The Godspeaker Trilogy (75 page)

“ Tcha ! The god will never take your hotas ,” said Dimmi, scornfully. He picked up a goatskin and drank from it, then held it out. “Drink. You look like you are come from a godmoon’s tasking in the godhouse.”

Zandakar took the goatskin and drank the sour wine. If he drank enough, would he forget his day’s work for the god?

Children playing, chickens scratching through the dirt. Men in the grain field, women picking fruit. The music of laughter, small lives unlived in the god’s eye. Blood, screaming, terror, death . . .

Aieee, if Lilit had seen his work this highsun, if she had seen him dancing with his snakeblade. If she had seen the blood he spilled . . .

If she had seen that slaughtered baby.

“Stop thinking of that woman, Zanda,” Dimmi said curtly. “And do not deny your thoughts to me, you know I know when she eats your heart.”

I am the only person who has ever loved him. He is a man, he is still afraid.

“I have told you and told you, Dmitrak,” he said, with patience. “I love her, I must think of her. You are my brother, I love you no less.”

Dimmi’s face twisted. “Love,” he spat. “Do I speak of love, that milkish thing? I speak of the god, Zandakar, I speak of your godspark. The godspeakers sit in their godhouses and under the stars, they sacrifice and read the omens, that is their purpose, they ponder the god. You are its hammer, your purpose is killing . Kill these maggot thoughts, brother, before they eat you and you die!”

He sighed. “I do think of Lilit, I think of my son growing in her belly. You are right, I should forget them. They ride to Mijak and I am here, the god’s chosen hammer. Dmitrak, forgive me. I do not mean to worry you, little brother.”

“Tcha! Not so little anymore!” growled Dimmi, and caught him in a fierce embrace. “It pleases me you are returned from hunting, untouched in the god’s eye,” he whispered. “You may be the god’s hammer, and these slaves of Na’ha’leima no more than pitiful earth-grubbers, but there is such a thing as demonstrike. When you ride to war without me I am always afraid.”

Zandakar returned the gesture, feeling Dimmi’s hard adult muscle beneath his hands, remembering the baby who once fitted so neatly in the curve of his arms.

A cry. A screech. A vulnerable skull meeting unforgiving wall. Pale orange hair, drenched in blood.

“No need for fear, little brother. Am I not in the god’s eye?”

Dimmi released him. “You are. Do not forget it.”

The godbell sounded, it was time for sacrifice.

More blood. More death. I am sick of bloodshed . . .

“Come, Zandakar hammer,” said Dimmi, smiling. “Let us worship the god.”

Heartsick and weary, Zandakar followed his lead.

For newsun sacrifice there was a brown goatkid, brought back by Dimmi from a slaughtered village. A meek thing, it bleated once as the godspeaker drew her curved knife across its upstretched throat. Hot blood splashed scarlet into the golden sacrifice bowl.

As a child of three seasons, Zandakar had learned to hide his revulsion at the taste of hot blood. I am Hekat, I am not disgraced in public, his mother had hissed as she dragged him to the godhouse taskmaster, all flaming eyes and pinch-lipped fury. You are a warlord! You will drink the blood, you will glory in the blood, you will thirst for the blood ! The taskmaster had beaten him, she had watched every stroke, unmoved by his cries of pain.

He’d forgiven her, of course. How could he not, when she’d eased the burning weals herself? Held his hand as he swallowed his tears, whispering, There, there, my little warlord. I do this because you are godchosen and precious, the god sees you in its eye. In its time you will lead the warhost, you must be strong for the god.

The pain faded, eventually. The weals disappeared. He never again betrayed his disgust when a sacrifice bowl filled with blood touched his lips.

He drank now, the merest touching to his tongue, then passed the bowl to Dimmi, who swallowed with evident enjoyment and passed it to the next man. And so sacrifice proceeded, until every last warrior had tasted of the sacred blood. Then the godspeaker read the omens, taking a long time to do so. After that she threw the godbones. At last she turned and said, “Zandakar warlord, the god shows me a sinning city. The warhost must ride to it, it must be subdued.”

He added. “What is this city’s name?”

“What does it matter?” said Dimmi. “It will soon be destroyed.”

A city. That meant the hammer, no knife-dancing with his snakeblade. He must unwrap the gold-and-crystal weapon, he must draw it onto his hand and arm, summon the god’s power and let it scour him with fire.

“Aieee!” said Dimmi. “That is good to hear!”

Of course Dimmi would think so. His warriors thought so too, they were smiling and nodding, they gloried in the power of his smiting fist. The people of the sinning city might fight but they would still die. The crows and the wild dogs, the carrion eaters of this place, they would feast well after, until the maggots reduced succulent flesh to greasy putrefaction.

Lilit’s tear-filled eyes, her beseeching whisper. Do not be cruel to Na’ha’leima .

He shook his head. Lilit, leave me . He said, “The god sees you, godspeaker. It sees you in its eye. Dmitrak—” He turned. “Prepare the warhost for riding.”

Dimmi grinned, and struck a fist to his breast. “ Warlord !”

As his brother and the warhost withdrew to break camp, Zandakar turned back to the godspeaker, making certain she would not see the sorrow in his eyes. “I am the god’s hammer, you know my purpose. Tell me where the warhost must ride, so I might smite this sinning city to its knees.”

They rode for a finger towards the rising sun, they saw no living creatures, all the villages were dead. The fat land was quiet, it was holding its breath. The god guided Zandakar and his warriors, they rode deep inside its eye, they would not be seen or heard until the god desired it. The god whispered in Zandakar’s heart, he surrendered to its ravenous will. The warhost trotted down rocky slopes, through shallow streams, up tree-studded inclines, along the spines of craggy ravines and back down to flat lands, where they rode fast.

As they reached the peak of a slow-rising hill, he raised his fist in the air, slowing his warhost. They spread around and behind like a shadow on the land, like the god’s black breath extinguishing the light.

The nameless city, too small to be called that by Mijaki standards, nestled undefended at the foot of the hill. Through the thin morning air came a cockerel’s self-important gurgle. The rattle of a metal pail. Above several houses, smudges of smoke. The township was waking. All unknowing, making preparations for the final sleep of death.

Zandakar put on his hammer. Fractured scarlet sunlight flashed, a shiver of power thrummed his bones. Beneath him, his knowing, eager stallion half-reared. He raised his arm above his head, fingers fisted tighter than rock. Summoning the god, he cried “ It is time !” and sent a column of blue-white fire towards the sun.

His brother and his warhost screamed. “ Mijaaaaaaak! Ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-aieeeeee !”

As one ravening beast Zandakar and his warhost launched from the crest of the hill towards the walking dead below.

Pounding hooves. Flashing blades. War cries, shrill and loud and chilling. Shrieks of alarm. Men running. Dogs howling. Women screaming. Cattle lowing. Children sobbing. Panic. Terror.

Breathless with laughter, Dimmi galloped beside Zandakar down the hard-earth streets, between dingy mud-brick houses and shops, knocking the people down, galloping over them, smashing them to pieces beneath iron-hard hooves. Dimmi swung his longblade and took two heads with one blow. His familiar face disappeared beneath the fountaining blood. Steaming, dripping, fragrant with death, he pivoted his horse on its haunches and killed two more.

“Kill them, Zandakar!” he bellowed. “Smite them for the god! Kill them before they draw our blood!”

There was no need. These people had no defenses. No weapons. No god to save them. The victory had been his before the first blow was struck. It was show and gaud, to annihilate them with the hammer.

“Zandakar!” cried Dimmi, “What are you waiting for? Use the hammer , wield it for the god!”

It is my purpose. I am the god’s hammer, the hammer smites. It destroys the godless, it throws demons down.

His arm was so heavy. He raised it high and summoned his power. Blood-red crystals blazed in the light. Like every sinning city before this one, the dwellings before him disappeared in shards and lumps and flying spars of burning timber. He struck again, he killed buildings, people, anything that moved. He lost his mind in an orgy of bloodshed, in blood he drowned Lilit’s beautiful voice.

Do not be cruel to Na’ha’leima.

The screams of the dying were ferocious, they were claws in his belly, tearing him wide. He lost sight of Dmitrak in the smoke of his burnings, he could still hear his brother, laughing as he killed. His horse plunged beneath him, maddened with bloodlust.

A flicker of movement caught his eye. A woman sobbing, stumbling, a meager length of firewood in her hands. She thought it was a weapon. Clutching her skirts, a small girl-child. Zandakar summoned the god, felt it boil in his veins. Ripple and curdle and batter and blind, tremble him, fill him, hollow him, devour him.

Blue-white fire shot from his fist. Woman and child transfixed now, twin pillars of flame. Within the azure incandescence, silhouettes of suffering. Eyes wide. Mouths open. No sound but burning. The stench of scorched flesh.

“Zandakar! Warlord! Hammer of the god!” Dimmi, his brother, raucous with pride. Eyes blazing in a wet, crimson mask.

Warriors paused in their slaughter to echo the cry. The hammer’s blue flame spurred them on. A city man, running, contorted with grief. Pitchfork in his hand, hatred in every straining muscle.

And now there were three columns of flame.

Dimmi howled his triumph, he sounded like a dog. A cheer went up from the warhost, wails of fear from the doomed.

Three piles of ash. Big. Smaller. Smallest.

A boy running. A warrior hunting. Four strides. Three. Two. One. Her swinging longblade sliced the child’s head from his shoulders. Blood flew through the air, his head struck a smashed wall, his body skidded across the ground.

Do not be cruel to Na’ha’leima.

Time stopped. Zandakar stopped with it.

Blind, he saw everything.

Deaf, he heard all.

Dumb, he said: No more .

He heard a whispering voice inside him: Enough killing, Zandakar. That was your purpose, it is ended now. Return to Mijak, and be what you are .

It was the sad voice he’d heard so long ago, in the godhouse godpool, in Et-Raklion. The voice he remembered now, from his haunted dreams.

A scream sounded behind him, he wheeled his horse. A family, running. The warrior pursuing them struck down three, three more remained. The warrior’s horse stumbled, throwing its rider.

“Mine!” shouted Dimmi, and started forward.

“No!” cried Zandakar. “Dmitrak, stop !”

Dimmi ignored him. He sent a stream of godfire into the ground before his brother’s cantering horse, the beast swerved wildly, Dimmi nearly fell.

“ Zandakar ? What are you doing ?” he demanded, incredulous, wrenching his stallion under control.

He felt so peaceful. So completely at ease. I am ending this, the slaughter is done. I am gorged on blood, my belly is full . “Conquest is over, Dmitrak. We will kill no-one else.”

An eerie silence fell. Warriors milled, discipline deserted. Terrified sinners huddled in doorways, in the shelter of each other’s arms.

“ Zandakar ! You are the hammer . You are the god’s warlord in the world!” A terrible despair was in Dimmi’s face, his voice. Beneath despair, a rising anger. “ You must finish this !”

“It is finished,” he said calmly. “We are going home.”

“To Mijak ?” said Dimmi. “Zandakar, no. Conquest is not over, it will never be over, not till Mijak is the world!”

Zandakar shook his head. “The god has spoken, Dimmi. We must obey.”

“Don’t call me that, my name is Dmitrak !”

“Of course. Forgive me. Dmitrak.”

Beneath its mask of drying blood, Dimmi’s face was rock hard with rage. “You say the god has spoken? I say you hear that bitch, that piebald bitch, she is a plague in you, Zandakar! She is a disease !”

Blue-white fire shimmered over his fist. “Dmitrak . . . I warn you, do not—”

Now there was fear in Dmitrak’s eyes. Sick disappointment. Shattered belief.

I am sorry. I am sorry. I must obey the god.

“Gather the warhost, Dmitrak,” he said, suddenly exhausted. “We ride for Harjha, then for home.”

When they stopped for a brief rest halfway back to Lilit’s village, so the horses would not founder, his brother confronted him beneath the hot sun. The discreetly distanced warhost took its ease on the ground, mostly silent, exchanging long looks.

Dimmi stabbed a finger into his chest. “The Empress will not stand for this, Zandakar. She will not let you abandon the world.”

Zandakar braced his aching back. In his life he had often been tired, but never like this. Not so that lifting his ribs to breathe was almost impossible. “She will have no choice. This is the god’s desire.”

“No, it is your desire,” hissed Dimmi, vicious. “Since you fucked that piebald bitch you have not been yourself, your bones have turned soft, you have lost your thirst for blood. Am I blind, Zandakar? Am I not your brother? I know it is so, do not deny me.”

He rested his hand on Dimmi’s shoulder. “A man’s desire and the god’s can be one and the same.”

Dimmi shrugged him away. “I think you are demonstruck! You fucked with a demon and it rotted your godspark, the bitch has blighted you in the god. That thing in her belly, it is a demon unborn! Your seed is curdled, Zanda, you have sired a monster like its mother before it!”

Fury filled him, his snakeblade bit into Dmitrak’s throat. “Hold your tongue, brother , or I will cut it out. The god sent me Lilit, it desired her quickened with my seed. My son will be beautiful. He will be a man.”

Dmitrak touched his neck, beside the snakeblade. His fingers came away red, he stared at the blood. “You’ve cut me,” he said. His voice was small. Uncertain. “Zandakar, you’ve made me bleed.”