The Godspeaker Trilogy (30 page)

Goruk high godspeaker waved one fist, incensed. “The pride is yours , Nagarak! We did not come to hear your demon-words spill like bile from your wicked tongue! We are also high godspeakers, the god speaks to us, it has said nothing of one warlord, your Raklion, his common son, this common slut he fucked to make him! You—”

“ Aieeeeeeee!”

Nagarak’s scream almost shattered the sky. A great shudder ran through him, he rose high on the balls of his sandaled feet. His arms flung wide, his head fell back, all the muscles and tendons on his body stood out.

His scorpion pectoral came alive.

Shocked to stillness, the warlords and their high godspeakers stared. Hekat stood her ground, she was not afraid of the god, but Raklion slid his arm around her. She tried to resist, he pulled her sideways.

“Tchut tchut, Hekat,” he whispered in her ear. “Let Nagarak see nothing between him and the objects of the god’s rage.”

Hekat stopped resisting, she stood to one side with Raklion’s hand on her arm and watched the god in its smiting fury.

The living, hissing scorpion on Nagarak’s chest lashed its tail, snapped its pincers. It was still strapped to his body, it had not detached from the fastenings that wrapped his ribs. Nagarak’s eyes were turned bright red, they glowed as though his godspark was burning. He opened his mouth and screamed again, the terrible sound rolled round the crater, shivering rock-falls from its rim to its floor.

Zyden’s high godspeaker was the first to move. He stirred like a man waking from sleep and looked in the faces of his fellow godspeakers. “Tcha!” he said, pointing. “You see this trickery? This demon Nagarak? He thinks to frighten us, he thinks we are blind to his demon ways! We are brought here under false pretenses, he and Raklion seek to overturn our minds and steal the authority given us by the god!”

The other high godspeakers held their tongues, their gazes darted nervously from him to Nagarak, who stood still as a godpost while the living scorpion bound to his breast hissed and snapped and whipped the air with its tail.

Their own scorpion pectorals remained cold stone.

“Zyden, we are leaving!” declared the warlord’s high godspeaker. “To stay longer is to insult the god.” He turned on his heel with an arrogant flourish, he reached out one hand to catch his warlord by the elbow—and stopped in his tracks, like a man become rock.

Nagarak extended one finger. Zyden’s high godspeaker spun about, gasping, his pale eyes wide with fear and disbelief. His feet began moving, step by panting, unwilling step he walked to Nagarak, who looked barely human he was so filled with the god.

Zyden’s high godspeaker reached Nagarak and staggered to a halt, he tried to speak but the words would not leave him, he drooled, he dribbled, tears of blood wet his cheeks. Nagarak’s fingers clenched into a fist and Zyden’s high godspeaker lunged towards him, into his living pectoral’s furious embrace.

It held him, it stung him, he screamed and screamed, then slid to the ground. Twisting, flailing, his body swelled, his skin split open, blood and venom sprayed into the air.

He died.

Before the warlords or their high godspeakers could beg for mercy, drop to their knees before their new warlord Raklion, Nagarak’s smiting fist clenched again. This time the scorpion needed no contact, its tail lashed wildly and the remaining high godspeakers crashed to the crater’s floor, jerking and thrashing, voiding their bodies of wastes, of life.

Nagarak staggered as the last high godspeaker died, Jokriel’s Goruk, so thin and dry he spilled little blood. As though Nagarak’s body was her own Hekat felt the god’s power leave him. His eyes faded swiftly from scarlet to brown, the living scorpion returned to stone. Exhausted, depleted, Nagarak dropped to the ground. Raklion leapt to aid him even as Banotaj woke from his trance.

“ Demon! Usurper !” Bajadek’s son shouted, and suddenly there was a snakeblade in his hand, he was a man without honor, his face distorted with madness and rage. He leapt towards Raklion, sunlight flashing on his blade.

Raklion turned, unbalanced, one arm raised to shield himself. Nagarak was almost senseless, he could not help Raklion. Banotaj’s knife slashed and plunged, opening flesh, spraying blood. The other warlords shouted but they did not step forward, they were cowardly men of honor who brought no blades, who refused to defend Raklion.

Hekat reached beneath her tunic, seizing the snakeblade secreted there. Her first strike caught Banotaj across the back of his neck, severing his godbraids, scattering them like straw. He let out a roar of pain and surprise, he clamped his fingers to the wound in his flesh and spun around, forgetting Raklion, seeing her.

Raklion’s blood dripped down his face, slathered his leather breastplate, soaked his linen tunic. Hekat leapt upon Banotaj, her snakeblade raised. There was no mercy in her, Banotaj had tried to thwart the god.

She cut him and cut him, he did not cut her. She severed his tendons and opened his veins. At any moment she could have killed him, she did not want to, he must suffer first. He suffered, screaming, his own blade abandoned, he fell to his knees first and then to the ground.

She dropped beside him, soaked in his blood, and dragged him onto his back to face her.

“You Banotaj warlord, you defier of the god,” she said, and spat into his clouding eyes. “You broke the god’s law, you harmed a warlord in this sacred place. You spit on the god, you deny its desires. Raklion is its chosen warlord, you would change this? You seek to rule Mijak in his place? It will not happen. You will die here by my hand, like your father Bajadek. Demons will take your godspark to hell and my son Zandakar will rule your bones!”

Wheezing, bubbling, Banotaj gasped for air. The hot sun baked his wet blood dry, it boiled him in his leather breastplate. “Bitch,” he whispered. “Demonspawn. Hellcat. Mijak’s death is in your eyes, your evil corrupts it, your spawn son will—”

She plunged her snakeblade into his throat.

“Hekat . . . be with me . . .”

Ignoring the silent, staring warlords she danced to her feet and went to Raklion. He smiled through his pain, he struggled to touch her. “Be still,” she scolded. “You are sorely hurt. Nagarak will heal you.”

“Nagarak,” said Raklion vaguely. His legs were splayed, they lolled without purpose. Banotaj had stabbed him over and over, his wounds bled slowly, his heartbeat was weak.

She looked at the high godspeaker. Nagarak stirred feebly, pinned to the ground by his scorpion pectoral. Still holding her snakeblade she retrieved his robe and rummaged in the pocket for his godstone, no godspeaker traveled without one. She thrust it into Nagarak’s cold fingers and pressed the point of her snakeblade in his throat.

“Raklion needs you, heal him , godspeaker. Will you disappoint the god now , you stupid man?”

Blinking, Nagarak shoved her away from him, then staggered piecemeal to his feet. The watching warlords retreated, fearful, their mouths were open, they held their amulets in their fists. Their grossly dead godspeakers littered the glassy ground around them. They did not look at them, or at slain Banotaj. The god had eaten their pride and arrogance, they were men without bones. They could hardly stand.

“You warlords,” said Nagarak. Though he was exhausted, power remained in his voice. “You have seen the god here, you have seen its fury. Banotaj is struck down in his sinning pride. Deaf to the god, your godspeakers are slaughtered. Learn from their smiting, do not repeat their mistake.”

The warlords did not look at him, their eyes fed on his scorpion pectoral. It was asleep but could wake in a heartbeat. They nodded and pressed their fists to their chests.

“Nagarak!” Hekat said sharply. “The warlords are chastened, the god sees them in its judging eye. Help Raklion!”

Nagarak limped to Raklion and knelt, his godstone flashing weakly in his grasp. His power did not pour in its usual torrent but trickled reluctantly, as though from its dregs.

Hekat dropped to a crouch beside him. “Nagarak, why do you not heal him?”

“I have no power,” said Nagarak, his voice low. “I am emptied by the god.”

“No, you are not emptied!” she insisted. “We have not come to this place to fail in the god’s eye! He is Raklion, warlord of Mijak! Heal him, high godspeaker. That is your purpose!”

“Hekat . . .” Raklion’s voice was a thready whisper. “Show respect to the god’s chosen speaker. Nagarak is mighty, he lives in the god’s approving eye.”

She did not love him, but it hurt to see him weakened. “Hush, warlord,” she said, and wrapped her fingers around his cold hand. “Save your strength, you must stand so these craven warlords might kneel. Nagarak, heal him .”

Groaning, Nagarak pressed his godstone against Raklion’s breast. The godstone flared into stronger life. Raklion choked back an anguished cry, his face twisted, his harsh breath shuddered in difficult gasps. His body convulsed, his head struck the red glassy crater floor again and again.

“ Aieee !” said Nagarak at last, collapsing onto his meatless haunches. “Warlord, forgive me. I can heal you no further, I have done my best.”

Raklion nodded. “This is the god’s business, Nagarak,” his thin voice whispered. “We are in its eye, what must come will come. Help me to stand, I would speak to the warlords.”

Help him to stand ? Dismayed, Hekat stared at his limp body on the ground.

What is this, god? He is the warlord and he cannot stand? If he cannot stand how can he rule? This is madness, god, what have you done? Why did you not warn Nagarak that wicked Banotaj carried a knife?

It did not smite her for such bold questions, the scorpion amulet round her neck was still and silent.

He is the warlord and he cannot stand. I am Hekat knife-dancer, godtouched and precious. Zandakar’s mother. Bajadek’s doom and the doom of his son. I can stand. I will stand for him. I must stand for him, there is no-one else.

“Leave him, Nagarak,” she said, and squeezed Raklion’s lax hand. “You are weary, warlord. Rest. I will drive these warlords to their knees.”

He smiled at her, a slow curve of his lips. “My own fierce Hekat, in the god’s eye. Two warlords now you have killed for me. Twice my life is in your blade. Speak for me, Hekat. Dress my words in your sweet voice. Nagarak . . .”

“Warlord,” said Nagarak. He sounded almost as weak as Raklion.

“Here is Hekat, my beloved. Her words are my words. She speaks with my tongue.”

Nagarak’s face twisted. Did he also wonder at the god’s strange silence? “She brought a knife into Mijak’s Heart, that is strictly forbidden. She—”

“Forbidden to warlords,” Raklion whispered. “Banotaj broke that law, not Hekat. Without her knife I would lie here dead. Will you smite her, Nagarak, for saving me?”

“Her words are your words, warlord,” said Nagarak, bitter. “She speaks with your tongue.”

Hekat rose to her feet and stalked to the waiting warlords. She showed them her snakeblade, still stained with blood, and scorched them with her burning gaze.

“You are standing, you will kneel!”

Like whipped slaves the warlords dropped.

“I am Hekat knife-dancer, Zandakar’s mother,” she told them. “Bajadek’s doom and the doom of his son. Your days are done, you are no longer warlords. Do you think to deny this?” She pointed her knife at dead Banotaj. “Think again. You have seen my snakeblade, you have seen me dance. Pray to the god I never dance for you.” One by one, she glared into their eyes. “Who is the warlord of Mijak, united? Tell me now or face my wrath!”

One by one, the warlords answered. One by one, they said his name:

“Raklion.”

“Raklion.”

“Raklion.”

“Raklion.”

“Raklion.”

She bared her teeth, it was not a smile. “Raklion is warlord in the land of Mijak. Never forget it, if you wish to live.”

And never forget who stands as you kneel. Hekat stands, she stands as you kneel. I see the god’s purpose. I understand now why Nagarak was not warned. My time is coming, Raklion’s flies past. I am Hekat, the god’s knife-dancer. Mijak will be mine, it will be my son’s.

V
ortka sighed, and shifted beneath his blanket in the godhouse sickroom. The worst of the fever was burned from his bones now, all that remained was a strength-sapping lassitude and a vague irritation of his spirits. Through the chamber’s window a small square of blue sky, taunting him with a freedom he was still denied by ill-health.

I am tired of staring at four cold stone walls. I long for fresh air and a breeze in my face. Surely I am well enough now to leave this place and walk under the sun.

The fever had come upon him swiftly, two highsuns after Hekat rode with Raklion and Nagarak to the Heart of Mijak. A pain in his head as he served in the library, a racking shiver that saw a clay tablet slip from his fingers and smash on the floor. Then sweat and heat and countless highsuns of suffering as he moaned and thrashed and begged the god to ease his torment.

The god heard him eventually, he had feared it never would.

Have I displeased you, god, that you would mortify my flesh so hard for so long? Tell me, I beg you, what wrong thing have I done? I will go to the taskmaster as soon as I am able, I will prove on my knees and weeping I am still your true servant.

The god did not answer him, not exactly. But as he prayed he felt a warmth, a wash of calm acceptance. His disquiet eased and he drifted again into sleep.

When he woke it was night, and the sickroom was lit by flickering candles. A bowl of steaming soup sat on the stool nearby, scenting the air with strong garlic fumes, and Sidik healer stood beside his cot, her thin cool fingers pressed against his wrist pulse.

“You are much improved, Vortka,” she said, releasing him. “I think you might leave us, after newsun.”

“Truly?” he said, and felt his face split in a smile. “Aieee, Sidik. You make me a happy man.”

She raised a warning hand. “But you must be careful, you are not at full strength yet. You are able to use your godstone again, but using it will tire you swiftly, Vortka. You must wait for my permission before you heal, or do anything more taxing than organize the archives. I have spoken with Peklia, she says you might serve in the library but for only three fingers between newsun and lowsun until I say otherwise. Other than that you must take gentle exercise to rebuild your lost vitality, and make sure to eat four nourishing meals daily in the godhouse kitchen. I will speak with Neelij cook-master, he will prepare special food for you. You will come to me before each lowsun sacrifice until I am satisfied your recovery is complete. You will be yourself again I promise, Vortka, provided you are sensible and do not run before you can walk.”

He pressed his fist above his heart, the warrior’s salute. “I will obey, healer. My solemn vow. You have been a blessing, the god see you in its eye.”

She nodded. “It already sees you, Vortka. I know many strong men who would not have survived such a fever.”

“I know,” he said soberly, and repressed a shudder. Never to see Hekat again, or beautiful Zandakar. It was a terrible prospect. He knew his life belonged to the god, to keep or take as suited its purpose, but even so . . .

Is it sinful to want to live, god? To want to see my son grow into a strong, proud man? I cannot think so, you must tell me if I am wrong.

The god did not correct him. He smiled again, Sidik thought he smiled at her. She patted his rough-stubbled head and left him to rest and drink his invalid’s broth.

If I am to take gentle exercise each highsun, perhaps I might wander through Raklion’s barracks. That is not so far away. I will not overtire myself, surely. And perhaps I will be granted a glimpse of my son . . .

Broth finished, he slid again beneath his blankets and let that sweet thought lull him to sleep.

It must have been a sweet thought the god found pleasing for he did indeed see Zandakar in the barracks, on the fifth day he took his exercise there. No warrior or slave disturbed his tentative wanderings, he was a godspeaker and not their concern. The barracks godspeakers let him be also, once he met them and explained his presence.

His son trained with the warleader and a half-shell of warriors, they danced with their snakeblades on the warhost field. Vortka watched from beneath a shading tree, unnoticed, torn between pride and terror, as Zandakar challenged grown men and women who had killed with their snakeblades. It eased his fears, if only slightly, to know Hanochek warleader was there to guide and guard his boy. Hanochek’s love for Zandakar shone in his face, he laughed as he taught him, laughed as he praised him, laughed for laughter’s sake, and Zandakar laughed with him.

Zandakar leapt and cartwheeled, his godbraids flying, godbells singing his triumph to the sky. He slew a thousand unseen enemies, he looked like Hekat as he danced with his child’s blade. Vortka knew almost nothing of fighting, he could not tell one hota from the next, all he knew was that Zandakar was beautiful, like Hekat his mother, even though she was scarred.

I see nothing of myself in him, we could stand together and no-one would know. This is a good thing, the god protects my secret, but I cannot deceive myself. It does hurt my heart.

The training finished, at last. Hanochek dismissed his sweating, panting warriors with smiling praise, then he and Zandakar stood alone on the warhost field. Zandakar was breathing fast and loud, he was not quite five seasons of age, it was hard work for a child so young.

“Hano, when will Yuma return from Mijak’s Heart?” he asked, sweat trickling down his face.

“The warlord will return when he returns,” said Hanochek. “That is the god’s business, we must leave it alone.”

Zandakar heaved a disconsolate sigh. “Hano, I have been thinking.”

The warleader tugged one of Zandakar’s godbraids, teasing. “Should I be frightened, my little warlord?”

“ Tcha !” said Zandakar, with a grin. Aieee, so like Hekat, he had her voice entirely. “You know I love Didijik, but he is a pony. I am thinking I would like to show Yuma I could ride a proper horse. I am not such a small boy, I have grown a whole hand-span.”

“Zandakar, Zandakar,” said Hanochek, sighing. “You are many seasons from a proper horse.”

Zandakar’s face fell, his lower lip trembled. “But—”

“You listen to me,” said the warleader, and dropped to one knee so he and Zandakar were closer in height. “The warlord will never let you ride a tall horse yet, Zandakar. But if you show him what a skilled warrior you are, perhaps he will let you choose a foal from the next dropping. Then it will be yours to train as it grows, and when you are old enough to ride a horse your colt will be old enough for you to ride it.”

“Aieee!” breathed Zandakar. “Hano, the god see you. Can I really do that? Will you show me proper warrior tricks in the horse-field, so Yuma can see I am worthy of a foal?”

Vortka saw Hanochek’s face tighten. Clearly, he did not like to hear of Hekat. And Zandakar seemed not to care for the warlord’s opinion, his heart was full of Yuma, Yuma .

The warleader nodded. “I will show you a trick or two, Zandakar, so the warlord will be proud and give you a foal.”

Zandakar kissed him soundly on the cheek. “The god see you, Hano! You are my good friend!”

Laughing, Hanochek kissed him back. Vortka felt a cruel pain pierce his heart. My son will never kiss me, he will never know he is my son . Some sound of hurt must have left his lips, Hanochek heard him, he leapt to his feet and lifted his knife.

“You there! In the shadow! Show yourself or die where you stand!”

Cursing, Vortka stepped into the sunlight. “Do not be alarmed, warleader. I merely stopped in the shade to catch my breath.”

“Godspeaker!” Appalled, Hanochek lowered his snakeblade. “Forgive me, I did not realize. It is a grave sin to threaten a man of the god, I—”

Vortka stepped closer, his hands held out. “No, no. It was a simple misunderstanding. Please, do not distress yourself. I overheard a private moment, it is I who should beg forgiveness from you.”

Hanochek blinked. “That . . . is not necessary.”

“I am Vortka godspeaker.” He looked down at his son. “And this is Zandakar, to be warlord of Et-Raklion in the god’s time.” He pressed his palm to his heart. “The god see you in its eye, Zandakar warlord.”

Zandakar considered him critically. “The god see you, Vortka godspeaker. You are very thin, and you have no godbraids.”

Vortka smothered a smile. “I have been ill, Zandakar. I am better now. As for my godbraids, I gave them to the god.” He looked at Hanochek. “I am under healer instruction to walk daily for my health. I like to walk about the barracks, there is much to see and learn. I hope you do not find that unpleasing, warleader.”

“Unpleasing? No,” said Hanochek faintly. “You are a godspeaker, you walk where the god guides you, it is not for me to say.”

“True,” said Vortka. “And it is also true I must leave you, and return to the godhouse.” Again, he pressed his palm to his heart. “I think you looked most impressive, Zandakar, dancing for the god with your snakeblade. Perhaps I will see you dance again.”

“Thank you, godspeaker,” said Zandakar, grinning, and punched his small fist against his breast. “The god see you in its eye. I hope you are well soon, and the god quickly gives you back your godbraids.”

With a nod at Hanochek, Vortka walked away from them. It hurt like fever, but he left his son.

I have seen him dance, we have spoken together. I should not see him or speak with him again. It is too dangerous, and Hekat would be angry. Truly he is her son, he is not mine.

Or so he told himself, to ease the pain. But he did not believe it. And when it came time the next day to walk again for his health, his heart silenced his head and his feet guided him back to the barracks, to the horse-field, where Zandakar raced his blue-striped pony and laughed, and laughed. Again he stood concealed in shadows, he stood and watched, he was filled with joy.

See my son, god. See the son you gave me. He is your glory. He is a happy, carefree boy.

Hekat could easily have wasted water when Et-Raklion city finally came into sight. She would have, if not for Nagarak beside her and the five chastened, fallen warlords riding behind her. If they saw her weeping they would not remain chastened for long.

Raklion warlord was tied to his horse with strips of leather. He was a proud man, a strong man, he would not let them see him slump, but what it cost him etched deeper and deeper into his face with each passing newsun. He was in no danger of death, but his imperfect healing at Mijak’s Heart had left him weakened. Not even Nagarak’s later healings had restored his full strength.

Behind the fallen warlords rode their silenced warriors and dead Banotaj’s men and women too. Raklion’s warriors surrounded them, goatherds to ragged goats. Their days as warriors of those chastised sinners were ended, their allegiance was to Raklion now.

To Raklion, and me. This is the god’s plan, who am I to question it? Raklion is weak, but I am strong. I am strong for a reason. The god sees me in its eye.

Banotaj and the smitten high godspeakers remained in the red rock crater of Mijak’s Heart. Nagarak had decreed it, their impenitent bodies were too wicked for burning, he said. They must lie there forever, to shrivel and bleach, and remind all who came after, what price was paid by those who defied the god.

I would rather we brought back their heads, I would nail them to the gates of Et-Raklion and let their blind eyes shout the god’s warning to the world.

They entered Et-Raklion city by the Warriors’ Gate, it was the warhost roadway that led directly to the barracks. No man or woman from the city was permitted to walk that road, Raklion’s infirmity would not become known.

Vortka waited at the end of the warhost road, between its two imposing godposts. He was some distance ahead, his face was indistinct but she would know him anywhere.

Nagarak straightened in his saddle. Squinting along the roadway he said, “What is this? I know that godspeaker, that is Vortka. He has no godbraids, he is returned from the wilderness. What is he doing, barring our path?”

It was clear from his tone he was deeply displeased, and had not realized Vortka was safely home. “He stands at the Warriors’ Gate, this is warlord’s business,” said Hekat. “I will see what he wants, you stay with Raklion. Do not trot, stay in walk. Make sure the warlord does not fail so close to home.”

Ignoring Nagarak’s furious protest she dug her sandaled heels in her red mare’s dirty flanks. The animal bounded forward, head tossing. Hekat galloped to the godposts and waiting Vortka.

“What has happened?” she demanded, hauling the red mare to a rearing halt. “Why do you stand there? Is it Zandakar? Is he—”

“No,” he said swiftly. “He is not dead. But Hekat, he has been gravely injured.”

Vortka’s face was much thinner than when last she had seen him on the Pinnacle Road, the fever the god put in him had stripped him to the bone. She took deep hard breaths, subduing her terror, it did not help to see the fear in his eyes.

“How injured? What happened? Tell me, Vortka, or I swear by the god I will—”

“He fell from his pony. Split open his head, broke his leg, and his arm. The godhouse healers have mended his body.” Vortka paused, his voice was shaking. With an effort he disciplined himself. “He is in no danger now, he has woken once, the healers are keeping him quiet. He is weak but his wits are intact.”

Even walking slowly, Raklion and the warhost drew inconveniently closer. She pressed one hand hard to her eyes, feeling sick. “You say his wits are undamaged? He is right in his mind?”

“Yes. I promise.”

“And his body? There will be no infirmity, he is not crippled or maimed?”

“No. He is as he was.”

She took her hand from her face. “I do not believe he just fell from his pony . Zandakar rides as though he were born half-horse, this must have been demons, he—”

“No,” said Vortka. “It was an accident, it was no demon mischief.”

She stared. “How would you know?”

“Because I was there in the horse-field, Hekat. I saw it happen.”

“ You saw—” She gritted her teeth. “What were you doing in the barracks horse-field? What were you doing watching Zandakar ride?”