The Godspeaker Trilogy (30 page)

“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?”

Raklion came close to striking Hano, then. Hano knew it, and retreated.

The gelding Sabat bowed his head. “Warlord, we did not know she was in labor. After her supper she dismissed her slaves and retired. She gave no sign that anything was wrong.”

The chamber reeked of blood and death. Raklion nodded, hearing the slave’s words as though they traveled from beyond Mijak’s distant borders. “Fetch her slaves without delay.”

The gelding bowed and withdrew.

As he waited for the Daughter’s attendants, Raklion gazed upon his son. A delicate skull capped in drying black curls. Long limbs. Slender fingers. Beneath the smearing mucus, light skin hinting at a glossy darkness to come. If he’d had eyes, he would have been beautiful.

“Warlord, I grieve with you,” said Hano, weeping.

He nodded, but could not speak. He had no tears, his heart was a desert.

The gelding returned with the Daughter’s slaves. Ten in all, the youngest a girl of six or seven. Raklion ordered them to kneel. He pulled the snakeblade from the Daughter’s flesh and killed them, one by one he watered his heart’s desert with the blood of the sinners who had failed his son. He killed the gelding Sabat last of all, and not as swiftly as he’d killed the others.

Done with that, leaving Hanochek to stand guard over the corpses, he walked alone, daubed with scarlet, up Raklion’s Pinnacle to the godhouse, to Nagarak, who must answer for this terrible thing. The bloodied snakeblade was still in his fist.

It was late but Nagarak was waking, seated cross-legged before the altar in his most private sanctum, whose scented air only he and the warlord were permitted to breathe. Carved jet scorpions climbed the walls, emerald and crimson snakes decorated each flat surface.

“Are you high godspeaker,” Raklion demanded, framed in the doorway of that sacred room, “or some hell-escaped demon tasked to plague me?”

Nagarak wore a loincloth and his scorpion pectoral. Its black highlights gleamed as his thin chest rose and fell. “You bring a knife into this place? You tempt the god to a great smiting, Raklion.”

He threw the blood-clotted blade to the floor. “My son is dead , Nagarak! Slain by the Daughter. He was abominate, he was born without eyes . What else could she do but slit his throat? She is dead too, she killed herself after.” He took one step towards the silent high godspeaker, then collapsed disjointed as his muscles and sinews undid themselves. “How has this happened? If you are high godspeaker you must know! Or are you deaf to the god, Nagarak? Is your power drained into the dirt? Have your eyes been blinded to the omens in the entrails, the clouds, the tracks of scorpions in the dust? How could you let a demon deform him? You said I would have a living son !”

Like a striking snake Nagarak rose to his bare feet. His polished face was raw with anger, he loomed like the god’s wrath with his fist raised high.

“You chastise me , warlord? The god desired you sire a son. If that son is thwarted, look to yourself! What seed of sin is rooted in your heart, that has led to this grim flowering? What have you done, that the god would smite you so?”

Bruised and aching, Raklion stared up at him. “You tell me the god took my son’s eyes?”

“I tell you Et-Nogolor’s Daughter was surrounded by every amulet, every charm, every chanting this godhouse could devise!” said Nagarak. “Every day five pure white lambs given to the altar, their blood drained and fed to her by sanctified hands! No demon insinuated itself in the Women’s Chambers, warlord. You are smitten by the god for an evil in your heart.”