The Godspeaker Trilogy (69 page)

As though it were a signal, Hanochek’s ragged warhost attacked. Howling, screaming, they galloped forward from a standstill, makeshift weapons above their heads. The god’s warhost responded, five thousand warriors on Et-Raklion’s best horses, surging on a roar of righteous fury towards Hano’s rebels. Arrows whistled through the air overhead, some struck the hard earth and stuck there, quivering. Others found living targets, four enemy horses cartwheeled to the ground, crushing their riders to death beneath them.

On the plain at Zandakar’s feet, demonstruck Hanochek and Mijak’s Empress tangled together in a desperate embrace, grunting, shouting, rolling over and over on the blood-slicked dry grass. Both of them were panting, both of them flailing, both of them striking with their blades.

Aieee, god, protect my mother! She will kill me if I interfere!

He wrenched his fretting stallion round on its haunches, his galloping warhost was almost upon them, Hanochek’s rebels were heartbeats away.

Forgive me, Yuma! I cannot see you killed !

He slid from his stallion, his gloved hammer hand holding fast to the reins, his other hand reaching— reaching—

As his fingers brushed his mother’s bloody shoulder she gave a shout of wild triumph and sank her knife hard between Hano’s ribs. Hanochek screamed, his eyes wide and staring. His mother rolled off him, she was covered in blood.

Zandakar hauled her barely conscious from the slick grass, he flung her facedown across his stallion, then vaulted behind her and looked down at Hanochek.

“You stupid man, you demonstruck sinner! The Empress has killed you. Hano, you are dead !”

“Zandakar—” Hano’s voice was a moan, almost lost in the thunder of oncoming hooves. “She is evil . . . evil . . . you must destroy her . . .”

His mother’s blood stained his stallion red. He wheeled away from Hanochek— Hano, I loved you, how could you, how could you —and galloped for Vortka as the opposing warhosts clashed in battle.

Behind him he heard Hano’s despairing, choked scream, as the first of the god’s warriors trampled him to pulp.

Hano . . . I loved you . . . I thought we were friends . . .

Blinded by tears he urged his stallion onwards, to the distant slow rise and the waiting, watching godspeakers. Vortka ran to meet him, helped Hekat from the horse. Her plain linen tunic glistened wet, bright red. Zandakar flung himself beside her, he caught up her hand.

“Yuma— Yuma —”

Her beautiful scarred face was masked with blood. She opened her eyes and frowned. “Wicked boy,” she whispered, her voice was a thread. “You have abandoned your warhost. What warlord does that, you must lead them, you must fight.”

On the plain below them shouts and knife-clashes, howls of men and horses, screaming. His beloved warriors were fighting, dying, his mother was right, he should be fighting beside them—

“ Go ,” said Vortka, looking up as he and his godspeakers worked furiously with their godstones to staunch her pumping blood. “The god sees the Empress, it will not let her die.”

Zandakar nodded, he released his mother’s hand. It fell to the grass like a dying bird. Fighting grief and weakness he stood and turned away from her, reaching for his stallion’s reins.

“ Zandakar . . .”

He turned back, she would scold him now for weeping. “Are you my son, Zandakar? I think that you are.” Her eyes were shining, with love and rage. “I think you will smite that sinning Jokriel city. I think you will smite its people to hell .”

She did not scold him . “I will,” he promised. “Empress, I will.”

She did not reply. Her voice had faded to silence, he could not see her ribcage lift, her hands were still, she did not see him.

“Empress! Yuma !”

“You heard her, Zandakar!” Vortka’s face was terrible. “You are the warlord, obey her command!”

He leapt on his stallion and galloped to the battle, unsheathing his snakeblade as he rode. He entered the bloodbath with his mouth wide, screaming. Hanochek’s warhost was no match for his. Hano had been demonstruck to pit them against him.

How long he fought for he never knew, after. He knew he was wounded, he knew he was bloody, he knew every rebel he met died by his hand. In every direction there were warriors dying, some were his own men, most were not. When nearly all of Hano’s warhost was defeated, slaughtered and sundered and strewn upon the ground, he signaled his warhost to fall back to safety. He confronted Hano’s survivors with their deaths in his eye.

The god’s hammer struck them, its power ignited them, beneath the high blue sky their flesh was consumed. When the last of Hanochek’s rebels were dead, were nothing, he rode with his warhost to sinning Jokriel city. He rode in dreadful silence, his mother, his Yuma, so wounded behind him. He had failed to protect her, he would not fail her now.

The sinning people of Jokriel city saw him coming. Some hid in the shadows, others hid behind doors. He saw their faces in windows, he saw them cowering behind pillars, he saw wicked men and their women, he saw their sinful sons.

At the entrance to the city, where its gates had once stood, he halted his stallion, he halted his warhost, he bent his cold gaze upon doomed Jokriel. In his leather-clad breast his heart was a hammer, it tolled like a godbell, it echoed his grief.

Yuma . . . Yuma . . .

Grief became rage, tears turned to flame, the god’s furious power built in his bones. His gold-and-crystal weapon shimmered into life. He raised his arm, he clenched his fist.

“Behold, you sinners of Jokriel! I am Zandakar warlord, son of the Empress! Warlord of Mijak in the god’s eye! This city is judged and condemned, it is given to demons, it must not stand beneath the sun!”

In the early cool stillness, his voice carried cleanly. Jokriel city’s people heard it, they cried out in alarm, they huddled together or else tried to flee. Zandakar watched them, he felt no pity. They had turned on the Empress. His mother, his Yuma. They had sinned with demons. They did not deserve to live. With his eyes wide open he summoned his power, he sent blue-white fire in streams against the city. As the god’s wrath burst from his body, his warhost cried out.

“ Zandakar! Zandakar! Zandakar warlord! Son of the Empress, in the god’s eye!”

The nearest buildings blew apart. The empty sky rained stone splinters and ragged chunks of rock. The air filled with smoke, with the stench of death. Screams of the godforsaken rang in his ears. Controlling his stallion, riding forward, he called upon the power again. More buildings shattered, more sinners perished. More blood ran like water in the streets.

He laughed to see it. He wanted more.

As he laid Jokriel city low with his smiting hand, as he reduced it to rubble, to a charnel house, to memory, he shouted and shouted and shouted out loud:

“ For the Empress! For Hekat! For the god in the world!”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

T
he god was appeased by Jokriel city’s smiting. Hekat did not die of her many wounds, Vortka high godspeaker and his healers saved her. After Hanochek and his rebels’ destruction, warriors were sent to the nearest village, they returned with a cart that might carry her home to Et-Raklion. Zandakar drove it himself, Vortka rode in the back with the wounded Empress.

Hanochek’s demonstruck rebellion was thwarted, yet it was a slow and sorrowful journey home. Not one warrior among them had believed the Empress was mortal .

Et-Raklion city greeted them with sacrifice and amulets and coins of bronze and gold; by that time Hekat could sit on a horse. A warrior was sent ahead to warn Vortka’s godspeakers, the godtheater was filled, Et-Raklion’s people cheered their return. Hekat sat on her scorpion throne, only Zandakar beside her could see what that cost.

It broke his heart, he wept on the inside.

Afterwards Vortka took her to the godhouse, where she might receive more healing and regain her lost strength. Zandakar distracted himself with his warhost business, soon they would ride from Mijak across the Sand River. Into the unknown world, full of demons. It was a daunting thought, he tried not to think of it. He lived in the barracks, and hardly saw Dmitrak.

A godmoon after riding triumphant through the gates of Et-Raklion city, Vortka sent for him from the godhouse. He answered the summons at once, running hard up the Pinnacle Road. Despite the whisper in his heart, he prayed and prayed with every stride.

Do not let it be Yuma, god. Let it not be bad news.

“There is no use in softening the blow, Zandakar,” the high godspeaker said, standing before the altar in his private chamber. “The Empress is stricken. She lives, she will not die, but only if she remains in Et-Raklion. Hanochek’s wounding of her, together with the hurts she suffered when birthing Dmitrak, they have stolen her strength, Zandakar. I cannot reclaim it. She cannot ride with the warhost. She must stay behind, it is the god’s changed desire.”

Zandakar nodded. Hadn’t he known this? Hadn’t he felt this shadow on his skin? He looked away. A moment later, Vortka’s consoling hand came to rest on his shoulder.

“This is the god’s want. I have lived three highsuns in the Divination chamber, I have read more omens in that short time than in my previous seasons as Mijak’s high godspeaker. I am not mistaken, the god’s voice shouts.”

“I do not doubt you, Vortka,” he said. “The god is the god, it will have its way. Does the Empress know?”

Vortka nodded. “Yes. I have told her.”

A shiver of apprehension touched him. “How did she receive the news?”

“She attempted to smite me with it,” said Vortka dryly. “Your mother is a fighting woman.”

Despite his pain, Zandakar laughed. Vortka laughed with him, it was a kind moment. “The god knows she is.” He could not keep smiling. “Aieee, it is a cruel thing. Did the god tell you, Vortka, why its desire changed?”

“No. The god does not share with us all of its mysteries. Zandakar, she wishes to see you.”

“Then, high godspeaker, I must go.”

“Zandakar—”

He looked back, half a step from the chamber door. “High godspeaker?”

Vortka’s face was concerned, his dark eyes cautious. “We have not spoken of Jokriel city.”

No. They had not. Hekat had consumed them on the hard ride home, and besides, he was not ready.

I am not ready now.

“That city’s destruction was the god’s desire, Zandakar,” said Vortka firmly. “It could not have fallen were it not the god’s will.”

It could not have fallen without me, Vortka. Without me, the god’s hammer, that city would still stand . He said, “Yes. I know that.”

Vortka came a little closer. “And yet you grieve, I think.”

Yes. With his rage burned away, and his mother still living, there was room for some grief in his heart. In his heart were the memories of all those dead people. Many charred to cinders, many more crushed beneath stone. Poor smitten city, reduced to rubble and ruin. He made himself look into Vortka’s eyes. “Am I stupid, high godspeaker? I am the god’s hammer. Hammers are bone and iron, they do not grieve.”

He had never before told Vortka a lie.

Vortka smiled. He said, “The wicked in that city are gone to hell where they belong. The innocents who died there, if there were innocents, they are with the god. Let that be your comfort, Zandakar, when your dreams are dark.”

Aieee, Vortka. How well you know me . “High godspeaker,” he said, and pressed his fist to his heart.

He left the high godspeaker and went to his mother, in the healing chamber that had become her home. She laughed to see him, her face was so thin, beneath her laughter he could see anger, and anguish.

He sat beside her on the healing couch, he kissed her fingers and held her hands. “Vortka has told me. Yuma, I am sorry.”

She was rarely moved to softness, she tossed her head and looked away. “Tcha! He is stupid, that Vortka, he fusses and fidgets. Much more of this nonsense I will ask the god for a new high godspeaker!”

“Yuma . . . you do not mean that.”

“No,” she sighed. “I do not.” Her water-sheened eyes looked around the chamber. “Raklion rested here, after Banotaj’s smiting of him in Mijak’s Heart. He never truly recovered.” Her face twisted. “But I am not Raklion, an old man of many seasons. I would not be here if I had been whole to begin with.”

Of course. She blamed Dmitrak. She always blamed Dmitrak. “Yuma, I know the god’s want disappoints you, but Dimmi—”

She pulled her hands away. “It is the truth, Zandakar, I will not hear you deny it! That brat spoiled my body, he has thwarted my plans!”

He took a deep breath, he let it out slowly. “Your plans, Empress, but not the god’s.”

She almost struck him, he felt her whole body tense. He was a man now, he did not flinch. After a moment, the urge to violence left her. She settled on her pillows and folded her arms. “I have decided you will take him with you.”

Astonished, he stared at her. “Across the Sand River? Into the world and the godless lands? Yuma, how can I? You said it with your own tongue, Dimmi is a child .”

She would not look at him. “Tcha! You said he is growing fast, you said he will be a mighty warrior. Where best to become that than with you and my warhost?”

“Yuma . . .” He shook his head, his godbells chimed dismay. “I do not think this a wise decision. If I should fall beyond the Sand River, Dmitrak must be warlord after me. If I should fall, he might be in danger. He—”

“ You will not fall !” His mother’s eyes blazed with fury. “It is a sin to say such a thing, you doubt the god with those words, do you think yourself too old for tasking? I will send for Vortka, he will bind you to the scorpion wheel, he will—” She broke off, coughing, wheezing for air.

Alarmed, he reached for her, she pushed him away. “Aieee, Zandakar, you disappoint me!”

Her words were a snakeblade, slid between his ribs. “ No , Yuma, I—”

Her clenched fists beat against her laboring chest. “That demon Hanochek, from hell he thwarts me! From hell he conspires with Nagarak to thwart me. I cannot remain here, I am Hekat, the Empress, godtouched and precious, I must ride to the world!”

Nagarak? She was raving, overcome by her infirmity. This time, when he reached for her, she did not push him away. She fell against his shoulder, for the first time in his life he heard her weep. Appalled, he held her, like a child he rocked her, she wept like a baby.