The Godspeaker Trilogy (21 page)

Kneeling naked before the altar, even his scorpion pectoral discarded, Nagarak felt the god’s presence slide across his skin. Cool, caressing, but with a hint of heat and venom in it. Promise of the testing to come. He spilled no blood upon the altar. No sacrifice was needed for this ritual. He was the sacrifice, the sacred offering.

In the pit behind him, fat godhouse scorpions skittered and hissed. It was full of them, more scorpions than any high godspeaker had faced in the godhouse’s ancient history. How could it be otherwise, when such a question trembled on his tongue?

Must Raklion be Mijak’s one warlord? Must I be its one true high godspeaker?

There was a chance he would die in this sacred place. That the god, offended, would sting him to a screaming death. Raklion warlord had outlived two high godspeakers already. Would today’s testing see a third outlived? He did not know. He could not tell. His godsense failed him, he saw no further into the future than the taking of his next breath. That had never happened before. Was it an ill omen?

It was something else he could not tell.

He waited with an empty mind for the witnesses to come. He knew not which three godspeakers the god would send, to be seen in its eye recording the question and the answer. That was the god’s business, no part of him.

A godbell tolled, its sweet tones muffled by stone walls and distance. Outside the godhouse the sun was rising, chasing the godmoon and his wife below the horizon. The scorpion room contained no windows, he could not see the sunlight kiss the top of Raklion’s Pinnacle, strike fire from the godpost as though the god’s scorpion eyes were open. He felt a small regret for that.

This was his favorite time of day.

Sandals shuffled in the corridor outside. Three pairs, slow and steady. Unhurried, with the grace and dignity expected of a high godspeaker, he rose to his feet and turned to greet the god’s chosen witnesses.

“The god sees you in its eye, my sister, my brothers.”

It had selected Saskira, a healer, the taskmaster Bendik and one of the novices. Vortka, yes, that was his name. A pious youth, this Vortka, oft found in the tasking house repenting his sins. A godspeaker of uncommon powers and quiet devotion, so the novice-master said.

“The god sees you also, Nagarak,” they murmured.

At all other times, in all other places, every godspeaker in the godhouse was subordinate to him. Only here, in the scorpion chamber, was he the supplicant and they his masters.

“Kneel to the god, Nagarak,” said Saskira healer. “Be anointed, bare your godspark to its all-seeing eye. The scorpions await you, they are hungry to test your heart.”

Vortka novice was first to paint his high godspeaker’s body with the blood and oil, carried with him in a sacred stone jar. His dripping fingers were cool and confident, he knew precisely where and how to mark his high godspeaker’s skin. When the anointing was done he smeared his own face, from brow to chin and eye to eye.

“Here is a sacred place, a silent place, a place of communing with the god,” he said. “I will see the god here. It will whisper in my heart. Its mysteries will be revealed to my eye. May the god grind my flesh to dust and feed my godspark to demons if I reveal by thought, word or deed what is shown to me in this place.”

“The god sees, the god hears, the god will grind you into dust,” murmured the others.

Twice more the ritual was performed, with bloodied oil upon the face and fervent words falling from the tongue. Nagarak waited, silent, patient, as the witnesses swore their oaths of discretion.

When they were done, it was his turn.

“Here is a sacred place, a silent place, a place of communing with the god,” he said. The oil and blood burned his naked flesh. “I have a question, the question is this. What does the god demand of Raklion warlord and his high godspeaker Nagarak?”

“ A question is asked, the god will answer ,” intoned the witnesses. “ Surrender flesh, abandon hope. The god sees you, seeker. It sees you in its eye .”

The scorpions rattled and scraped in the pit. They hissed, tails raised, as Nagarak slid into their midst. Their heaving bodies closed over his head, he was swimming in scorpions, drowning in scorpions. He was a scorpion, inhaled by the god.

Time ended, suspended. Stung and stung, he screamed in torment. His blood turned to venom. His heart pumped pain. In his mind, the god’s voice thundered.

One warlord for Mijak. One high godspeaker to guide him.

There was its answer and its desire. Raklion warlord had heard the god right. Seven warlords no longer. No Mijak divided. One Mijak. One warlord. One godspeaker, to lead him.

The god had answered. He would live.

On a shout of triumph Nagarak surged to his feet. Scorpions fell from his flesh like scales from a snake. The pit was filled with dead and dying scorpions but he breathed, he lived, the god had answered him and spared his life.

“ Tell us ,” the witnesses demanded.

“The god desires a united Mijak,” he said, his voice ringing. “One nation, one warlord, one sacred altar beneath the sun.”

He could not say why but it was the novice, Vortka, he looked to first. As Bendik and Saskira stared, eyes wide, pulses beating fast in their throats, the novice incompletely hid a smile. He was not surprised. He showed no alarm. No sweat beaded upon his brow.

Before Nagarak could wonder at that he began to shake like a man with fever. Saskira healer leapt forward and seized his arms. He was swiftly drawn from the scorpion pit and laid upon the cold stone floor. His body heaved and thrashed, he voided venom from bowel and bladder, from mouth and eyes and even his ears. Empty of poison, filled with the god, he let the godhouse healer mend him.

One warlord for Mijak. One high godspeaker to guide him.

When Saskira was done and he could stand unaided, he thanked the witnesses for their service, swore them to solemn secrecy, and departed from them for his private bath. There he cleansed his body, soaping and scrubbing until all traces of filth were removed.

His skin was welted with fresh scorpion scars. He counted hundreds, he was lumped like a lizard, like some survivor of a terrible plague, the kind that had in the distant past ravaged the nation, plundered its populace, reduced the fat empire of Mijak to bones.

The welts did not worry him. They were gifts from the god. Thumbprints of favor. He thought no other godspeaker living or dead had ever borne so many sting-marks. It was fitting.

I am to be godspeaker of a nation.

Cleansed, he strapped himself into his scorpion pectoral and draped his limbs in linen and wool. He alerted Peklia, godspeaker in charge of the sacrifices, and at the godhouse’s largest altar he gave a black bull-calf, twelve black lambs and one hundred golden cockerels to the god. Blood ran like a river. The novice holding the basin of water, afterwards, was the same Vortka who’d witnessed in the scorpion room.

Sluicing the sacred blood from his hands, Nagarak said, “You desire something from me, novice?”

The novice shook his head. Beads rattled. Godbells chimed. “No, high godspeaker. I desire only to serve.”

“I see that you do serve. I see the god calls you to important matters.”

The novice Vortka stared at the floor. “I am the god’s instrument. It uses me as it desires.”

On the surface, it was a humble answer. On the surface, Vortka novice was a humble man. And yet . . . in the scorpion chamber . . . Vortka novice had smiled.

“See to the disposal of the sacrificed beasts,” he said, abruptly unsettled. Angry, because of it. “And clean the altar by yourself. A novice called to witness in the scorpion chamber is still a novice. Until you are seen by the god in the time of testing you are not more than flesh, you are yet unproven. Give me your sleeve, I would dry my hands.”

Obedient, the novice presented his sleeve. Nagarak used him, turned his back to him, and called for another novice to be sent to the palace, that the warlord might be summoned to his high godspeaker’s presence.

Raklion must hear of the god’s desire.

A
warlord who neglected his warriors had no business calling himself a warlord. No matter his trials, no matter his private pains, a warlord must always place his warhost first.

Raklion thought this as he stood alone on the warhost field and watched his beautiful warriors dancing around him. Weary from his ordeal on the scorpion wheel, the loss of another son a bleeding wound in his heart, still he smiled to see his knife-dancers’ grace and oiled muscles, the sunlight glinting on their snakeblades. Trained to perfection they flowed like water, like blood spilled in sacrifice for the god.

He watched Hekat dancing, and let his loins burn.

I am meant for you. I will be yours.

So she had told him, and so he believed. How could he not? She had come to him in the godhouse, unseen in Nagarak’s eye.

As she danced with her knife-brothers and sisters, Hanochek joined him unbidden on the short grass. “A slave has come from the palace, warlord. Nagarak would see you in the godhouse, at once.”

Nagarak . So the high godspeaker had emerged unscathed from the scorpion pit. The god had spared him, and given him an answer.

I know already what it is. Hekat has told me. I am to be warlord of Mijak. The god does not only speak through Nagarak.

It changed everything.

With his gaze still resting on dancing Hekat he said to Hano, “Send that slave to the godhouse with this message: Raklion warlord is about the god’s business. Nagarak high godspeaker is welcome to join him in the barracks, where he will see how warriors worship.”

Hano gasped. “Warlord?”

Now he turned his head. “You heard me, warleader. That is my message. See it is sent.”

“Warlord . . .” Hano swallowed. “Raklion. Are you certain? I don’t want you condemned to three more days on the scorpion wheel.”

Aieee, his good friend Hano worried over him like a hen with one chick.

“More than certain,” he said, smiling. “Do not fret or fear the high godspeaker’s wrath. He is only a man. He serves the god, as we serve the god. We all have power, Hano. The god sees every man in its eye.”

Hano nodded reluctantly, unconvinced but obedient. “Warlord.”

The slave was sent up to the godhouse. By the time Nagarak arrived at the barracks the knife-dancers had given way to archers on horseback. Raklion sighed with pleasure to see them weaving so neatly past and around each other, the horses’ hides gleaming, his warriors’ godbraids singing under the sun. Their godbells shouted praises to the god, and so did he in his heart.

I survived the scorpion wheel. I will be Raklion, warlord of Mijak. My son will follow me, as beautiful as Hekat. The god is great, it will see me great also.

Hano joined him again, eyes wide with trepidation. “Warlord, Nagarak high godspeaker approaches the barracks gates.”

“Go to him,” he said. “Bring him to me with all gratitude and respect.”

Hano shook his head. “Raklion, I am lost for words. We speak of Nagarak . The god sits on his shoulder, it whispers daily in his ear. Why would you anger him? Why tempt him to smite you?”

“He will not smite me, Hano. Never again.”

“He is the high godspeaker!” said Hano, disbelieving. “He was born for smiting!”

Raklion rested his hand on Hanochek’s shoulder. “And I am the warlord. I am in the god’s eye. I tell you truly, he will not smite me.”

Hano sighed, conflicted and anxious. “You are different, Raklion. You have returned from the godhouse a changed man.”

Was he so fearful before? So unsure of his power? Perhaps I was. Perhaps the deaths of all those sons shrank me, diminished me, made me small. But I am brave now. I will be Mijak’s warlord, with Hekat in my bed .

“I am not different. I am myself,” he told Hano. “Go now and fetch Nagarak.”

“Yes, warlord,” said Hano, helpless, and obeyed.

In keeping with the god’s decree that even the most revered godspeaker must walk whenever possible, Nagarak came to the warhost field on foot. He wore fine linen and wool over his scorpion pectoral, but the fabrics were splashed and stained with sacrificial blood.

It was strange, watching him approach, knowing that this man knew him to the bone. Knew him weeping, knew him screaming, knew him abject in his pain.

And yet I no longer fear him. He does not shame me, I feel no need to cringe. I look on him and feel nothing beyond what I should feel for any man who serves the god.

Truly god, I am changed. You have changed me.

As Nagarak came closer it was clear he was changed, too. The skin of his face was welted beyond any godspeaker’s ever seen. All his flesh not covered with fabric was blotched with the mark of scorpion stings.

Raklion marveled. It was a thing of wonder, that his high godspeaker had survived the pit.

“Warlord,” said Nagarak. The word vibrated with his displeasure.

“Nagarak. The god sees you in its eye. You have an answer?”

For a moment Nagarak did not reply. Clearly he expected some abasement, some recognition of this breach in their accustomed roles. Nagarak summoned, Raklion appeared, that was the way of things. Beneath the anger he seemed almost bewildered, that he was standing on the warhost field and not in his godhouse.

“I have an answer,” he said at last. “But I will not give it here or now. This is no fit place to talk of the god’s secret purpose.”

Raklion shifted his gaze to his still-weaving archers. So trained were they, so attuned to his orders, not even the appearance of Nagarak before them could interrupt their hotas .

“The god is everywhere,” he said mildly. “So everywhere must be a fit place to speak. Shall you tell me its answer? Or shall I tell you? I am to be the warlord of Mijak. I am to tame this nation to my fist.”

Nagarak’s face spasmed in a scowl. “Beware, warlord. I drank deep of the scorpions’ venom, the scorpions died and yet I live. This is known as a sign.”

“I see it, Nagarak. You are my high godspeaker, I deny you nothing.”

“You deny me the courtesy of answering my summons!”

“I wished you to witness my obedience to the god. I wished you to see me do my duty as warlord of Et-Raklion, soon to be warlord of Mijak.” He turned. “ Hanochek ! To me!”

Hanochek came running. “Warlord?”

“Stand down my archers. Command all my warriors here to me, assemble them on this warhost field. Go now. Quickly.”

Hano pressed his fist to his heart. “Warlord.”

“What are you doing?” Nagarak demanded as they were surrounded by the racket and dust of the warhost gathering. “Is your mind disordered by the death of another son? Or did you break on the scorpion wheel after all?”

“I am not broken,” he replied. “I am whole, and strong. To be warlord of Mijak I must have a son. There is no woman of warlord bloodlines for me to sow with my seed. Nogolor has no more daughters to give me. To get one from another warlord I would have to treaty with him, and in these brown days a treaty with a starving warlord would be like baring my own throat for his knife. Besides.” He smiled, wryly. “There are no more daughters of beddable age and I do not have the luxury of waiting. So I must look to a wider horizon.”

“What wider horizon?” said Nagarak, still scowling. “Warlords couple with the daughters of warlords. Or those daughters’ daughters, or their sisters, or some other female flesh traced through the warlord line.”

Raklion nodded. “Once that was true, Nagarak. It is true no longer. Now I decide where I sow my seed. This is given me by the god. Do you doubt me? Ask it, Nagarak. I promise you I have its answer.”

Nagarak was staring as though they’d never met before. In a strange way, they had not. “The god see you, warlord. I think you are demonstruck.”

He laughed. “I am no such thing and you know it, Nagarak. I am chosen, the god’s warlord, it desires what I do. If that is not so let it strike me dead at your feet.”

The god did not strike him. He knew it would not.

Nagarak stood still beneath the sun. “And have you chosen the field where you will sow your seed?”

“No, Nagarak,” he said, as the last of his summoned warhost gathered before him. “The god has chosen for me. I am obedient, I will sow where it desires.”

Nagarak said nothing to that. Moments later Hano appeared, sounding a gilded ram’s horn. Two slaves followed him across the grass, carrying a wooden dais. They set it down and withdrew. Hano stood beside it, still sounding the ram’s horn. The warhost’s muttering voices fell silent.

Raklion walked to the dais, Nagarak grim beside him. He climbed its steps and swept his gaze across his people’s faces. He looked for Hekat, he could not see her. It did not matter, he knew she was there.

“Warriors of Et-Raklion, you see me, your warlord!”

“ We see you, warlord !” they answered him, shouting.

“Warriors, I see you. The god sees you. It sees you in its smiting eye.”

“ The god sees you in its smiting eye, warlord.”

His heart was so full of them he had to pause and repress his tears. “Warriors, I have sorrowful news. The god has taken Et-Nogolor’s Daughter. It has taken my son in his moment of birth.”

A moment of silence, then loud cries of dismay, shouts of grief. His warriors wept, they wept for him. He let them weep, he did not chastise them. They were his brothers and sisters, the children of his heart. He glanced at Hano, who wept silently with them. Their eyes met, and he smiled. He had no need for tears, the god had dried them.

Nagarak did not weep, his face was stone like his scorpion pectoral. He stood in his stained robes and communed with the god.

After some time, Raklion raised his hands. “Warriors, grieve no longer. It was the god’s will, we do not question. It has happened, it is behind us. I have other news. You must hear it now.”

One by one his warriors stopped weeping. The warhost field was hushed as they waited for him to speak.

“Warriors of Et-Raklion, the god has spoken. I will have a son,” he told them, triumphant. “I will have a son like no son born in Mijak since the god breathed and there was light. He will not be born of a woman from diluted bloodlines, from the leached seed of a warlord who has no love for Et-Raklion, for me, or for you. He will not be born of a woman who has never killed in war. My son’s mother will be a warrior ! A warrior of Et-Raklion, chosen by the god itself!”

As the warhost shouted its amazement, Nagarak climbed the dais steps behind him. Reaching its top he demanded in a hissing whisper, “Raklion warlord, what is this?”

He turned and smiled. “The will of the god.”

“ Raklion!”

Raklion turned away. Nagarak had no power here, he was a witness, no more than that. As he turned he caught sight of Hano’s face, stricken with astonishment and something less benign.

Be pleased for me, Hano. If you are not pleased, how can you say you are my friend?

Pushing Hanochek’s displeasure aside he looked at his warhost. “Hekat!” he shouted. “Hekat. Knife-dancer. Bajadek’s doom. Seen by the god in its blood-filled eye. You are chosen. Step forward and come to me. Come to me now !”

It was the god calling her, clothing itself in Raklion’s voice. Hekat felt her scorpion amulet, warm and heavy against her skin, and the god in her heart giving her strength. As surprise shivered through the warriors pressed close around her, as their heads turned and their voices lifted, she answered the god and the warlord together.

“Hekat comes to you, Raklion,” she said, pushing through the warhost. “Knife-dancer. Bajadek’s doom. Chosen by the god, seen by the god in its blood-filled eye.”

On the dais beside the warlord, Nagarak high godspeaker choked with rage, his nostrils flared wide like a horse that could not breathe. His eyes were molten fury, he would have killed her with a look, but the god did not listen to his hating heart. Hekat ignored him. She ignored Hanochek warleader, shocked and staring as she emerged from the ranks. She walked towards Raklion, the warlord, the god’s chosen man for the making of her son.

He came down from his dais and waited for her, tall and strong, his spine unbowed, his shoulders wide and carrying the weight of Mijak upon them. His godbraids were silver, his face was lined. He was a man, there was hunger in his eyes. Lust for her body, boiling his blood.

He will make me a strong son, the only thing that matters. The rest of him I will tolerate, as is the god’s desire. He is not a bad man, I can endure much worse.

“Hekat,” he said when she reached him, and wrapped her godbraids round his fingers. “The god’s knife-dancer, and Bajadek’s doom. Chosen for me by the god.”

Nagarak said from the top of the dais, “Raklion warlord, there is no custom. She is common. She has no heritage.”

“She is beautiful and precious,” said Raklion, with a flickering glance.

“She is blemished ! See her face!”

“Her face does not matter,” said Raklion. “I see her heart. She lives in the god’s eye, it has decreed her for me.”

“ I have not said so !” Nagarak thundered. “The god has not told me!”

Raklion looked up at him, his smile was a knife. “But it has told me, Nagarak. I am the warlord, the god speaks to me. The god has spoken, I must obey. I must seed this woman with my son.”

Nagarak bared his teeth. “She is a warrior, she lives in the barracks. Warriors rut like dogs in a ditch. Warlords bed virgins. That is the law.”

“She is chosen for me by the god, Nagarak. Do you say the god has chosen a rutting bitch?”

“Tread lightly, warlord!” said Nagarak, eyes slitting. “I am high godspeaker, I will have you on the wheel.”

“My scorpion-wheel days are behind me, Nagarak,” said Raklion, calmly. “I know Hekat is virgin, but come down to her and satisfy yourself. The god will tell you she is untouched.”

Hekat tensed. If Nagarak put his fingers in her as once dead Abajai had done, she would plunge her snakeblade into his throat and that would be the end of him. Her fingers strayed towards her knife’s hilt.

Suspicious, unfriendly, Nagarak came down from the dais. He withdrew a godstone from his robe pocket and closed it tight within his fist, and his fist he pressed against her belly. She felt heat, saw light behind her closed eyelids. The light shone into the empty spaces inside her. Nagarak grunted.