The Godspeaker Trilogy (67 page)

Nothing angered her more swiftly than to have her word questioned. Her lips tightened, her eyes narrowed, he felt the echoing crack of the taskmaster’s cane. As he stepped back she said, “When have you known me not to be certain?”

“Empress,” he said, and bowed his head.

Vortka came forward, he trod the stone steps down to the dirt and cut the godforsaken criminal’s bindings. She was a large, clumsy woman with small breasts and wide hips, her skin was not uniformly dark, but strangely patchy, pale and brown. She bore a scarlet godbraid, she was a slave.

Zandakar looked at the god’s gold-and-crystal hammer, he felt his power simmer, like water on the fire. All he had to do was to take a deep breath and release it. He did not.

“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.”

CHAPTER FORTY

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?