, he knew every rebel he met died by his hand. In every direction there were warriors dying, some were his own men, most were not. When nearly all of Hano’s warhost was defeated, slaughtered and sundered and strewn upon the ground, he signaled his warhost to fall back to safety. He confronted Hano’s survivors with their deaths in his eye.

The god’s hammer struck them, its power ignited them, beneath the high blue sky their flesh was consumed. When the last of Hanochek’s rebels were dead, were nothing, he rode with his warhost to sinning Jokriel city. He rode in dreadful silence, his mother, his Yuma, so wounded behind him. He had failed to protect her, he would not fail her now.

The sinning people of Jokriel city saw him coming. Some hid in the shadows, others hid behind doors. He saw their faces in windows, he saw them cowering behind pillars, he saw wicked men and their women, he saw their sinful sons.

At the entrance to the city, where its gates had once stood, he halted his stallion, he halted his warhost, he bent his cold gaze upon doomed Jokriel. In his leather-clad breast his heart was a hammer, it tolled like a godbell, it echoed his grief.

Yuma . . . Yuma . . .

Grief became rage, tears turned to flame, the god’s furious power built in his bones. His gold-and-crystal weapon shimmered into life. He raised his arm, he clenched his fist.

“Behold, you sinners of Jokriel! I am Zandakar warlord, son of the Empress! Warlord of Mijak in the god’s eye! This city is judged and condemned, it is given to demons, it must not stand beneath the sun!”

In the early cool stillness, his voice carried cleanly. Jokriel city’s people heard it, they cried out in alarm, they huddled together or else tried to flee. Zandakar watched them, he felt no pity. They had turned on the Empress. His mother, his Yuma. They had sinned with demons. They did not deserve to live. With his eyes wide open he summoned his power, he sent blue-white fire in streams against the city. As the god’s wrath burst from his body, his warhost cried out.

“ Zandakar! Zandakar! Zandakar warlord! Son of the Empress, in the god’s eye!”

The nearest buildings blew apart. The empty sky rained stone splinters and ragged chunks of rock. The air filled with smoke, with the stench of death. Screams of the godforsaken rang in his ears. Controlling his stallion, riding forward, he called upon the power again. More buildings shattered, more sinners perished. More blood ran like water in the streets.

He laughed to see it. He wanted more.

As he laid Jokriel city low with his smiting hand, as he reduced it to rubble, to a charnel house, to memory, he shouted and shouted and shouted out loud:

“ For the Empress! For Hekat! For the god in the world!”

T
he god was appeased by Jokriel city’s smiting. Hekat did not die of her many wounds, Vortka high godspeaker and his healers saved her. After Hanochek and his rebels’ destruction, warriors were sent to the nearest village, they returned with a cart that might carry her home to Et-Raklion. Zandakar drove it himself, Vortka rode in the back with the wounded Empress.

Hanochek’s demonstruck rebellion was thwarted, yet it was a slow and sorrowful journey home. Not one warrior among them had believed the Empress was mortal .

Et-Raklion city greeted them with sacrifice and amulets and coins of bronze and gold; by that time Hekat could sit on a horse. A warrior was sent ahead to warn Vortka’s godspeakers, the godtheater was filled, Et-Raklion’s people cheered their return. Hekat sat on her scorpion throne, only Zandakar beside her could see what that cost.

It broke his heart, he wept on the inside.

Afterwards Vortka took her to the godhouse, where she might receive more healing and regain her lost strength. Zandakar distracted himself with his warhost business, soon they would ride from Mijak across the Sand River. Into the unknown world, full of demons. It was a daunting thought, he tried not to think of it. He lived in the barracks, and hardly saw Dmitrak.

A godmoon after riding triumphant through the gates of Et-Raklion city, Vortka sent for him from the godhouse. He answered the summons at once, running hard up the Pinnacle Road. Despite the whisper in his heart, he prayed and prayed with every stride.

Do not let it be Yuma, god. Let it not be bad news.

“There is no use in softening the blow, Zandakar,” the high godspeaker said, standing before the altar in his private chamber. “The Empress is stricken. She lives, she will not die, but only if she remains in Et-Raklion. Hanochek’s wounding of her, together with the hurts she suffered when birthing Dmitrak, they have stolen her strength, Zandakar. I cannot reclaim it. She cannot ride with the warhost. She must stay behind, it is the god’s changed desire.”

Zandakar nodded. Hadn’t he known this? Hadn’t he felt this shadow on his skin? He looked away. A moment later, Vortka’s consoling hand came to rest on his shoulder.

“This is the god’s want. I have lived three highsuns in the Divination chamber, I have read more omens in that short time than in my previous seasons as Mijak’s high godspeaker. I am not mistaken, the god’s voice shouts.”

“I do not doubt you, Vortka,” he said. “The god is the god, it will have its way. Does the Empress know?”

Vortka nodded. “Yes. I have told her.”

A shiver of apprehension touched him. “How did she receive the news?”

“She attempted to smite me with it,” said Vortka dryly. “Your mother is a fighting woman.”

Despite his pain, Zandakar laughed. Vortka laughed with him, it was a kind moment. “The god knows she is.” He could not keep smiling. “Aieee, it is a cruel thing. Did the god tell you, Vortka, why its desire changed?”

“No. The god does not share with us all of its mysteries. Zandakar, she wishes to see you.”

“Then, high godspeaker, I must go.”

“Zandakar—”

He looked back, half a step from the chamber door. “High godspeaker?”

Vortka’s face was concerned, his dark eyes cautious. “We have not spoken of Jokriel city.”

No. They had not. Hekat had consumed them on the hard ride home, and besides, he was not ready.

I am not ready now.

“That city’s destruction was the god’s desire, Zandakar,” said Vortka firmly. “It could not have fallen were it not the god’s will.”

It could not have fallen without me, Vortka. Without me, the god’s hammer, that city would still stand . He said, “Yes. I know that.”

Vortka came a little closer. “And yet you grieve, I think.”

Yes. With his rage burned away, and his mother still living, there was room for some grief in his heart. In his heart were the memories of all those dead people. Many charred to cinders, many more crushed beneath stone. Poor smitten city, reduced to rubble and ruin. He made himself look into Vortka’s eyes. “Am I stupid, high godspeaker? I am the god’s hammer. Hammers are bone and iron, they do not grieve.”

He had never before told Vortka a lie.

Vortka smiled. He said, “The wicked in that city are gone to hell where they belong. The innocents who died there, if there were innocents, they are with the god. Let that be your comfort, Zandakar, when your dreams are dark.”

Aieee, Vortka. How well you know me . “High godspeaker,” he said, and pressed his fist to his heart.

He left the high godspeaker and went to his mother, in the healing chamber that had become her home. She laughed to see him, her face was so thin, beneath her laughter he could see anger, and anguish.

He sat beside her on the healing couch, he kissed her fingers and held her hands. “Vortka has told me. Yuma, I am sorry.”

She was rarely moved to softness, she tossed her head and looked away. “Tcha! He is stupid, that Vortka, he fusses and fidgets. Much more of this nonsense I will ask the god for a new high godspeaker!”

“Yuma . . . you do not mean that.”

“No,” she sighed. “I do not.” Her water-sheened eyes looked around the chamber. “Raklion rested here, after Banotaj’s smiting of him in Mijak’s Heart. He never truly recovered.” Her face twisted. “But I am not Raklion, an old man of many seasons. I would not be here if I had been whole to begin with.”

Of course. She blamed Dmitrak. She always blamed Dmitrak. “Yuma, I know the god’s want disappoints you, but Dimmi—”

She pulled her hands away. “It is the truth, Zandakar, I will not hear you deny it! That brat spoiled my body, he has thwarted my plans!”

He took a deep breath, he let it out slowly. “Your plans, Empress, but not the god’s.”

She almost struck him, he felt her whole body tense. He was a man now, he did not flinch. After a moment, the urge to violence left her. She settled on her pillows and folded her arms. “I have decided you will take him with you.”

Astonished, he stared at her. “Across the Sand River? Into the world and the godless lands? Yuma, how can I? You said it with your own tongue, Dimmi is a child .”

She would not look at him. “Tcha! You said he is growing fast, you said he will be a mighty warrior. Where best to become that than with you and my warhost?”

“Yuma . . .” He shook his head, his godbells chimed dismay. “I do not think this a wise decision. If I should fall beyond the Sand River, Dmitrak must be warlord after me. If I should fall, he might be in danger. He—”

“ You will not fall !” His mother’s eyes blazed with fury. “It is a sin to say such a thing, you doubt the god with those words, do you think yourself too old for tasking? I will send for Vortka, he will bind you to the scorpion wheel, he will—” She broke off, coughing, wheezing for air.

Alarmed, he reached for her, she pushed him away. “Aieee, Zandakar, you disappoint me!”

Her words were a snakeblade, slid between his ribs. “ No , Yuma, I—”

Her clenched fists beat against her laboring chest. “That demon Hanochek, from hell he thwarts me! From hell he conspires with Nagarak to thwart me. I cannot remain here, I am Hekat, the Empress, godtouched and precious, I must ride to the world!”

Nagarak? She was raving, overcome by her infirmity. This time, when he reached for her, she did not push him away. She fell against his shoulder, for the first time in his life he heard her weep. Appalled, he held her, like a child he rocked her, she wept like a baby.

His world was undone.

“Zandakar,” said Vortka’s soft voice beside him. He looked up, taken unawares, he could barely see the high godspeaker for his tears. “She is overwrought, let me soothe her. You are needed in the barracks, you and the warhost must ride soon.”

He did not release her. “She wants me to take Dmitrak with me. Vortka, he—”

“I know,” said Vortka. “And I think he should go. He will pine without you. Zandakar, you must know you are more than his brother, you are the father he never knew. He needs your guidance. He needs to be with you. And your mother . . .” Vortka sighed. “To see him and not you, it will cause her great pain. It will hurt him, too. You ride with your warhost, you ride in the god’s eye. How can harm come to him, Zandakar, or to you?”

That was true, he could not deny it. He was the god’s hammer, it would not let him fall.

But Yuma is the Empress, and now she weeps in my arms.

“Zandakar,” said Vortka, so gently. “The god chooses its instruments, it uses them until it does not. We have no say in when we will be used, and when we will be put aside. We obey the god’s want, we live our lives in obedience. That is our purpose, Zandakar. Content yourself with that. Hekat has served, it is your turn now.”

Do I have a choice? I think I do not . “Yes, high godspeaker,” he said, and eased himself free of his mother so Vortka might take his place beside her on the couch. “If she calls for me again, I will be in the barracks.”

Vortka nodded, he did not reply. For a moment Zandakar watched them. The high godspeaker held his mother tenderly, he smoothed her silent godbraids, he pressed his palm to her scarred cheek. A new truth burst upon him, he felt it warm his bones.

Vortka loves her. He loves my mother. Why did I not see that, as I was growing up?

Softly he left them. As he reached the chamber door he heard his mother say, bewildered, “I am lost, Vortka. I am lost in the god’s eye. Why does it smite me, how have I sinned?”

“Hush,” Vortka told her, his voice was full of love. “You are not smitten, you have not sinned. This is the god’s mysterious will, we must learn it together. We will have time.”

Zandakar closed the door behind him.

He found Dimmi in the main barracks slaughter-pen, practicing with his slingshot on a huddle of sheep. The warhost consumed so much meat, so much ale and sadsa and fruit and grain, he lay awake at night worrying how he would feed them beyond Mijak’s border. He worried now, surrounded by his thousands of warriors, their horses, their equipment, their eagerness for war.

Worry is sin, the god will protect us. Trust in the god, it sees you in its eye.

“Zandakar!” cried his blood-spattered brother. “Look, I have killed fifty, see how skilled a warrior I am!”

Aieee, killed fifty, and maimed twenty others. Dimmi did not seem to notice that, or hear their pained bleats. Zandakar nodded to the watching slaughter-slaves, that they might leap into the pit and finish the job. Then he beckoned to his brother.

“Come with me. I have news.”

Eagerly Dmitrak clambered from the slaughter-pen. “What news, Zanda? What has happened?”

He slung an arm round his brother’s shoulders, they were closer to his now. He was growing fast. They walked through the blood-stinking air, through the noise and bustle of warrior business, towards the warlord’s lodge where more decisions and preparations were waiting. “I am come from the godhouse, Dmitrak. I have spoken with the Empress. You are to ride with the warhost, it is her decree.”

Dimmi stopped dead in the road, like a horse struck by an arrow. Incredulous, he stared up, hope and disbelief in his eyes. “The warhost, Zandakar? Beyond the Sand River? You are certain, she said so?”

He nodded. “She said so, and also Vortka high godspeaker. It is decided, little brother. You will ride with me.”

“Aieee-aieee- aieee !” shouted Dimmi, ecstatic. Throwing down his slingshot he threw himself into a hota —the falcon striking. He twisted and leapt, passing slaves and warriors scattered, laughing. He was not a graceful knife-dancer, but he could kill.

“This is your doing, I know it!” he shouted. “I thank you, Zandakar, I will love you forever!”

Zandakar smiled, he did not contradict him. Let Dmitrak think that, how could it hurt? Better to believe a small lie than to learn the harsh truth: he rode with the warhost because his mother despised him.

The warhost preparations continued. Released from the godhouse, resigned to the god’s will, Hekat slaved without mercy for Zandakar’s great purpose. Vortka withdrew to the Divination chamber, to learn which godspeakers must ride with Zandakar, and discover when precisely the god desired the warhost to ride. He trusted Peklia and the other senior godspeakers to administer Mijak in his absence. He knew they could be trusted, the god had told him so. They had been shocked by Jokriel city’s wicked betrayal, even now they worked to discover further demons in their midst. Every godspeaker in Mijak must be tested, every potential sinner rooted out. Only the godspeakers of Et-Raklion could be trusted until the last seducing demon was cast back to hell.

For himself, he felt Jokriel city’s fall to demons like a deep knife-wound. As high godspeaker he could not be tasked by another’s hand so he fasted relentlessly to punish his flesh, he deprived himself of sleep and small pleasures, he bent his heart upon the god.

If Jokriel city and Hanochek’s sinning are because I have failed you, god, I bare my godspark to your wrath. Send it to hell, if that is your desire.

The god did not kill him. Either he was forgiven or, for reasons he could not begin to understand, Jokriel city’s fall and Hekat’s resulting diminishment were indeed a part of its plan. The god spoke to him in sacrifice, as it always did. After two days of seeking, his questions were answered. He summoned Hekat and Zandakar and Dmitrak to attend him in the Divination chamber.

“I am given an omen,” he said, still bloody before the altar. “The warhost will ride five highsuns from now. Zandakar, you must be prepared for this sacred journey. Come to me at newsun. You will remain in the godhouse for three full days, you will be cleansed and tasked, you will swim in the godpool, you will hear the god.”

As Zandakar nodded, Dmitrak scowled. “Zandakar already hears the god, why must he be cleansed, why should the taskmasters task him? He is the god’s hammer, he lives in its eye. He needs no—”

“Hush, Dimmi,” said Zandakar, and put an arm around Dmitrak’s shoulders. “No man is perfect in the god’s eye. Vortka high godspeaker must attend my godspark, lest I fall into sinning unaware. This is the god’s desire, you must not question it.”