The Godspeaker Trilogy (227 page)

“Majesty, I – I can't do that,” Dexterity stammered. “I don't know how it works, I don't—”

“Han,” said Alasdair, turning away. “You can witch Rhian away from here. Take her to Tzhung-tzhungchai. Please . Save her life.”

“Alasdair, stop it!” Rhian said before Han could reply. Almost, she slapped him. “Are you mad? How can you of all people ask me to leave?”

Alasdair's eyes were brilliant with tears. “How can I not? You're my wife, Rhian.”

“I'm Ethrea's queen first!”

His head snapped back as though she'd struck him. Then he turned to Zandakar. “You tell her. She'll listen to you.”

But Zandakar was staring as though Alasdair were a stranger. “Rhian hushla cannot leave. She is a warrior, zho ?”

“You want her dead?” Alasdair demanded. “You want your brother to kill her? All she's ever done is defend you, Zandakar, and this is how you're going to repay her? Or maybe this is what you always had planned. A gift for your mother, the Empress of Mijak! Give Rhian to her and all will be forgiven, is that it?”

“ Alasdair !” Rhian tried to touch him, but he knocked her hand aside. “Please. There's no time . We have to join Idson and the soldiers. We're going to be fighting in a handful of—”

A swirling breeze, tainted with smoke. A whisper of windchimes. And dozens of witch-men stepped out of the air.

She spun round, disbelieving. “ Han ?”

His smile was a travesty of the cool, self-contained calm she'd come to expect. “Sun-dao says Tzhung-tzhungchai must help. A wise man always listens to his brother.”

She stared at him, and he stared back.

“These are all the witch-men I have to give,” he added. “I have none left to defend your duchies.”

She nodded, drowned in sorrow. “It's all right. Han, thank you. You've been a better friend than I could hope for.”

“Little queen,” he said. His eyes were warm.

“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

The incoming tide of fire was almost upon them. The smoke was thickening, choking, burning everyone's throat and eyes. Only minutes remained, surely, before the last of their desperate blockade was destroyed and the warships of Mijak reached the harbour piers.

Crimson bolts searing, the promise of death.

Han's witch-men were spreading along the harbour front. Turning, Rhian glimpsed more witch-men on Kingseat's streets and scattered rooftops. One by one they spread their arms wide, tilting their faces to the morning sky. A wind started rising, it whipped their unbound hair, whipped clouds out of thin air, whipped the debris-choked waters of the harbour to life.

“Helfred, return to the great chapel,” she told her prolate. “We need your prayers as never before, and you'll at least be a little protected there.”

“I don't want to leave you,” said Helfred white-faced with fright. “You've always been in my care, Rhian.”

Oh, Helfred . “I'm in God's care now. Help my people, prolate. Dexterity—”

“I promised Ursa I'd help her tend any wounded,” Dexterity said unsteadily. “Majesty – Rhian—”

“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

The chanting was so loud she could feel it in her bones. The warships of Mijak were pouring into the harbour behind the ship carrying Dmitrak and his gauntlet. Even through the gusting smoke and dancing fire she could see them, each full-bellied sail painted with a black scorpion. She could hear the steady thud and splash of their oars.

Her eyes stung, her vision blurred, as she looked at Dexterity. In a moment he'd leave her…and they might never meet again.

“God keep you, my dear friend,” she whispered, holding him tight.

Dexterity's embrace threatened to crack her ribs. “You're a good girl, Rhian. You always were. God bless.”

“Rhian,” said Zandakar. The scorpion knife was in his hand now, blue fire flickering up and down its thin blade. His eyes were fierce. “We go now, zho ?”

Like his witch-men, Han was summoning the wind. It was too late to wish him luck, too late to—

A searing bolt of crimson soared high above her head. Rhian spun on her heels, watched it fly over Kingseat's huddled buildings and strike her castle's wall. Flame and stone gouted into the air.

“God's mercy!” cried Helfred.

Too late to do anything but take Alasdair's hand, and run.

Dmitrak laughed as he sailed into the harbour, sailed through the smoke and Ethrea's pitiful, shattered defences, sucking pleasure from the moment like it was a bitch's tit. He could have obliterated in heartbeats the choke of wooden boats meant to stop him, but aieee, the god see him, it was better done slowly.

The demons of Kingseat deserved to fear.

As he laughed, his godbells sang. The god was pleased with him, he had pleased the god. Its power surged in his blood, thicker and hotter than ever he had felt it, his bones were burning for the god. He stood in his warship's bow and poured the god through his hammer, watched the blood-red flame destroy everything it touched, watched the flimsy defence of wooden boats burn and sink in his path.

The warriors of his warhost – his warhost, his warhost – were chanting to shake the sun from the sky.

“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

This township of Kingseat was as large as any he had thrown down before, larger than any dead Zandakar had destroyed when he was in the god's eye.

I serve the god now. Dmitrak warlord, hammer of the god.

Then Hekat behind him screamed in rage. “Demons! Demons! Dmitrak, there are demons!”

He turned on her, his gauntlet pulsing, the power in it barely contained. “You will not kill any more of my warriors! I will kill these demons, I am the god's hammer!”

Never in his life had he spoken to Hekat like that. Never in his life had she looked at him with fear. He could see the fear in her, he could see she was afraid.

“The warlord is right, Empress,” said Vortka. “Heed his words. Dead warriors cannot ride into this Kingseat, dead warriors cannot dance with their snakeblades for the god.”

Hekat was so afraid, she did not strike Vortka for speaking.

Dmitrak laughed again, his godbells were laughing. Hekat was silenced. He had silenced Mijak's empress.

Turning his back on her, he stared at Kingseat township, at the buildings crowded around the harbour, at the streets sloping up towards the craggy outcropping behind it, at the looming palace with its glittering windows and high walls. There were people on those walls, there were people in the streets. He could see the flash of sunshine on metal. Aieee, tcha, they were stupid. These breathing dead people of Ethrea thought their metal skins could save them.

A sharp wind rose in the harbour, power danced over his skin. He had felt that power before, it was not his or the god's. There were demons in this place.

“Dmitrak!” shouted Hekat. “The demons are waking!”

I know that, I can feel that. Do I need you to tell me? I think I do not.

Below the decks of his warship he could hear the horses stamping, they were eager to fight. His warriors were eager, they felt the demons and chanted.

“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

He turned again to Hekat, her eyes were blazing. “Empress, I will give you the blood of Kingseat. I will kill all of Kingseat's people and the demons will die.”

“No!” shouted Vortka. “Mijak needs slaves!”

Stupid man, stupid godspeaker, old and worn out and blind in the god's eye.

Beneath his feet the warship lurched as its rowing warriors battled the rising wind and rising waves those demons woke against the god and the warhost.

It was time for those demons to die.

As the demons' wind howled, as black clouds boiled into the sky, as lightning stabbed them and the harbour whipped to white foam, as killing waterspouts writhed and lashed, Dmitrak summoned the god to its hammer, he poured the god from his blood into the world.

He smashed Kingseat's palace, and the people in it. There were demons in that palace, as they died he felt them scream.

“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

Warship by warship his warhost filled the harbour. Warship by warship they plunged towards the docks.

The demons were desperate, they flung their power against him. He rode in his warship's bow and smashed them with his fist. His warship had almost reached the dock, he could see the demons around the harbour with their black hair and their black clothes whipping in the wind. He could see the bright metal skins of the Ethreans who served them, they milled in the streets like goats loosed from a pen. They would be dead soon. Their blood would serve the god.

He heard a great cry, a roaring of fury, he saw three of his warships plunge splintered beneath the harbour's waves. Then two more were ruined, huge stones flying through the air. They were flying from the palace, they had catapults, like the demon ships that had sailed against him.

He clung with one hand to the railing of his warship and aimed his gauntlet at that palace. He hammered it to rubble and the catapults, too. He hammered the people in the palace and on the streets.

And then he saw the waterspouts collapsing, he felt the wind falter, he saw the black-cloud sky clear. He looked at the harbour docks and saw demons dying, he felt them die as their power bled away. They died, they dropped, they could not stand against Mijak.

Before he could kill the demons who were not dead, they stepped into the air and disappeared from sight. He was angry, he did not let his anger blind him.

They cannot hide forever. I will find them, they will die.

With no howling wind to hide voices, he heard Vortka shouting at Hekat.

“You are the empress! You cannot ride to war!”

She shoved her fist against his chest. “Vortka, you are stupid! Hekat always rides to war!”

“When she was young, yes,” said Vortka. “She is no longer young, the power that was in her from those ten thousand slaves, that power is gone. You are weary. You will die.” Vortka was weeping, he was a soft weeping man. “I do not want you to die, Hekat. You must stay here with me and live.”

Dmitrak watched Hekat. Will she soften? I think she will not .

“Vortka high godspeaker is right!” he said. “You are Hekat, you must give the god the world. Can you give it the world if you are dead in your blood? I think you cannot do that, I think you must stay here!”

She stepped forward and struck him, her hand struck his cheek. She was old, she was powerless, the blow still hurt. “I am Hekat of Mijak, I am empress for the god. Do you give me orders, Dmitrak? I think you do not. I will ride with my warhost, it is where I belong.”

He felt his blood simmer, he felt the rage in his fist. My warhost. My warhost. You belong on a pyre . “Empress, there are slaves here, the god needs their blood. I will take those slaves prisoner and send them to you. If you are not here for sacrifice who will give the god their blood? Vortka? How can he do that when he does not believe?”

Hekat looked at Vortka, there was doubt in her eyes.

Yes, Empress, doubt him. Do not trust him, trust me. I am the warlord, this war is my war. I am the god's hammer. What are you? An old woman. Your time is come and gone, Hekat, this time is mine.

“Tcha!” said Hekat. “The god see me. Tcha! ”

Dmitrak knelt before her, he knew how to make her feel strong. “You are Mijak's great empress, you are Hekat in the world. You are too precious for risking. Let the world come to you.”

She bared her teeth, she bent low. She fisted her fingers in his scarlet godbraids. His godbells protested, he did not say a word.

“I will kill the slaves you send me, warlord,” she whispered. “I will give the god its strongest blood. You will slaughter Kingseat and its outlying hamlets, I am the empress, I want this demons' nest dead.”

I am the god's hammer. I will smash Kingseat flat. Then I will smash you, Hekat. Mijak has Dmitrak, does it also need an empress? Aieee, the god see me. I think it does not.

He pressed his fist to his chest, he did not show her his heart. “Hekat.”

Kingseat harbour had grown fat with his warhost. With no demons to stop them, warship after warship reached Kingseat's docks. They lowered their ramps, their warriors rode from the ships' bellies, warriors on their horses crowded the docks. They shouted, they chanted, they were ready to kill.

Deserted by their demon masters, the people of Kingseat fired burning arrows and threw stones. Dmitrak laughed as his gauntlet destroyed them. Still laughing he leapt from his warship to the dock, he took his horse from the Ajilik shell-leader and vaulted onto its back. With the god's hammer raised high above his head, he sent its power streaming into the sky.

And then he led his warhost into the township, thousands of warriors to slay Kingseat for the god.

The first mad onslaught of Mijaki warriors into the township thrust Rhian into a nightmare beyond belief. With the witch-men of Tzhung-tzhungchai vanished, or vanquished, no sign of their emperor, no more help from the wind, the noble defence of Kingseat became a battle for survival, became desperate bloodshed and sheer brutal luck. Her army shattered into splinters, skeins and half-skeins, into wildeyed, bloodsoaked bands of soldiers and citizens, men and women, boys and girls. The fighting raged from street to street, roof to roof, door to door. It smashed into houses and out of them again, through bakeries and chandlers and grainstores and taverns, into attics and cellars, in sunlight and in shade.

There was only one gauntlet. The rest of it was knives.

She lost sight of Zandakar first, as the triple-skein of soldiers she led jointly with Alasdair was smashed and scattered by a wall of galloping warriors, chanting and shouting, their belled and braided black hair ringing echoes to the sky.

Not long after that she lost Alasdair as well.

She was dancing hotas with a girl who looked too young for bloodshed…but was old enough to die. As her shortsword sank into the girl's exposed belly, she caught sight of Ethrea's king running for his life down Dancer's Alley with three mounted warriors chanting in pursuit. But she couldn't help him, two more warriors leapt to kill her. She fought one, the soldiers with her fought the other. Both died, very messily.