Blackdog (71 page)

And she hadn't come here to get her gang mixed up in a war. Gaguush looked around. Django and Kapuzeh and Asmin-Luya, calm and grim. Django had acquired a torch from somewhere. Kapuzeh put an arm around Thekla, who had no business being in a fight, especially on foot. The little Westron cook smiled up at him. Gaguush looked away. Send her back into the town, to hide and wait? Send young Zavel with her—they could look after one another. Where was the brat? There, chatting earnestly with one of the girls who'd come with them from Orillias’ and a bull-necked man wearing an old bronze helmet wound with indigo cotton. The priestess picked a fine time to reappear. She should send Judeh back as well. He looked ill, as he always did when a fight was in the offing, though no one could ever call him a coward. But a physician, even a mere camel-leech, was going to do far more good for everyone if he stayed out of the fighting. Immerose and Tihmrose leaning together, Tihmrose at least as weary as she ought to be, but both looking as grimly determined as Django and his brother. Bikkim, Bashra and the Great Gods bless him, his attention fixed on the island as if he could scent Pakdhala there—at least he wouldn't be on her conscience, he had as much need to be here as she did. Varro testing the edge of his sabre and chewing his moustaches. She added to her tally Tusa missing in Serakallash, Holla-Sayan and Pakdhala still to be found.

Her gang. Her little world. All the family she owned to. “Zavel? Zavel!” She caught the boy's attention. “Take Thekla back into town and find a safe place to hole up. Judeh, go with them. You'll be a lot more use to the injured there.”

Blank looks. Thekla shook her head. Zavel went back to his conversation. “’Dhala might need me,” Judeh said.

Idiots. Fine. “Varro? You're a Northron, you know boats. Can we take a boat and get over there?”

“Be on the wrong side of the line when battle's joined,” Varro pointed out.

“We're not here for a battle, we're here to find Holla and Pakdhala! Use your head.”

Mikki let go her arm, looking about, head and shoulders above most of them, and she had the sudden notion he was about to abandon them, to charge the bridge alone or something equally and stupidly befitting a Northron hero separated from his heart's companion. She grabbed him by his tunic. “Stay with us.”

“I said I would. They are great fools, these Tamghati who face us.”

“Why?”

“There are archers behind them.”

Gaguush could see nothing beyond the points of light that were the Tamghati torches. “How does that make them…you mean townsfolk archers?”

“Women in bronze armour.”

“Priestesses might be on their side.”

“The way they're slinking around, they do not look to me like reinforcements. More like an ambush from behind.”

Zavel came pushing his way back to her. “Sister Nenniana says that Shevehan Smith there says—he's some sort of lieutenant to the Old Woman of the free temple—he says that Attalissa is on the temple island and they're waiting for some sign from her. But that the fishermen's guild and the boatbuilders’ and some other one have made a landing and are going to attack the Tamghati barracks in the temple compound, and when that comes Shevehan will have the folk here attack the bridge anyway from this side. They believe their goddess will deal with Tamghat. I…I didn't know what to say, boss. What do we tell them? If Pakdhala's his prisoner—even if she is a goddess really, she's in his power. He's going to slaughter them like he did when he took Serakallash.”

“Nothing we can do. They're not going to listen to us, lad. We're going to find our people and…” And what? Fool she was. Die with them, probably. “Varro—boat?”

“Something's happening.”

Torches whirled and flared as Tamghati tumbled and fell, broke ranks and re-formed under shouted orders. Over the sudden uproar of shouting and screaming rose a ragged, shrill cry of, “Attalissa!”

The guild-leaders lost what command they had of their militias. The whole mass surged forward, rushing the bridge, and to stand firm amid that was like trying to swim upriver at the Fifth Cataract.

“Stay together!’ Gaguush yelled. “Django, Kapuzeh, keep Thekla out of it!”

Hells. She drew her sabre and wished for Lion beneath her and a good long spear. Show these godless mercenaries they weren't up against a mob of peasants after all.

“Luck,” Mikki wished her, and then he roared, nothing human in the sound, and charged the bridge. Lissavakaili parted for him, closed up behind, and he was in the vanguard that took the bridge and hit the Tamghati. Gaguush thought she saw the demon, pale hair flying, axe swinging, making for a mounted Grasslander, probably a
noekar
, and she lost sight of him in the darkness.

Then they were across the bridge, some sabre-wielding Red Desert man came at her, and she lost everyone but Varro at her shoulder, fighting in the dark.

Regaining your powers makes no difference, Attalissa of the lake. You are mine. I never intended you to remain so uselessly human as you have been all this life of yours. You will come to me—now.

The devil was angry, but it was the anger of a father at an obstreperous child, certain of his ultimate dominance. He pulled at her. Pakdhala felt the tug, threads knotted and woven into her soul, as though her heart was a netted fish. She had not even noticed that spell laid on her amid all the others as she slept. Halfway down a flight of stairs that went nowhere, she fell to her knees, head bowed, fists clenched, trembling. Above her, the temple was waking. Before her, rubble blocked the way to the Old Chapel. She did not dare reach out to the Blackdog, not with Ghatai riding her mind. Her stomach heaved, but her belly was empty. She clenched teeth as well as fists and swallowed, cold and sweating.

Come, Attalissa. The time isn't right, but I think we need to begin regardless, before
she
gets at you. You don't want your soul to become a battleground between us.

Running to her father. What could Holla-Sayan do, Blackdog or not, if he even existed anymore in whatever madness had irrupted in that corrupted remnant of a devil's soul?

In town, there were folk poised, awaiting Attavaia's signal. All foredoomed, if Ghatai took her. All foredoomed, if she did not fight.

At least if the Blackdog was out of her reach, she could not be tempted to bind a devil to her own heart of her own will.

Ghatai wanted her. She would go to him.

He felt that acquiescence, that meek turn, the slow, shaking clamber back up the cracked and dusty stairs.

Good girl.
The thought purred.

She kept her own thoughts quiet, especially when Attavaia's fire-tubes hissed into the sky. She did not hear the explosions, but she felt, over town and temple, flares of attention, sharply focused, some eager, frightened, exhilarated, some wondering. Ghatai turned furious attention elsewhere and she drew a deep breath, feeling stronger and steadier at once. But then, there before her in the lightless, abandoned corridor was a sister she knew, Altira, one of those who had tried to soothe a hysterical child in the Old Chapel, when Tamghat came. Dead since then, and casting her own dim light, in her fierce attachment to the world she should have left behind. Altira saluted. “Lady.”

“Sister Altira.”

“Are you going to Tamghat?”

“Yes.”

“The Blackdog is looking for you.”

“Something happened, though. Is he…you know the stories, when a host hasn't been strong enough. Is he still my…is he still Holla-Sayan, a Westgrasslander?” She touched the tattoos on her face. “Is he mad?”

Altira frowned. “A Westgrasslander, yes, lady. But something fought him in the chapel. We couldn't see it. I thought it won, but he seems…he is still yours, by his actions. He knows us. He freed us to fight.” She studied Pakdhala, and the smile of the living Altira lit her face. “Lady, you can't go into battle dressed like that.”

“Always fussing about my clothes.”

“Always being dressed in inappropriate clothes,” Altira countered, and removed her own helmet, running fingers through her short curls. “I remember Otokas and Kayugh complaining to Meeray about the notion of putting a crawling baby in brocade. Lady, if you will? Take my gear and let me go my way. I'm only one spear, here, and Meeray is rousing the dormitories for you. You'll not lack for spears. But to face Tamghat like a…a slave for his bed…for your pride, for ours. I know it doesn't matter, honour is in the soul. But—”

“But,” Pakdhala agreed, and reached out for the helmet. It was at once nothing but a tingle on the skin, a coolness in the air, and heavy, firm metal. She ran fingers over the embossed images, leaping fish, on its four plates. “Thank you, Altira.”

The priestess held out her spear across her palms, then her sword, sheathed, with the belt wrapped around it. Attalissa remembered: this was the ritual whereby novices were made full sisters; given helmet, spear, and sword by the Old Lady, the Spear Lady, and the Blackdog, before the goddess blessed them and welcomed them into the sisterhood. Returning them was also how they resigned, those few who did, or how a woman was expelled.

With less formality, Altira stripped off her shirt of bronze scale, her quilted blue shirt and trousers, her very sandals, and handed over her shield. She helped Attalissa to dress and arm herself, her hands cool as mist off the lake, and then went down on one knee, dignity in baggy drawers and a tight-laced bodice.

Ghatai's attention returned.
Your folk are fools
, he said.
Send them home, if you don't want to watch them die.

My folk are free folk. They act as they will.

She shaped hasty Westron spells, wrapped this little space of two souls in them.
Lake reflects the clouds. Mist on the water. We swim as one in the flow of the world's life.

“May I go, Great Attalissa?” Altira asked.

What are you trying to hide now, godling wizard? Have you met one of those silly hens your priestesses, who think I didn't see their child-cunning lies when they made their heart-forsworn oaths to me? Don't bother to hide her; they are no threat to me. They will all follow us, or die, when we are one. Come, now, or this one dies here.
The pull on her heart grew stronger, a painful tension. She ignored it. She thought she could, safely, a moment longer.

“With my blessing,” Attalissa said. “And my thanks. May your road be short and peaceful; may you find the rest you seek.” She bent and kissed Altira's forehead, but then took her hands, drew her to her feet, eye to eye. Altira's face was younger, her dress bright cotton, red and yellow, a splash of embroidered flowers about the neck. “Give me your blessing, Sister,” Pakdhala said, and braced herself against the devil's pulling. “Please.”

“My lady!”

“I need hope, Altira. I find it in your kindness. Please.”

Altira, who looked only about Pakdhala's own age now, blinked sudden tears and simply embraced her. Blessing enough.

“Thank you,” Pakdhala…Attalissa…whispered, and kissed her again, on the lips. “Go to the Old Great Gods, Altira, and…and remember me.”

The ghost was gone, nothing left but a fading warmth on Pakdhala's lips.

And the uniform of a sister of Attalissa, and the familiar—lifetimes ago, but familiar nonetheless—weight of the shield slung at her shoulder, the sword at her hip. A mountain shortsword, not a sabre, but in the end, she knew it better anyhow. She picked up the spear again, fastened the strap of the helmet, and resumed her course. Her strength set against Ghatai was unaltered, but now she said something, her whole body a banner, proclaiming resistance. He didn't feel it. He was satisfied: she was obedient; she could not resist his strength.

But then her father found her. She thought it was him, the touch of the Blackdog on her mind, familiar as known voice, all the rage and wildness and power…hidden, it was only hidden, the familiarity of Holla-Sayan only a mask. He warned her of what she already knew, that Ghatai had found her, and she could have laughed, with the devil's hands reeling in that net about her heart, but Ghatai's awareness surged through her with keen attention.

Bring him to me, Attalissa. He shall serve us both.

Pakdhala, I'm coming to you.

Blackdog, Holla, no! Stay away!
She flung him away from her, afraid Ghatai might get some clawhold on him through her. Devil-devoured or not, her human heart still loved her father. She turned her back on him, on the attempt he made to summon her attention, and broke into a run.

“There she is.”

“Your Holiness, Attalissa, you must come with us to the Lake-Lord.”

Two men, Grasslanders with bear-cult scars on their faces, loomed in the next arched doorway. Confusion—she was armed; she was hardly more than a girl; she was supposed to be docilely answering their Lake-Lord's summons, wrapped in spells; it would be worth their lives to risk injuring her, their lord's great prize.

But she was armed, and not stopping for them…Both made the wrong decision and drew their swords. She slid the shield to her arm and danced through them, one reeling back, the shield smashing him aside, the other grunting and falling with the spear through his chest.

She forgot her new inhuman strength. The shaft shattered, the point jarring on stone behind him. She left it and it melted like frost in the sun; she drew her sword, spinning on her heel as the other man rolled to his feet, deflected his desperate two-handed blow with her shield and thrust neatly through his cheek, shattering teeth, up into the brain. Pakdhala didn't wait to see him fall, shook gore from her blade and went on, up another flight of stairs and out the heavy doors onto the tiled pavement of the Dawn Dancing Hall.

Ghatai looked up. He was on his knees, a mercenary like any other in wool and leather, the long braids of his hair caught back with a twisted scarf. No jewelled helmet, no gilded armour. His sabre was laid aside and he held nothing but a writing-brush and a pot of paint. His folk
—noekar
, she thought, his lords, tent-guard, body-guard, the most trusted—stood like sentries around the perimeter of the platform. There were sisters arriving breathless to take places among them, unarmed. Witnesses? Willing?