The Godspeaker Trilogy (53 page)

She felt herself smile. There will be strife enough to please me now, even in that stupid palace. The god has made me its warleader. Every snakeblade in Mijak is mine.

She rode to the stables and gave the red mare to one slave, sent another to find Arakun shell-leader. He came to her running and pressed his fist to his breast.

“Hekat knife-dancer. How is Raklion? He brought us the warriors of those fallen warlords, he did not stay for sacrifice. Nagarak led him away. He looked—” Arakun swallowed. “Weary.”

The stables were bustling, they always bustled. She jerked her chin and led Arakun outside, to some empty shadows behind a blacksmith’s forge.

“He is weary, Arakun, and more than that,” she said, her voice soft. “Wicked Banotaj tried to slay him. I killed that sinning warlord, his flesh rots in the sun. Nagarak heals Raklion in the godhouse, he will be himself again. Until he rides among us I speak with his voice.”

Arakun’s slanted grey eyes widened. “Aieee! Hekat knife-dancer!”

“No longer, Arakun. I am Hekat warleader. Hanochek is banished, you will never see him again.”

“ Banished?” said Arakun. “Because of Zandakar?”

She frowned. “Because of many things. It is a lesson. No man is mightier than the god.”

Still Arakun was staring. “You are the warleader . . .”

“And I speak with the warlord’s voice. I say to you, shell-leader, summon every warrior to the warhost field. Have the warriors of those fallen warlords taken there under close guard.”

His fist thumped his breast, he seemed almost overcome. “Warleader.”

He turned to leave her, on impulse she stopped him. “Arakun!”

“Warleader?”

“Zandakar’s dead pony. Was its hide stripped for tanning?”

Arakun looked puzzled. “I think so, warleader.”

“I want that hide given to the barracks seamsters. I want it swiftly made into leggings for my son.”

“Yes, warleader. I will take the hide to them myself.”

She bared her teeth at him. “That was my meaning,” she told him, still softly, and laughed in her heart at the fear in his eyes.

Ram-horns were sounded throughout the barracks, the warhost assembled on the warhost field. Hekat stood on the warlord’s dais and waited for the last warrior to arrive. The sixty warriors serving those fallen warlords came last of all, chivvied before her by Arakun and some spear-throwers. They stood uncertain in their plain tunics and leggings, their sigiled breastplates were taken from them, they were slaves without masters. Men and women, they needed a leader.

Hekat considered them. I am your leader. I am your master. From this moment forward you will serve me .

Then she looked at her warhost. “Warriors, it is I! Hekat knife-dancer, mated to Raklion. Zandakar’s mother and Bajadek’s doom. Raklion was wounded by wicked Banotaj, he recovers in the godhouse, in the god’s healing eye. Until he returns my voice is his voice. I speak with his tongue. His tongue says I am your warleader. Hanochek is gone. Banotaj is dead by my hand, the other warlords are thrown down. The god has spoken in the Heart of Mijak. Raklion is its chosen man. Raklion is now the warlord of Mijak. Where the sun shines in Mijak, he is Mijak’s warlord. Where the rain falls on the ground, he rules over all.”

In the humming silence, one fallen warlord’s warrior broke free. “ Lies !” he cried, waving his fists in fury. “I have a warlord, his name is Takona. Raklion is nothing, I spit on his name!”

Smiling fiercely, Hekat leapt from the dais. She killed the warrior, danced her snakeblade through his heart. He fell at her feet, his blood on the outside, his eyes were empty as they stared at the sky.

“Now you are nothing,” she told his corpse. “You are in hell.” She looked at the others. “Who wishes to join him?”

Not one of them answered. There was whispering in her gathered warhost. Some of her warriors even laughed. She did not chastise them, they were pure in her eyes.

She said to the fallen warlords’ warriors, “The god has spoken. Mijak has one warhost, one warleader. Hekat . You will serve it, warriors. You will serve me. If you refuse I will give your godsparks to demons. You will join this stupid man in hell. Arakun !”

“Warleader!” said Arakun. He was not stupid.

“Take them away, keep them under guard. They will be assigned to their own shells, in the god’s time.”

Arakun nodded, he summoned the spear-throwers. They herded the chastened warriors away.

She turned her back on them, and looked at her warhost. The faces that were close enough to see belonged to warriors she knew, had trained, had fought with. She had no friends among them, but they were still familiar. She saw confusion, uncertainty, doubt and fear.

She raised her hands to them, the god was in her voice. It was in her scorpion amulet, heavy round her neck. “Do not be concerned, brave warriors of Et-Raklion. Warriors of Mijak. You are the god’s chosen, it has chosen you. It sees you in its admiring eye, it knows there are no greater warriors under Mijak’s burning sun. You will lead Mijak’s warhost, the other warhosts will kneel at your feet. The god has blessed me, to make me your warleader. I would lead no other warhost, you are precious in my eye!”

Her carrying voice freed them from silence. If they thought of Hanochek, they did not say his name. They surged towards her with their arms outstretched.

“Hekat! Hekat! The god sees Hekat! Raklion’s warleader, Zandakar’s mother! Bajadek’s doom and the doom of his son!”

She let them surround her, crowd her, touch her. She greeted them kindly, they were hers to kiss or kill.

Aieee, Zandakar, my son, my son. See the gift I have to give you. See how I love you, all these warriors are yours.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

S
o. Vortka. You are returned from the wilderness a tested godspeaker.” Nagarak’s fingers drummed his stone desk. “In a time of upheaval, the god sees you in its eye.”

Vortka’s hands were clasped behind him, he felt his knuckles crack. The high godspeaker had summoned him after lowsun sacrifice, he had stood waiting outside the high godspeaker’s chamber for a finger, maybe more. The standing was a punishment, he knew that. He had expected it, and was resigned. Nagarak was not happy he had been waiting at the Warriors’ Gate.

He nodded. “Yes, high godspeaker.”

Nagarak sat back, his eyes were half-lidded. He blinked like a sandcat, slow and dangerous. “I am told you were present when the warlord’s son was injured.”

Of course someone had told him. He had not said so himself, there had been no time. Nagarak had dismissed him to the godhouse after the briefest of explanations on the road. “Yes, high godspeaker.”

“What were you doing in the barracks, Vortka? You are not a barracks godspeaker. I am told you were assigned to the library until my return from the Heart of Mijak.”

“I was ill, high godspeaker. I—”

“A fever,” said Nagarak. “Yes. I am told. The healers say it was a strange fever. It came on you suddenly and no other godspeaker was afflicted. Can you explain that?”

No. He could not. Feverish maladies were common in Mijak, a legacy from the distant past, but they claimed many victims. Not just one. He had his suspicions, he would not voice them to Nagarak.

I can hardly bear to voice them to myself.

He said, “Forgive me, high godspeaker. I am at a loss to understand it.”

“It is known, Vortka godspeaker, that a demon in the flesh brings with it strange fevers.”

Vortka felt himself go cold. “You think I am demonstruck ?”

Nagarak pretended he did not hear the question. “So. Vortka godspeaker. You were in the barracks because you had been ill.”

“I was walking, high godspeaker,” he croaked. “Regaining my strength. Sidik godspeaker said I should. It is peaceful in the barracks, where the warriors are not training. It is a pleasant place to walk with the god.”

Nagarak’s eyebrows lifted. “And you walked there when the warlord’s son fell from his pony. When the animal lost its footing, I am told, and crashed to the ground.”

He nodded, his mouth dry. “Yes, high godspeaker.”

“Is it not a wonder the pony did not fall on Zandakar and crush him to death.”

Aieee, a great wonder. When he closed his eyes to sleep in the godhouse, that dreadful moment rose to torment him. Zandakar galloping, laughing, his godbraids flying with his joy. Hanochek watching, encouraging, shouting. A falter, a mis-step, and the pony was twisting, falling, its hindquarters flailing, its neck snapping like wood. And Zandakar, vulnerable Zandakar, tossed from his saddle and into the air, striking the hard ground and screaming his pain.

Repressing a shudder, he made himself meet Nagarak’s piercing, lidded stare. “Yes, high godspeaker. The god sees Zandakar in its eye. It kept him safe.”

Nagarak sat forward. “Your godchosen sacrifice knife, Vortka. Show it to me.”

His true knife was hidden in the trunk of a half-dead tree in the godhouse shrine garden. It was the only safe place he’d been able to think of, no tree was cut down in the godhouse, not until it was fully dead. He gave Nagarak the other knife, the one he had chosen without the god’s guidance, and waited as the high godspeaker held it before his eyes.

The god has kept my secret safe, Peklia has not told him of that other knife. If Nagarak knew of it I would be on the scorpion wheel, screaming. The god will protect me now, be still.

“Your hand,” said Nagarak.

Vortka held out his hand. Nagarak seized it and sliced the knife’s blade through his palm. Blood welled, pain blazed. Nagarak dropped the knife to his desk and dragged his fingers through the thick red blood. Then he raised them to his lips and sucked.

Vortka watched light-headed as Nagarak tested him. “Your blood is clean. I taste no demon-taint in you,” the high godspeaker said at last. He sounded grudging. Disappointed.

Vortka released the air from his lungs and willed his knees not to give way. “High godspeaker.”

Nagarak took out his godstone and healed the deep cut he had made. Then he handed back the sacrificial knife. “I do not like that you were there when the warlord’s son fell from his pony. I do not like that you waited at the Warriors’ Gate for the warlord to return from Mijak’s Heart. I do not like that you are afflicted with strange fevers. Before you went into the wilderness I told you, Vortka: you are not humble, there are secrets in your heart. I told you I would pluck them out.”

“Yes, high godspeaker,” he whispered.

Nagarak sat back again, his expression disgruntled. “You are tested in the wilderness, the god has seen you in its eye. You are tested in this godhouse, I have tasted your blood and it is clean. It makes no difference, I do not trust you .”

He almost protested, he bit his tongue to blood. One ill-considered word and Nagarak would smite him to pieces. Aieee, god. If I am sent away now . . . whisper in his heart, god. Do not let him send me away!

Dropping to his knees before Nagarak’s stone desk he said, “If that is true, high godspeaker, I have failed you. I beg your forgiveness. I swear to you I serve the god, the god dwells in my heart, I feel its presence. I believe the god guided my feet to the barracks horse-field. I waited with Zandakar as Hanochek warleader ran for help, I staunched Zandakar’s bleeding wound, I kept him calm and quiet until the healers came.”

In his dreams he still heard his son, weeping, heard him call for his mother, heard his piteous moans of pain. The sounds woke him, sweating, as he woke he heard his own voice, saying again what he’d said then: Hush, Zandakar. Hush, little warlord. Vortka is with you. Do not be afraid .

Nagarak slammed his fist to his desk. “You are arrogant, Vortka! You do not presume to say what the god has done! That is my purpose, I am high godspeaker.”

Vortka bowed his head. “Yes, high godspeaker.”

“You are godseen and tested, you are here to serve the god.” Nagarak stood, he loomed over his desk. “You will not serve it far from my sight. You will present yourself to Hadrik godspeaker, he is in charge of the godspeakers who walk Et-Raklion in the quiet time. Every night until I say the god desires your different service, you will walk the city’s streets, you will smite any sinner who dares violate the god’s peace. If you are not walking the streets you will remain in the godhouse. You will not set foot in the barracks again. You will not see Zandakar in your eye. You will not speak with the warleader, Hekat’s voice is forbidden to you.”

He felt a jolt of shock. Hekat was the warleader? What had happened to Hanochek? Had she killed him in her rage?

The fault was not his, Hekat. God, let her not have killed him.

“Lift your head, Vortka! Look into my face!” commanded Nagarak. “Do you hear my words? Do you hear them in your heart?”

Beneath his worry for Hanochek seethed a harsh relief. I will stay, I will stay. He does not banish me. Thank you, god . He looked up. “Yes, high godspeaker. I hear your words in my heart. In the god’s eye I swear to you, I am its true and honest servant.”

Nagarak smiled, it was a smile filled with rage. “Your mouth dribbles sweet words, do not think I am swayed. If you disobey even one of these commands, Vortka, the god will throw you down in the dirt. It will destroy you. I will destroy you. I am the god’s smiting hand in the world.”

Vortka nodded. “Yes, high godspeaker. I hear your commands, I will obey them. I serve the god.”

“See that you do. I will be watching,” said Nagarak. “Go now. You begin your service on Et-Raklion’s streets after lowsun sacrifice.”

Sweating beneath his godspeaker robe, Vortka escaped the high godspeaker’s impotent fury. He presented himself to Hadrik godspeaker, who expected him. Hadrik gave him a godstaff, for the smiting of sinners abroad in the quiet time, and left him alone with tablets that explained all he must know of sins, and sinners, and how to smite them for the god. When the godbells rang he went to lowsun sacrifice, and after that ate soup and flat bread in the godhouse kitchen. It was three more fingers until the quiet time, he returned to Hadrik to be tested on his understanding. Hadrik pronounced him competent enough. He took his godstaff and walked the almost empty Pinnacle Road down to the city.