The Godspeaker Trilogy (40 page)

“Zandakar,” said his mother, softly, the edge of a snake-blade in her voice.

I have killed before, why do I hesitate? She is condemned, godforsaken, yes she breathes but she is dead.

His gaze flicked sideways, his mother was waiting. He looked over his shoulder, at his staring brother. Dmitrak’s gaze was eager, his fingers were fists. He had yet to make his first kill as a warrior, but not because he was not keen.

I am the god’s hammer, its chosen, its weapon. What I do with my power, I do for the god.

“ Zandakar ,” the Empress commanded.

He raised his gold-and-crystal fist and killed the slave.

The blue-white stream struck her, it turned her to flame. She stood before him a burning pillar, she burned to nothing, to a sifting of ash. The power seared him, this time it was different, it was not the same as smashing rock. He felt it smite him, curdle his blood and melt his bones. He cried out as the crowd cried his name, he heard Dmitrak shouting, heard Vortka gasp.

He did not hear his mother’s voice.

The power left him, he swayed on his feet, he felt weak and dizzy. He could have wept. It was Vortka who went to him, who helped him to steady. His mother ignored him, she turned to the crowd.

“See the god’s might in him! See its proud fury! He is my son, he is Zandakar, the god’s hammer!”

Trembling, he stripped the gold-and-crystal glove from his arm. His skin was unmarked, he had expected to see scars. He felt tentative fingers touch his tunic, he turned and looked down to see Dmitrak, staring.

“Zandakar—Zandakar—what happened to your hair?”

His hair ? He snatched up a godbraid and held it before his eyes. It was blue. It was blue .

“Zandakar, tell me,” Dmitrak whispered. “Tell me how it feels to kill like the god!”

He could not answer. All he could do was stare at his godbraid, blue as the blue fire, blue as its merciless killing flame.

“I cannot explain it,” said Vortka, in a low voice. “Except to think it is the god’s mark upon you, the god’s mark of favor, that you smote a sinner in its name.”

His hair did not change when he used his power to smite rock and earth. This had happened because he killed a human. He did not understand it, he likely never would.

“You are godtouched, Zandakar,” said his mother, delighted. “I have always known it. Now the world will know, too.”

The patch-skinned slave was not the last criminal he hammered before he rode from Et-Raklion at the head of the warhost. Every highsun, in the silent godtheater, he smote five more godforsaken sinners. He smote them in front of his witnessing warhost, he smote them in front of godspeakers and ordinary folk brought in from Et-Raklion’s outlying villages, and from all the cities and villages in Mijak.

“ The word must spread ,” his mother told him. “ Every godspark in Mijak must know who you are .”

He did not question, he was serving the god.

When he wasn’t smiting criminals in the godtheater, he was training with the warhost, preparing to ride. He knew now what the god’s plan was for him, he knew he must lead the warhost into the world. Or, at least, his mother the Empress must lead it, with him by her side, smiting wherever and whatever the god told him to smite.

Dmitrak would not be riding with them.

“It’s not fair ,” his brother wept, inconsolable. “I am old enough to be a blooded warrior, I have heard the stories, she joined the warhost when she was my age.”

Sitting beside him on his small bed, Zandakar sighed, and patted his shoulder. “Dimmi, if it were only a question of joining the warhost, then—”

“ Do not call me Dimmi !”

He withdrew his hand. “Forgive me. Dmitrak. If it were only a question of joining the warhost, then there is no doubt. You would be assigned to a shell. But we are not remaining in Mijak, we will cross the Sand River into the unknown. Yuma is being careful, she does not want to risk you, she—”

“ Tcha !” spat Dimmi, and flung himself against the wall. His dark brown eyes were bloodshot and furious. “She does not care , she does not want me. She hates me, I tell you. She wishes I was dead . She only wants you , her precious Zandakar!”

The words cut like a snakeblade. There was real hatred in his brother, Zandakar had never heard it before. “That is not true. Has she not praised your riding skills of late, Dmitrak? Did she not let you have a new horse?”

“No. It’s a pony .”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But a better-bred pony than the one you had before. She does not hate you, Dmitrak, you must not say she does. She is busy. Distracted. What the god has commanded, it is a frightening task.”

Dimmi fell silent. “Zandakar, are you frightened?” he asked, at last.

Aieee, god. Am I frightened? I am frightened to death. If I fail the Empress, if I fail the god . . .

He forced a smile. “How can I be frightened, little brother? I am the god’s hammer, I live in its eye.”

Tears and temper forgotten, for the moment, his little brother grinned. “You still have not told me how it feels to kill like the god.”

No, Dmitrak. And I never will . He said, “This thing we do for the god, you must know it will take us a long, long time. The world is a big place. Who knows how big it is? You are not a warrior yet, Dmitrak, you will be one soon. And then you will join me in the world. We will fight together, we will fight side by side, as brothers. We will throw down the world’s demons as we fight for the god.”

Dimmi frowned as he thought about that. “And the Empress will not live forever,” he said, almost to himself. “One day she will die, and you will be Emperor . Then I will be warlord, I will lead the warhost to war.”

Aieee, god, what a blessing we are alone ! Zandakar slapped his hand over Dimmi’s mouth. “You must never say that, it is a smiting sin . You wicked boy, I should tell Vortka. I should drag you to the godhouse and beat you on the scorpion wheel!”

Above his silencing hand, Dimmi’s eyes were stark with horror. He shook his head, his fingers tugged. “No! No!” he begged, his desperate voice muffled. “Zandakar, no!”

He removed his hand. “Say you are sorry, Dimmi. Say you did not mean it.”

Now there were fresh tears, now there was weeping. “I am sorry. I did not mean it. I want to ride with you, Zandakar! I do not want you to go away !”

Echoes of his own voice, begging for Hanochek. “I know,” he said helplessly. “But what can I do? I am born the god’s hammer, Dmitrak. That is what I am.”

With a despairing wail, Dimmi threw thin arms around him, weeping as he had never wept in his life. All Zandakar could do was hold him until the worst of his grief had passed.

“Here is my promise, little brother,” he said, when Dimmi was calmer. “Even though I ride far away, the Empress and Vortka are planning our war so we can always send and receive news to and from Mijak. You will write me a clay tablet every highsun, and I will write one to you. It may take some time for us to read each other’s letters but we will read them, I promise. And as soon as you are old enough I will send for you, Dmitrak. You will join me in the warhost, you will ride in my shell.”

Dimmi sniffed, suspicious. “Even if the Empress does not want me there?”

“Dimmi, she will want you. But not as much as I will.”

Another sniff. “Very well. We will write letters. But when you address me do not call me Dimmi .”

Four godmoons after Zandakar blooded the god’s hammer in the godtheater, Hekat thought she was close, at last close , to taking the god into the world. She would be far happier if she knew even a little of what people lived beyond the Sand River, but she could learn nothing of them. Not a single tablet in Et-Raklion’s godhouse library or in any other library in Mijak could tell her the name of one sinning, demonstruck land. She was certain of that, she had sent for them all. Not even Vortka’s secret high godspeaker tablets made mention of who lived with demons beyond Mijak’s borders.

They would only learn that by going there.

It does not matter. I will defeat them, whoever they are. They are not in the god’s eye, they do not have its hammer.

She was so proud of Zandakar, so proud of his power. He was a fierce warlord, she had raised him well, he would never disappoint her. She was his Empress, he was her beautiful son.

Mijak’s warhost numbered fifty thousand. It was a vast hungry horde, the plains around Et-Raklion groaned beneath its weight. Ten thousand warriors would remain in Mijak, she would choose the man to lead them closer to the time. The rest would follow her across the Sand River, they would ride with her and Zandakar into the world. A mighty warhost, they would cut down the sinners as a scythe cut wheat, she would pluck them from their lands as a thorn from her flesh. Those who survived her smiting would live to serve the god and Mijak, their lands would become Mijak, the god’s people of Mijak would live in those places after. Five thousand godspeakers would ride with the warhost, Vortka was choosing them even now. They would ride to build godhouses in the conquered lands and cast down the demons who thwarted the god. One by one those unknown lands would fall.

Mijak would become the world, and she would give it to the god.

After every lowsun sacrifice she stayed in the godhouse to talk with Vortka in his private chamber. They talked of her plans, they talked of the god, they took omens together, they made many lists.

“I wish you would travel with us,” she said, not for the first time. “The god dwells in you, Vortka. You live in its eye.”

“Hekat, I cannot,” he refused, not for the first time. “My place is in Mijak, working for the god. You will have Zandakar, he is all you will need.”

Aieee, he was right. But the god see her, she would miss her high godspeaker, she was used to his company. He was a man, that was not his fault. He was a better man than any other, save her son. “You will come to the warhost sometimes ,” she commanded. “You must see the new lands we have cleansed of demons for the god.”

He smiled, looking older, though in truth he was not old. “Yes. Sometimes. But not very often.”

“Tcha!” she said, and looked down her nose. “I am the Empress, you will come when I call!”

Before he could chide her, there came a knock on his door. “The god see you, godspeaker,” he called.

The godspeaker entered, crossed to Vortka. Bent low to his ear and whispered, whispered. She saw Vortka straighten, she saw his face. “What?” she demanded. “Vortka, what is it? Not Zandakar—not Zandakar —”

He shook his head, he could barely speak. “No. It is worse. Hekat—Empress—the god is thwarted. A warhost is raised against you in the north.”

J
okriel city slept sweetly in the sunshine, with no outward sign it was infested by demons. No outward sign, either, of the warhost raised against her. That warhost was a mystery, its demon warleader faceless, nameless.

Hekat sat her black mare on a rise a safe distance from the rebel stronghold, and stared at its roofs with hate in her heart. Let that sinner remain faceless, do I care what his name is? I will smite him to pieces, he can die with no name .

On either side of her sat Zandakar and Vortka. Her son wore his hammer, since they rode from Et-Raklion he had not taken it off. Vortka wore a sour frown, he did not think she should be here.

“This is godspeaker business, Hekat. Jokriel city’s godhouse is overthrown, some godspeakers are murdered, others have joined in this rebellion! I must smite these sinners, I must lay them in the dirt!”

So he had told her, after giving her the news. She had turned on him, her rage was incandescent.

“How did this happen, Vortka? Why did you not see it in an omen? You say your eyes are open to the god! You say you hear its whisper in your heart! When did you shut your eyes, when did you go deaf?”

He struck her face. “I am not blind, I am not deaf, you dishonor the god to say such things! This bloodshed is the omen, Hekat! You plan to lead a warhost into the world, and as you plan demons strike at home? Did I not say the god spoke against the empire, did I not tell you what the secret tablets said?”

“You told me you agreed with me, that the god desired its new empire!”

“I never agreed. I let you convince me, I must pay for that sin. I tell you, Hekat, Jokriel city’s fall is a warning. Ignore the god and be cast into hell!”

She had almost snatched her snakeblade, then, almost shed his blood in her fury. “You are right this much, Vortka. It is a warning. It warns me demons grow stronger in the world, it tells me I have waited too long in the god’s eye. I must give the god my empire now, I must kill every demon and every man who worships them, everywhere I find them under the sun. I will start with Jokriel, in defiance against me.”

Nothing more he could say made a difference to her, she was godtouched as he was, he did not know better than she. He said he would ride with her, she did not forbid it. She wanted him to see her smite for the god. She gathered a small warhost, five thousand strong warriors, she did not wish to tire more than that before she crossed the Sand River into the world. Five thousand of her warriors could deal with this rebel warhost, the one godspeaker escaped from Jokriel thought it only three thousand strong.

Three thousand, three thousand . How had three thousand rebels gathered in secret against her? How had Vortka and his godspeakers not seen this? How could her high godspeaker have failed?

As the seasons passed peacefully he grew soft in his heart. I planned for conquest, he built schools for the poor. He let slaves earn their freedom, if they were old and could not breed. He said the god desired it, why would I disbelieve him? We are both godtouched, we both hear the god.

She shifted uncomfortably in her saddle, the long hard ride from Et-Raklion had tasked her severely. It was her punishment, demons had risen and she did not see them, her body’s pain was her sorrow to the god.

It is a small failure, I will soon make it right. When these rebels are cast down, when their sinning blood waters the ground, when their heads are cut off and carried home on our spears, the god will see me again in its eye. Then will I lead my warhost from Mijak, then will the god be seen in the world.

“Yuma?” said Zandakar, and touched her arm.

He was worried for her, there was no need. “Lowsun approaches, Zandakar, we will camp behind this rise and smite Jokriel city after newsun sacrifice,” she told him. “Walk among the warhost once it is settled. Show them your hammer, let them see the god in you. Drink their praises, eat their love. That will sustain you in any battle.” She had learned that from Raklion, knowing him had not been a complete waste of her life.

Zandakar nodded. “Empress, I will.”

They returned to the warhost, Zandakar saw to their camping and their comfort, Hekat withdrew with Vortka for a private sacrifice. As he cut their flesh and caught the blood in his gold cup, Vortka said quietly, “We are alone now, I will say it once more. You should not do this, Hekat. You have misread the god’s desire.”

She watched the blood drip from her sliced arm, watched it mingle with his. When the cup was a finger full she took off her scorpion amulet and poured that mingled blood upon the stone. Then she held the amulet high in the air and watched the drips fall on the bare ground, watched them splash and splatter. “There is an omen, Vortka, I will read it to you . I will give the god victory, Jokriel city will weep for its sin. This faceless warhost will weep out its blood, I will send those thwarting demons back to hell. Zandakar will stand beside me, I tell you this is his blooding. This will see him smite with his hammer, he will be the god’s hammer, as the god decreed.”

Vortka said nothing, he healed her with his godstone, he healed himself and stared at the bloody ground. After a moment, she realized he was weeping.

“I have failed you, Hekat. I have failed the god.” Water trickled down his thin, lined cheeks. In the fading light she saw silver in his godbraids. “You always heard its voice more clearly, you always stood tallest in its hidden eye. I am at fault here, that I did not see these rebels rising. My sin has placed you in danger, placed Zandakar in danger. Aieee, sweet Hekat, if he should fall . . .”

“ Zandakar fall ?” she said, and slapped him lightly. “ Tcha , stupid Vortka, what nonsense is this? Zandakar is the hammer, how can he fall? He is the god’s child, he lives in its favor. Raklion knew this, the god told him in a vision. My son is the future. The whole world will know him. His name will be legend. So said the god, the god does not lie.”

Vortka looked at her, such fear in his eyes. “You promise, Hekat? Zandakar will not fall?”

She was always the strong one. She cupped her palm to his cheek. “I promise, Vortka. It is my word.”

The godmoon and his wife had walked almost to mid-sky by the time Zandakar finished wandering among his warriors. When the last words of praise were drunk, when his belly was full of his warhost’s love, he joined his mother by her small, smokeless fire and dropped to the grass with a sigh of relief.

“Have you let Vortka heal you, Empress?” he asked, reaching for the pouch of dried corn left near the heat. “You say you are strong, I know you are, but I am not blind. Our pace was relentless. You are tired, you are hurting. Tomorrow will be battle. If I am to see the great Hekat knife-dance, if I am to have a story to tell my son, you must be rested, you must be well.”

She threw a clod of dirt at him. “First you must have a son to tell. To have a son you must have a wife, do you have a wife, Zandakar? I think you do not.”

Aieee, god. This again. “I will have a wife when the god sends her to me,” he said, brushing bits of soil from his linen tunic. “The god has not sent her, what can I do?”

“You can agree to see the girls I find for you,” his mother retorted. “I have found you seven, you refused them all unseen.”

He smiled at her frowning, he shook his head. “Within a godmoon we ride out of Mijak, Empress. Can I take a wife with me? I think I cannot. You say I am godchosen, I believe you. I say a wife will come in the god’s time. I wish, precious Yuma, you would believe me.”

“Tcha,” she said. “Stupid boy.”

For once she used those words without anger, her eyes were smiling, they were full of love. Though she was often harsh, he knew she loved him. She wanted his excellence, it made her strict.

He said, “Dimmi is sorry that he misses this battle.”

Her lips thinned, and her eyes went cold. “He is a child, Zandakar, he has no place here.”

Aieee, if only he knew why she would not love his little brother. It was more than her damaged body, instinct told him that, but he could not ask her, it would be his ruin. “He is growing fast, Yuma. He will be a mighty warrior. The other warriors admire him, they see his proud heart.”

“You should sleep, my hammer,” she said, gaze fixed on the fire’s glowing coals. “Newsun will bring us a busy task for the god.”

He looked down at his gold-and-crystal weapon, so comfortable against his skin. He had used the long journey here to let its presence seep through him, to ride in silence and commune with the god. Its power slept sweetly now, he controlled it like breathing. It did not wake unless he woke it, did not rise without his summons.

A day from now I will be blooded in battle, blooded for the god, a true warlord at last. A day from now I will be different. I will be a man, no longer a boy.

He kissed the Empress his mother on the hand, then he kissed the scars on her cheek. It did not make her godbells ring, for she wore no godbells and neither did he, or the warhost, or even Vortka high godspeaker. This would be a war without singing.

His mother smiled. “The god see you sleeping, Zandakar warlord. The god see you sleeping, and when you are awake.”

“The god see you, Yuma,” he replied, and left her to seek his rest beneath the stars.

Newsun broke, the godspeakers sacrificed, and the warhost rode upon Jokriel city. Vortka and his three high godspeakers stayed behind upon the rise, they sacrificed their last doves that the god might see them and their victory.

His mother rode grim-faced and silent beside him, her eyes were full of shadowed pain. She was angry at this smiting of her, as well as pain there was blood in her eyes. He was angry too, that she was subjected to this.

Give me the strength to avenge her, god. Give me the strength to smite her enemies.

As the warhost swept down on sinning Jokriel city, the rebel warhost rode out to meet them. It was a small band of warriors, he thought it less than three thousand, they rode skinny horses and camels, their tunics were torn. Compared to his warhost they were pitiful, pathetic, they were defeated before the first blow was struck.

What are they thinking, god? Why would they do this? They must know we will slaughter them, they are demonstruck, they must be.

Then he saw the rebel’s leader raise his clenched fist. The rebel warriors slowed towards halting, their leader rode forward without them. Zandakar was startled.

“Do you think he surrenders, Empress?” he shouted above the thunder of galloping hooves.

“He wishes council,” she shouted back. “I am willing to talk. If this unknown demonfucker throws his knife at my feet I will kill him quickly, that much will I do for the sinning sinner. If he does not I will kill him slowly, the god will grow fat on his cries of woe.” She held up her clenched fist, signaling their own warhost to slow. “Come,” she added, glancing at him. “Let us meet this dead man, let us show him the god.”

They kicked their horses, they galloped to meet him. The plain before Jokriel city was flat and dry, dust kicked up around them and stuck to their skin. Dust covered his hammer, that did not matter. The hammer would strike when he called on its power.

The riding rebel came closer, closer. He was old, he was work-shrunk, his godbraids were thin. Closer, closer, his face was revealed to them—

“ Hanochek!” said the Empress. Her voice crawled with loathing, there was also surprise.

Hanochek warleader eased his rawboned brown horse to a halt. One eye was clouded, he had lost some teeth. Zandakar saw that because he was smiling, smiling, there was demonstruck laughter in the man’s ravaged face.

“Aieee, Hekat. Dirty barracks-bitch. I knew if I waited, you would come to me.”

Zandakar stared at the shriveled old man, he heard his heart beating, felt tears burn his eyes. Hano ? This was Hano ? The friend from his childhood that his sin sent away, whose death he’d wept for in secret for so long? Hano conspired with demons against them?

God, god, this is not fair. Living Hano fallen to demons? How much better if he were dead.

His mother pointed to Jokriel city, to the ragged warband behind him. “This is your doing, Hanochek? You have enticed these stupid slaves to sin, to their deaths? Aieee, a blessing that Raklion is ashes, you would kill him with your treachery, with your sin against his son!”

“ My sin?” said Hano, his face full of hate. “ You are the sinner, Raklion’s death is in your eye, bitch! Hold your tongue or I will cut it out.” He swung his horse sideways, he held out his hand. “Zandakar, Zandakar, have you no words for me? Your beloved father’s beloved friend? Your friend, too, if you can remember.”

He had never forgotten. “You call Raklion your friend yet you raise a warhost against his son?” Zandakar blinked hard, willed away the pain behind his eyes. “If you can do this, Hano, then I never knew you. I do not know you now. We were never friends.”

The Empress his mother laughed softly beside him. Hanochek ignored her, he nudged his tattered horse closer and pressed a scarred, scabby fist to his heart. “Zandakar, listen. I am not your enemy, I tell you, believe it. What I have done is done for you and your brother, to save you from this demon-bitch who destroyed your father.”

Pain turned to rage in a blink, in a heartbeat. He backed his stallion three paces, if Hanochek touched him he would vomit blood. “You corrupted a godhouse to save us? You slaughtered faithful godspeakers to save us? You consort with demons , Hano, to save us? May the god save us all from friends such as you!”

“I did not kill godspeakers, I killed demons in human flesh!” Hano shouted. “ Her creatures, summoned from hell to do her bidding, and the bidding of her tame high godspeaker Vortka!”

Zandakar felt his fingers tighten, felt the power surging in his blood. On his arm the god’s hammer heated. “Do not speak of the Empress like that. Do not speak of Vortka high godspeaker like that. They are godchosen and precious, they are in the god’s eye.”

“Aieee, Zandakar, listen to me!” Now there were tears on Hano’s old cheeks. “I loved Raklion warlord more than my life. When I heard he was dead I swore I would save you and your brother. I gave my life to you both from that moment on. Every breath since that day has been for you. This warhost behind me, I created it for you. I harvested the savage north and made warriors for you.”