The Godspeaker Trilogy (18 page)

Pleased, Hanochek stood and pressed a fist to his heart. “Warlord, it will be done. How long should the shells remain in the wilderness?”

Raklion took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Send them out for three godmoons, Hano. That should be long enough for Drokar to fade. In that time let the knife-dancers live off the land, let them toughen their sinews and harden their bones. Three godmoons. No longer.”

Hano nodded. “It is the right decision, Raklion.”

“Yes. It is right.”

Right, but not easy. He smiled at Hano and watched him leave. His heart was heavy, it was a cruel thing to be a warlord.

God, keep her safe.

Hekat laughed when she learned she was to train in the wilderness. She was tired of the barracks and being stared at, of pretending to fight tamely on the knife-dance field. Warriors were born for battle, she was born for battle, she knew that now as she knew her own name. In battle she felt herself close to the god, its fury boiled within her, she burned with its power. Skirmishing along the Et-Banotaj border was as close to battle as they could get for the moment . . . and if the god was pleased with her, it might send her enemies to slay.

Send me enemies, god. I would worship you with my knife.

The night before her shell and Arakun’s were to leave for the wilderness they attended a great sacrifice on the warhost field. Vortka was one of the godspeakers present, when it was over they spoke swiftly, in shadows.

“Nobody in the godhouse knows about you and the Traders,” he whispered. “Not even Nagarak. Your secret is safe.”

“Of course it is safe,” she whispered back. “Nothing is known if the god wishes it unknown.”

He sighed at her sharply, he did not like it when she spoke for the god. “They say skirmishing is dangerous, Hekat. You should be careful in the wilderness.”

“I will be Hekat,” she retorted. “I am in the god’s eye, no harm can come to me.”

“So bold, so proud,” he said. “If I spoke like that I would be caned for two fingers without stopping!”

She shrugged. “You are a godspeaker, that is your life. I am a warrior, chosen by the god. No man dares cane me, any man who tried I would kiss him with my snakeblade.”

“Or smite him with your scorpion?” said Vortka, then looked sorry he’d mentioned it.

“No,” she said, fingers brushing her amulet. “That is not my business, that is for the god to say. You should not talk of my scorpion, Vortka. It would be better if you forgot it.”

“I wish I could!” he said. The whites of his eyes shone in the faint, distant firelight. “Hekat, did you know your scorpion and Nagarak’s are carved from the same stone? Black, with gold and crimson flecks. That is special stone, meant only for high godspeakers. How is your amulet made from it? Where did it come from?”

She did not want to tell him, that could make trouble she did not need. “I do not know. It was a gift.” A kind of truth, not quite a lie.

“Ah,” said Vortka. “Then perhaps the god smote the Traders for dealing in the sacred stone.”

There was no harm in letting him believe that. “Perhaps.”

“Well, never let Nagarak see it closely. He will recognize that stone, he will not be pleased.”

She did not care about Nagarak, she was in the god’s eye. “I must go, Vortka,” she said, as the rest of her shell-mates started drifting from the warhost field. “We are gone three godmoons. I will see you after that.”

She left him in the shadows, standing alone.

After next newsun’s sacrifice she rode out of the barracks with a godspeaker, her shell-leader Tajria and her shell-mates, and the other knife-dance shell led by Arakun. They rode away from the city and into Et-Raklion’s hungry wild wilderness. Hanochek warleader wished them well as they departed. Raklion warlord did not come down from his palace, Hanochek spoke for him.

It was not the same.

When at last they reached the wilderness along the border with Et-Banotaj they wasted no time, they skirmished every moment between newsun and lowsun sacrifices, in darkness and in light. They lived off the land, hunting game and wild birds. Barracks life became a memory, a dream half-forgotten.

Hekat danced joyfully with her snakeblade, listening to the god whisper in her heart. She never thought of Vortka, and paid scant attention to the other warriors. Her life was the god and knife-dancing. Nothing else mattered. They saw no sign of Et-Banotaj warriors, slain Bajadek’s son kept his teeth behind his lips. The days passed swiftly, Hekat did not count them. The godspeaker counted them, that was her task. One godmoon. Two godmoons. Three godmoons worth of days.

Then it was time to return to the city.

The godspeaker was a scrawny thing and would never make a knife-dancer, but she had a neat way with a sacrifice blade. As newsun’s pale light filtered through high and insubstantial cloud she cut out the last godhouse dove’s beating heart and pulped it between her fingers. Blood splattered on the black slate altar brought with her from Et-Raklion’s distant godhouse.

When the heart was wrung dry she pushed it into her mouth, then tossed the dead bird into the air. It caught fire and vanished in smoke; she chewed and chewed and chewed and swallowed, then hunkered down to read the god in the scattered dots of dove’s blood on the altar.

Kneeling silent with her fellow warriors, Hekat closed her eyes and let the growing light warm her face. She had come to love the wilderness, she would miss its open sky when they were once more in the barracks. Six warriors had fallen in their time of skirmishing here. They did not dance fast enough and the god blew out their godsparks. Their flesh was ash now, it was sealed into clay jars for the journey home. Two of those warriors had fallen to her snakeblade, she was not sorry. They had failed the god, they paid the price.

The godspeaker finished her divination and rose from her crouch. “The god says you have trained well, warriors. You may return with honor to Et-Raklion city.”

A ripple of released tension sighed through the other gathered warriors. Three godmoons in the wilderness was a long time. No bathing house, no comfortable camp-beds, no rich fat goat and lamb to eat, no wine or ale or sadsa for drinking, no godhouse vessels for the easing of lust. Blood and dirt and sore, pulled muscles, cracked bones, split flesh, hot days, cold nights and hard ground to sleep on, plain water and dry, stringy meat, that was training in the wilderness.

Hekat knew the other knife-dancers were glad their wilderness time was over. Even Tajria and Arakun shell-leaders were glad. She despised them for it. Soft pampered warriors could not serve the god. They should give it thanks for these three hard godmoons.

If I were in charge of them, I would make them give thanks. In your time, god, put me in charge of them. I will teach them what true service is.

Her divining completed, the godspeaker said, “The god desires we ride the border with Et-Banotaj for three fingers, then turn inwards and travel home through the Teeth.”

Tajria shell-leader stood and bowed. “We hear the god and obey its desires.” She clapped her hands. “On your feet, knife-dancers. We eat and break camp, no time to waste!”

Less than a finger later they left their desolate training ground, bound at last for Et-Raklion city.

The open country along the border had little use beyond being a space that was not Et-Banotaj. The feral goats and stunted cattle they hunted for food roamed there, descendants of beasts escaped from holdings further inland where the grass grew green. Shy, elusive, they haunted the sparse waterholes and hid themselves in the spindly undergrowth as the knife-dancers and the godspeaker’s mule-cart clattered by.

The god’s desire that they ride the border a distance before turning towards Et-Raklion on its surface made no sense, but of course they did not question. It wasn’t until they were half a finger from turning inland again to traverse the Teeth that Hekat felt a sudden stirring, a tickle in the back of her mind she had come to recognize was a prompting from the god.

Moments later they crested a rise and met with a band of raiding warriors, crossed over the border to steal Raklion warlord’s goats and cattle. Some were warriors of Et-Banotaj, others wore the lizard-mark of Et-Takona and the horse-head badge of Et-Zyden. Hekat guessed there were perhaps fifty of them. Now became clear the godspeaker’s divining. Now the god’s purpose was revealed.

“Aieee-aieee-aieee!” she howled, and plunged with the others into attack. The raided goats and cattle fled, the warriors from Et-Banotaj and Et-Takona and Et-Zyden spun their horses and tried to escape.

After three godmoons training, fighting in earnest was a potent release. Hekat, laughing, hamstrung Et-Banotaj horses and their riders, slit Et-Takona and Et-Zyden throats. It was close-quarters fighting, no arrows or slingshots, just bright flashing snakeblades drinking enemy blood. Demonspawn that they were for daring to cross the border into Et-Raklion and take what did not belong to them, the raiding warriors did not die meekly, they hacked and slashed Raklion warlord’s knife-dancers. Their sharp knives cut her, she did not feel the wounds. She was fighting for the god and Raklion warlord.

The hot air was shrill with shrieks and shouting, soaked in blood and smells of death. The godspeaker stood on the seat of her mule-cart, exhorting Raklion’s warriors at the top of her voice. They answered her with their sharp snakeblades, slaughtering the enemy and screaming Raklion’s name, they shook their godbraids even though in the wilderness they wore no godbells. It did not matter, godbells sang in their hearts.

When the last raiding warriors were dead and dying on the ground, Tajria slid from her horse and walked with Arakun shell-leader and the godspeaker among the fallen. She and Arakun slit the throats of their still-living enemies and, weeping, sent to the god five Et-Raklion warriors the godspeaker said could not be healed. Then they put down the horses too wounded for travel, all save one. No Et-Raklion horses had died in the battle, Hekat saw Tajria smile at that. Fajik horse-master would be pleased, and Hanochek warleader who doted on the beasts.

On Arakun’s signal ten knife-dancers skinned the dead horses, their hides would be cured for breeches and the barracks victory wall. Last of all Tajria stripped the leather breastplates from three dead enemy warriors so she might show Raklion warlord who had ridden against them. Her eyes were narrowed as she stared at those breastplates, the woodcat, the lizard, the fiery horse-head.

Hekat, watching, feeling at last the hot pain of her knife-wounds, did not blame Tajria shell-leader for that unhappy frown. In her heart she heard the god whisper, she saw dark shadows crawling beneath the sun.

This raid is a warning. Trouble stirs in Mijak, for Raklion warlord and for us all.

T
he thieving demonspawn warriors of Et-Banotaj, Et-Takona and Et-Zyden deserved no sanctified pyres, they did not fall in honorable battle. They were left for the crows with their skinned dead horses. Et-Raklion’s five dead were piled with the rolled hides into the godspeaker’s mule-cart for proper burning in the godhouse. They would reach the city late that night, the corpses would not rot before then.

Eight knife-dancers were wounded more than cuts and bruises. The godspeaker healed them enough for riding and they were tied to their horses, the reins handed over to another warrior so they could safely be led. Hekat bound her slashed arm and thigh with strips of linen torn from her spare tunic, she needed no healing. She dedicated her pain to the god, kissing the scorpion round her neck. Its power trembled, she breathed its glory.

Those knife-dancers closest to Et-Raklion’s fallen wept and cut their own flesh with their snakeblades. Hekat watched them grieve, unmoved. If they were dead it was their time, what use weeping and gnashing of teeth? Tajria and Arakun knelt with the godspeaker to thank the god for their victory. The godspeaker sacrificed the last injured horse, kept alive for that purpose. Then it was time to ride for the Teeth, and after that Et-Raklion city.

The Teeth were a series of craggy rises and sharp ravines separating Et-Raklion’s rich farming lands from its scarce-watered wilderness. Enormous care was required riding through them, a shouted voice could start rocks lethally sliding, a careless horse could break its leg. The knife-dancers and the godspeaker in her burdened mule-cart minded their manners as they trod lightly through them, they held their tongues, they barely breathed. The Teeth were dangerous, but it was their fastest way back to the city.

Highsun passed. Lowsun approached. The Teeth did not bite them, they climbed at last over their sharp dry lip into the fat green pasturelands of Et-Raklion, where the underground rivers showed themselves to the sky and the grain grew plump and comely in the fields.

It was not so far to the city now.

Hekat rolled her head upon her shoulders to ease the aching in her neck. Horses were tiresome, she would much prefer to run but warriors must ride, it was the word of the warlord, tchut tchut, complain aloud and earn a striping.

Safely past the danger of rockslides, the warriors around her began to talk once more, to relive the battle so neatly survived, to reminisce with stories of those who had fallen, to tell jokes and announce, crudely, which vessel would service them on return to the barracks. Some arguments grew out of those claimings, but only with words. No blades were drawn. Mindful of Tajria and Arakun they satisfied themselves with insults and promises.

Not one of the knife-dancers spoke to Hekat, nor she to any one of them. They hardly ever spoke to her, she was not lonely. Who could be lonely when filled with the god?

The sun sank below the horizon. Dusk deepened into night. The godmoon was in the waning phase, his wife hid demurely in his shadow. Tajria ordered the torches lit, they traveled home in a flickering of light.

Three fingers after the godmoon’s thin rising, they reached the city. The barracks’ main gates were thrown wide for them, and they rode to the stables. Amid the jostle and bustle of stable-slaves attending the horses, and the busyness of other warriors coming to greet them and make a noise, the skinned horsehides and those three bloodied enemy breastplates were taken from the mule-cart. Then the godspeaker drove it to the barracks godspeakers, so they might prepare for the ritual cremations of Et-Raklion’s fallen.

“Hekat,” said Tajria, raising her voice. “Attend me.”

Hekat threw her reins to a slave and attended her. “Yes, shell-leader?”

“Find Hanochek warleader. Tell him Arakun and I would like to have private words.”

Of course. Hanochek must be told of the raid and the breastplates that warned of trouble. Hekat pressed her fist to her heart, acknowledging Tajria’s command, and made her way out of the crowded stables, through the woken barracks, dancing around more curious warriors, goggling slaves and scuttling, sniffing barracks dogs. She hated those dogs. She hated all dogs, she would gladly see every last one dead.

Hanochek warleader lived in the barracks, he had private quarters beside the warhost field. “Hanochek warleader is not here,” his servant told her. “He dines with the warlord in his palace.”

Aieee, the god see her. Such a long way to run for a tired knife-dancer. Hekat sighed and jogged back to the stables, she took a fresh horse and rode it bareback in its halter, out of the barracks and up the road to Raklion’s palace.

It was a beautiful building, terraced balconied chambers hugging the side of Raklion’s Pinnacle. The walls were sandstone, great blocks of ochre and salt-white and cream like new butter, each section of sloping roof a dazzle of glazed tiles in red and green and blue and gold. It was pocked with gardens, riddled with tall hedges, lit like highsun with countless flaming torches. Splendidly dressed slaves stood at every entering pathway, no-one could visit here without drawing attention. Not unless the god hid them deep in its eye.

The slave at attention beside the main palace gates saw she was a warrior and did not challenge her entry. In the palace’s paved forecourt an outdoors slave took the horse from her, an indoors slave admitted her to Raklion’s empty audience chamber. It was a cool and glossy place, as the rest of the palace she had walked through was cool and glossy, not fussy like Abajai’s villa, larded with trinkets to boast of wealth. Raklion’s palace was plain, austere. Hekat approved. The only decoration a warrior needed was a snakeblade.

The warlord came to her soon after she arrived, with Hanochek warleader by his side. She thought he had aged since last she saw him, the night Abajai and Yagji came to kill her. His eyes were sunk deeper now, his godbraids were heavily silvered. Deeper lines were carved in his face.

“Hekat!” he said. He was startled. “You are wounded. What has happened?”

Wounded? She glanced at the linen strips binding arm and thigh, she had forgotten the knife-cuts earned in the border skirmish. She pressed her fist against her heart, to him, to Hanochek. “Warlord, I am sent by Tajria shell-leader to speak with Hanochek warleader. We are returned from the wilderness with a tale to tell.”

“So it seems,” said Hanochek. “What has happened that could not wait until newsun for its telling?”

As she hesitated, Raklion said, “Speak, Hekat. You are here, not Tajria. I wish you to answer.”

Hekat nodded. “As we returned from the wilderness, warlord, we skirmished with raiding warriors from Et-Banotaj, Et-Zyden and Et-Takona. They rode together but are dead in the dirt now, the god sent them to hell.” She smiled. “With our help.”

Cold silence. Torchlight, dancing. Words unspoken, weighing on the air, as the warlord and his warleader stared at each other. Raklion said, “What did they raid for?”

“Meat, warlord. They were stealing our wild beasts.”

Another look between the two men. “The warlords grow reckless,” Raklion murmured. “Hekat, what of my warriors?”

“Five fell in the skirmish, warlord. Six more died in training.” She straightened her aching body. “Warlord?”

“Return to the barracks. Tell Tajria shell-leader her message is given. Tell her also the warleader and I will hear the full story of Banotaj’s raid after newsun sacrifice and the rites for our dead.”

“Yes, warlord.”

His stern face softened. “And be certain to have your hurts in my service healed.”

“Yes, warlord.”

His nod dismissed her. As she left the palace to ride tired and bareback to the barracks, she felt her stone scorpion hot against her skin.

It is a warning. I think the god will have need of me, soon.

Raklion paced his audience chamber, his warm pleasure in good food and sweet wine and Hano’s company turned sour and restless in his gut. Not even a brief moment with glorious Hekat could ease the foreboding in his heart.

“I do not like this, Hano. I fear this one raid is but the beginning. With Mijak growing browner by the godmoon, with Et-Raklion remaining fat and green, we tempt the other warlords to make alliances based on blood and stealing. I think if the browning does not stop our ten thousand warriors will not be enough.”

Hano leaned his shoulder against the stone wall. “I fear your warleader must disagree, Raklion. We are in no danger. Banotaj is the one who should worry, he is a fool to think he can keep Zyden and Takona appeased with a few stolen Et-Raklion goats. They ride with him not to raid us in earnest but to test his strength, they wish to see his warriors fight and taste their mettle. When they are satisfied he is not the equal of his father they will swallow him whole and spit out his bones. They will ride against him, not beside him. They will be too busy to dare threaten us.”

“Perhaps so, Hano, for now,” Raklion said, unconvinced. “But they will not be busy against Banotaj forever. You know what the Traders and godspeakers tell me. Beyond Et-Raklion’s borders scarce rain grows scarcer. Crops are thinner in the fields. Waterholes shrink, rivers dwindle. Jokriel surrenders more land to the savage north, he fights with Mamiklia while Mamiklia raids Takona. Takona raided Zyden before joining him to raid with Banotaj. I tell you, Mijak becomes a bloodied carcass.”

“Not all of Mijak,” Hano insisted. “It is not a desert yet. And while the other warlords tear at each other we can strengthen our borders. Increase our warhost. We will survive until Mijak turns green again.”

“Aieee, Hano. Think !” Raklion retorted, and fisted his hands. “We are facing a time of change. With Nogolor beside us, with his warhost and ours, we could withstand the other five warlords. But Nogolor is old, he is failing, his son Tebek will be warlord soon. Tebek looks at Et-Raklion’s fat horses, he counts the ribs of the stallion he rides. When his father dies I fear our alliance will die with him. Then what will happen? Will Tebek risk his warriors against us alone, or instead make his peace with Banotaj or Mamiklia or one of the others so they together can turn on us?” He stopped pacing and glared at his friend. “Hano, you have seen starving dogs fight for a single bone, you know what could happen. Do not seek to soothe me with platitudes and lies!”

Hano pushed away from the wall, his eyes were hurt. “I have never lied to you, Raklion. I do not lie now. I agree we must keep close watch on the other warlords. That is why we have Eyes, we will send them to look hard at Et-Raklion’s borders. But you must not give yourself over to bleakness. Et-Raklion is great, it is blessed by the god, and Mijak cannot stay brown forever. Trouble will pass, like a cloud across the sun.”

“How do you know Mijak cannot stay brown?” Raklion demanded. “ I do not know that. For all I know, Hano, it will stay brown forever.”

It was a fearsome thought. Hano said, faltering, “I cannot believe that. Does Nagarak say Mijak will stay brown?”

Raklion turned away. “If Nagarak knows, he does not tell me.”

“ If he knows?” said Hano, in the taut silence. “What is this, Raklion? Do you say he doesn’t?”

Aieee, his fears rode his tongue, he should not have said that. He turned back. “No. I mis-spoke myself. Pay no attention.”

“Tcha!” said Hanochek. “And you chide me for platitudes and lies.”

“ Hanochek!”

Hano flinched but did not retreat. “Raklion, I am your warleader and your friend, but how can I help you if you hide your heart? Is there more to your misgivings than you’ve told? Do you know something of Nagarak you haven’t shared?”

Aieee, there was more, but not to do with Nagarak. What terrified him was that voice in his heart whispering louder, ever louder: the only way to save Et-Raklion from the other warlords is to smite them before they ride against me, to tame them utterly into the dust, to make myself Mijak’s only warlord . How else could he save Et-Raklion from death? Beg his brother warlords to leave him alone? Was that the strength of a warlord? Was that how he protected his people, kept his promise to the god?

“Raklion, what is it?” said Hano softly. “You stand there as if a demon turned you to stone. Let me help you, what else am I for?”

Shaking his head, Raklion sat in his warlord’s chair. He could not burden Hano with his heart’s sinful secret. Hano would risk the god’s wrath to see it come true. Raklion warlord, warlord of Mijak . With an effort, he smiled. “You were right, my friend. I let myself become bleak, it is not helpful.”

Hano knew him too well. “Tcha, you do not blind me. Is it Nagarak, Raklion? Does he—”

The chamber door burst open then, and a slave rushed in shouting. “Warlord! Warlord! You must come at once!”

It was the gelding Sabat from the Women’s Chambers. His yellow-brown skin was sickly with horror, his staring eyes awash with tears.

As Hanochek took an angry step towards the slave, Raklion pushed slowly to his feet. All the world was still and silent, the only sound his beating heart.

The gelding Sabat fell face down on the floor, his flabby, half-naked body shuddering like a man filled with fever.

“Speak,” said Raklion, though he knew already what the slave would say.

“Forgive me, warlord,” the gelding choked out. “It is Et-Nogolor’s Daughter.”

Hano had moved to stand again at Raklion’s shoulder, war-calloused palm and fingers gripping tight. It was hard to feel him. Hard to feel anything beyond hell’s cold wind.

“Show me,” he said to the gelding Sabat. The slave heaved to his feet and bowed out backwards, hands pressed in entreaty to his womanish breast.

“Warlord?” said Hano, releasing his grip.

Raklion turned, looked over his shoulder. “Come with me, Hano. I cannot bear this alone.”

“Of course,” said Hano. “Warlord, lead the way.”

The Daughter was dead, and her baby with her. Their blood soaked the bedsheets and pooled on the tiled floor. A snakeblade’s hilt jutted between her ribs. The dead child’s throat was cut to the bone, its lifeless body still yoked to its mother by the flaccid umbilical cord.

It was a boy. It had no eyes.

“ Why?” said Hano beside him, his whisper incredulous. “How could this happen? Did she fuck with a demon when your back was turned?”