The Godspeaker Trilogy (72 page)

He had never spoken of that voice in the godpool. The feeling of warmth and love he had not felt since. He did not want to speak of it now, not openly. It was . . . private. Not even to be shared with his flesh and blood.

“If you do not hear words, do you at least sense its presence?”

Dimmi shrugged. “Of course. All warriors feel the god’s presence, Zanda, the god fills us in battle, it guides our snakeblades.”

“Tell me what it feels like,” he persisted. “What you feel, when it is in you.”

“I think I was right, Zanda, I think you are sickening!” said Dimmi, but then he sighed. “Heat. Hate. Cold. Rage. Those are the things I feel when I am filled with the god.”

I think I did too, once. I can barely remember. Now I only feel sorrow. When I smite with the hammer, when I raze those sinning cities, sorrow and sorrow. All I want to do is weep.

He could never tell Dimmi that. Even to Dimmi, he would sound demonstruck. Perhaps I am. Perhaps I am eaten by a demon from Targa, the godspeakers say we did not kill them all, there are steep hills in Targa, mountains filled with deep caves. Vortka could tell me. I wish he was here. I miss his kindness, and his wisdom .

He said, “Yes. Yes, Dmitrak. That is what the god’s warriors feel.”

And if I no longer feel that, what have I become?

A slave came to the tent-front then, bowed its head and said, “Warlord, Akida shell-leader and her warband have returned.”

Akida, Arakun’s fearsome daughter. Better with a snakeblade than even her sire. Another woman Dimmi had eyes for, but not even Dimmi risked fucking a warrior on conquest. If he was caught between her legs, the godspeakers really would tickle him to death, or close enough as would make little difference.

Dimmi said, “You have letters to write, Zanda. I will deal with the warband. After two tensuns of scouting I hope they bring fighting news. My snakeblade is bored with sun and gentle smiles.”

Mine is not, Dimmi. Mine sighs with relief . He nodded. “Give them my greetings and my praise. When you have heard their news, bring it to me. I will be here, as you say. Writing letters.”

Dimmi grinned and departed, pushing the slave ahead of him with a careless shove. Zandakar tugged the work-table back into position, and reached for his mother’s letter to read again before replying.

Looking at her stylus-work, nobody would guess she had not learned to write until she was thirteen. Her symbols were neat and confident, closely spaced, an echoing reflection of her impatient spoken voice. It brought her into the tent with him, if he closed his eyes he could hear her godbells.

It was the first letter he had received for nearly three godmoons. As soon as Drohne was smitten and obedient, the first land they encountered on the other side of the Sand River, he had sent warriors back to Et-Raklion with the news. They had returned to his warhost with more godspeakers, warriors, and citizens of Mijak selected to repopulate the conquered land. The desolate, dangerous Sand River was also tamed, it was as safe to traverse now as they could make it.

With every nation his warhost conquered, the same pattern was followed. It meant warrior-messengers could ride swiftly and securely back to Et-Raklion, and the Empress. Of course, the further away from Mijak they pushed the longer it took for godspeakers, warriors and chosen settlers to arrive and impose the god upon the godless in these lands. That was another reason to wait here, in Harjha. He dreaded the idea they might ride too far, too soon, overstretch their resources, exhaust the warhost. Mijak was so far behind them now, they had the god, but the god did not feed them, clothe them, replace their injured horses, their ruined tunics and breastplates, their damaged weapons, their lives , when they were lost.

I am the warlord. That is my task.

His fingertips stroked the hard dry clay, stroked his mother’s words as, when a child, he had stroked her scars. She told him of her Mijak warhost, growing to fill the barracks emptied at his leaving. She wrote of the chastened savage north and all the slaves it had brought her, of the chastised cities still weeping for smitten Jokriel, let them weep, let them tremble, let them not forget its fate. Zandakar , she admonished him, do not think I have forgotten you need a wife. You must sire a son, a warlord to follow you. I have found another virgin, she is beautiful and obedient. If I do not hear you are willing to meet her I tell you in the god’s eye, I will shut Vortka in a cupboard and ride across the Sand River to drag you home .

Aieee, the god see her, she made him laugh. She would do it, he knew her, he must find a way to soothe and placate. He did not want her docile virgin. He did not want the burden of a son, not until his conquering days were done with. If that meant never, then so be it.

Let Dmitrak follow me, he is also a man, a warrior, the son of an Empress, he is in the god’s eye.

She had not written one word about Dimmi.

The second new letter he had received was written by Vortka, a short note. As Mijak’s high godspeaker, and with Mijak expanding, very little time was his own. Almost completely, he wrote of Hekat. Your mother keeps busy, she is the god’s Empress. Her health is not perfect, I do what I can. Mijak remains peaceful, I trust now every last sprouted seed of Hanochek’s wicked rebellion is plucked out and poisoned, it will not grow again . Of himself he said only, I keep in the god’s eye, as I know you do also. I see you in the omens, you do the god’s work. The god see you in its conquering eye, warlord. I hope your brother Dmitrak is thriving.

As he reached once more for his damp clay tablet, to report to his mother of the warhost’s successes, a shadow fell across the table. He looked up, frowning.

“Warlord,” said the piebald woman who had woken Dimmi’s light-sleeping lust. “I disturb you. Forgive. May I speak?”

She was young, perhaps eighteen seasons, or nineteen. Her patched skin was odd, but not ugly. At least, not to him. Her blue eyes were beautiful, as beautiful as his mother’s. Her thick black hair was unbraided, falling down to her hips. She wore typical Harjhan clothing, a linen shift dyed pale green, no shoes on her feet. Her demeanor was chaste, retiring, demure, but when he looked in those beautiful eyes he thought he saw mischief, and a swift dance of humor.

He nodded. “Yes. Speak. Start with your name.”

“I am Lilit. I come from father, chieftain. He wishes you.” She made a face. “To see you.”

The chieftain’s daughter? He had never seen her. Like her fellow Harjhans, her accent was odd, not unpleasant. So many uncounted seasons had their peoples been apart, there was a drifting of language but they understood each other well enough.

“Lilit,” he repeated, and felt himself smile. “The chieftain’s daughter. I am Zandakar, son of the Empress.”

“Yes,” said Lilit. “Dmitrak’s brother.”

“You know my brother?”

She shrugged. “I see him look.”

“Does his look upset you?” Suddenly, that was important. He did not want this woman upset.

“Many boys look Lilit.” A delightful smile flashed, revealing white teeth. “No boys touch.”

He laughed out loud. “I will tell my brother. He will not touch, or look.”

“Looking not hurt. Eyes are eyes.”

Aieee, she was wonderful. “Why have we not met before?”

“I was away in other village, warlord. I am here now.”

“Where is your father? He does not come to speak?”

Sorrow touched her face. “Father sick. Begs you go to him. This is wrong? Forgive, if wrong.”

It was very wrong, warlords held audience, they did not visit the conquered. He did not say so. “If it is important, I can go. How is he sick? What do my godspeakers say?”

The patches of pale skin on her face flushed pink. She looked at the bare ground inside his tent. “Godspeakers not see father. Father is conquered.”

Of course . He thought of Vortka, and wondered what the high godspeaker would do. Then he remembered one of Dimmi’s favorite sayings: It is easier to seek forgiveness than permission . “I will see your father, I will send him a godspeaker. I am the warlord, this is my word.”

“Aieee!” she cried, and clapped her hands. They were small hands, and slender. He wondered if they would feel soft on his skin. “Thank you, warlord. When you come?”

“After lowsun sacrifice, I will visit your father. I have work to do now, I cannot leave. Wait for me until the god’s business is tended. You can take me to your father then.”

She tipped her head a little to one side, she considered him gravely. “Your god is a god that drinks much blood.”

“My god is your god. It is the only god, it rules the world.” He leaned forward. “The godspeakers tell me you accept the god. Are the godspeakers mistaken? Have you told them a lie?”

Stepping back, her eyes frightened, she seemed to shrink. “Lie to warlord? No, no ! God is god, Harjha knows this. In Harjha god is green, it is gentle, it floats in clouds, it sits in flowers. God in Mijak lives in scorpions.” She spread her hands, a helpless gesture. “No scorpions in Harjha, warlord. We have looked.”

He stared beyond her, to the imposing godpost newly placed in the village center. “There are scorpions now, Lilit. Do not forget that.”

She shivered, there was no more mischief in her eyes. “Yes, warlord. I go now. I wait for you after lowsun sacrifice.”

He watched her leave, conflicted, unsettled. She was a piebald woman, the Empress would call her unclean, born of a slave-race, imperfect, impure. He could not agree with that. She seems pure enough to me . Something about her attracted him, but not the way Dimmi was attracted. He did not feel lust, he felt . . .

Curious. Protective. Aieee, perhaps there is a little lust. That does not matter. She is not for me.

Banishing her smile, he returned to his letters.

Empress , he wrote, his stylus stabbing swiftly, distractedly. We are come to a green land, sparsely peopled, they call it Harjha. It is a small country, rich and fertile, I think no larger than the lands of Et-Raklion. Its people are grateful, they know the god. Not as we know it, the godspeakers correct them. We saved them from the demonstruck of Targa, those sinners would raid them and steal their children for food. The god does not ask me to smite the Harjhans, Yuma. My hammer sleeps and the warhost rests. We build godposts and godhouses, we serve the god. Vortka’s godspeakers whisper of Targa’s demons returning, we must not ride onwards until they say all are destroyed .

He put down his stylus, and re-read the letter. Nowhere had he mentioned that the Harjhans were piebald. He did not wish to say it, his mother would despise them and order him to enslave every last one.

Empress , he continued, moving on to a second tablet, here is a good place for the warhost to wait some small time, before pushing onward. I trust that you trust my judgement in this, I trust you trust me in the god. Send godspeakers to Harjha, send settlers, send slaves and sheep and cattle and horses and grain. But please, I beg you, do not send another virgin, or endanger your godspark by locking Vortka in a cupboard. The god will send me a wife when a wife is its desiring. Feel my lips, Yuma, they kiss your cheek. Dmitrak greets you, he sees you in the god’s eye .

Satisfied with that, hoping she would be satisfied also, he put the tablets aside to dry, and reached for a new one that he might reply to Vortka high godspeaker.

“Zanda!” said Dimmi, striding back into the tent. “Enough of this scribe’s business, it is why we have slaves. Come speak to Akida, she and her warband have thrown down three villages, they have word to tell you of other lands.”

The world must be conquered, even though it felt endless. Even though he feared he would grow old as the hammer and never know peace, only war and slaughter. He stood, felt his muscles groan, complaining, and went with his brother to the warband camp. His warhost was so vast, the chieftain’s village and its surrounding lands could not contain it. He had split his thousands into thirty warbands, some still scoured Targa to rid it of demons, some waited and rested, the remainder, like Akida’s band, rode the length and breadth of Harjha, bringing the god to the godless places. His warbands knew where to find him, they would return in the god’s time.

“Akida,” he said, pleased to see her unhurt. He loved her father, and had played with her when they were children. “My brother says you have news for your warlord.”

Akida pressed her fist to her heart. Not even her father could call her beautiful, her nose was skewed half-over her face, her jaw was jutting, her neck was thick. But aieee, she could knife-dance. He loved to see it. “Warlord,” she greeted him, smiling. “I am told two things, you must know them both. First, at the far edge of Harjha there is a great desert, more vast than the Sand River, more difficult to cross. The Harjhans who told us this believe there is no world beyond it, the godspeaker’s omens say this is a lie. Second, there is a rich land to the newsun side of Harjha. They call it Na’ha’leima. That is all I am told.”

Zandakar and Dmitrak traded glances. “This is good news, Akida. You have served the god well. Your warband is stood down, you have a day to rest. I meet with the village chieftain after lowsun sacrifice. I will see what he knows of this Na’ha’leima. When you are rested you will ride with Dmitrak to its border, and see what must be seen. As soon as Targa is demon-free, and the omens are with us, it will be our next conquest.”

With his warlord business done, and Dimmi pleased to be scouting, he mingled with the warband, hearing their stories, praising their feats. Some had fresh fingerbones to show him, from the Harjhans who had not knelt quickly enough.

The sight of them saddened him, but he did not show his warriors how he felt. He did not show Dimmi, who praised them and laughed.

What is wrong with me, god? They were sinners, they died. It was your desire, why do I hurt? I have killed so many thousands, why care for twelve?

The god did not answer. He would demand another tasking, he must scream out his sin. It was his wickedness that kept the god from speaking, sorrow for the smitten was a terrible crime.

If I scream loud and long enough, I know the god will hear. It will hear, it will answer, I will not be alone.