The Godspeaker Trilogy (42 page)

“ Don’t call me Dimmi!” said the boy, and wriggled out of Zandakar’s grasp. “I don’t question the god, I question Vortka, he—”

Hekat seized his godbraids and threw him to the floor. “To question Vortka is to question the god!” She bent over her unwanted son, gleaming snakeblade in her hand. “Are you stupid ? Every breath you take reflects upon Zandakar! Every word you speak is echoed in his eye. He is the warlord, he is the hammer, he is the god’s will in the world. If you love him as you say, you will honor Vortka, he is the god’s voice, he speaks with its tongue. Tcha !” She thrust her snakeblade back in its sheath. “Get to the tasking house. Find a taskmaster. Tell him you are sinful and must be corrected before the god.”

“Yuma . . .” Zandakar murmured. “Dmitrak only—”

She speared him with a look. “Do you wish to join him? You are the warlord, I am the Empress. Do not try my patience. Return to the barracks, I will join you there.”

Dismissed, Zandakar bowed and withdrew. Dmitrak went to find a taskmaster for his tasking. Vortka cleansed himself of the sacrificial blood and said, “We are the only ones here now, Hekat. You can admit you are afraid for him.”

She stood by the chamber’s godpost, her fingers tracing a carved and inlaid Et-Raklion snake. “I am Empress. I do not feel fear.”

“Hekat,” he sighed, and shook his head. “Before you were an Empress you were a knife-dancer, before you knew one hota you were a slave. To the world you are the Empress. To me you are Hekat. The god will not smite you for loving your son.”

Resentful, scowling so she looked so much like Dmitrak he almost laughed, she said, “You do not fear for him?”

Of course he feared. He would never say so. “He lives in the god’s eye. He is the warlord you created. Like you and I, he is godchosen and precious. The god will protect him, it will allow no harm to befall its hammer.”

“He goes to war without a son. He will not marry, I have asked him and asked him! He is disobedient, I am pleased he will be tasked before he leaves.”

She did not mean that. “He is a good man, Hekat. He has a good heart.”

Risking the god’s wrath she smacked the godpost. “I want to ride with him, Vortka! I want to ride out with my warhost! It is my warhost, as much as his. I want to see what lies beyond the Sand River, I want to smite sinners for the god!”

His hands were free of blood now, he went to her. “Hekat, my dear friend. Even if your body could bear the journey, you are the Empress. Mijak looks to you. You are its tongue, its voice in the world.”

She turned. “You are high godspeaker, you could speak for me. Your godspeaker healers riding with the warhost, they could ease my body when the pain grows bad. Vortka—”

“ No ,” he said, and grasped her shoulders. “It is not the god’s desire, Hekat. You hear the god, you know what it wants.”

“It wanted Dmitrak and look what that cost me,” she muttered. “At least the brat rides with Zandakar, I will not have to look at him and see Nagarak.”

“Do not speak so,” he said, reproving. “I do not wish the god to smite you. Your duty here is as important as Zandakar’s beyond the Sand River. Mijak must be ruled, it must see its Empress and see the god. There is also the matter of the savage north to consider. Godless lands within our own borders, they must be cleansed. That is your task, the god has told me.”

She pulled a face, but her temper was calming. “I will cleanse them, Vortka, I promise you that. The savage north will be emptied of sinners, I will see that sinning place left to the goats.” She smiled. “And after its cleansing, I will go on an imperial progress. Comfortably, in stages. The cities will not forget again who is their Empress. I must find Zandakar a proper woman, and send her after him so he can sire a son. He must sire a son or Dmitrak will succeed him.” She shuddered. “I could not bear that. He is mud to Zandakar’s gold.”

If he is mud, you helped to make him , Vortka thought. But he could not say so. He understood her hatred of the boy, a little, he tried to, but the god had created Dmitrak for a reason. In its time that purpose would be revealed. It was wrong to hate what the god desired.

He said, “I must withdraw myself, to prepare for Zandakar’s cleansing. Be easy in your heart, the god sees him. It sees our son. He will be safe.”

My son . He saw the thought leap into her eyes, as it always did when he said our son . He did not say it often, it hurt him when she rejected his part in Zandakar’s creation. He knew why she did it, that did not ease his pain.

“Remember when you cleanse him, he is the warlord,” she said, her eyebrows raised in warning. “Do not spare him, Vortka, to spare your own heart. I have never spared him, you can do no less.”

He watched her leave the Divination chamber, he saw the pain that lived within her now, Dmitrak’s fingerprints in her flesh, Hanochek’s handiwork in her limp, and her eyes. He flattened his hands across his scorpion pectoral, sleeping still as it had for so long.

Keep her in your eye, god, I beg you. She will need you when Zandakar goes.

At lowsun before the god’s time of his departing, after three days of fasting, sacrifice and tasking at Vortka’s unflinching hand, Zandakar stripped off his godhouse robe and prepared to enter the god’s sacred godpool.

He had never entered it before.

“Every warlord experiences it differently,” Vortka told him. “Some receive guidance. Some an admonition. Some are praised, it happens rarely. Open your heart, and you will hear what you must hear.”

The air in the candlelit chamber was cool, blood-scented. His belly roiled. A lifetime of discipline had hardened him to sacrifice and killing and the drinking of hot blood. To swim in it was another matter . . .

Naked and nearly shivering, he looked at Vortka. “What did my father hear?”

“Your father,” said Vortka, after a moment. “I do not remember you calling Raklion that, before.”

“In this place I feel closer to him. It has been so long since he died, even in dreams I cannot see his face.” A small pain pierced him, adding its voice to the larger pains of his ruthlessly tasked flesh. “Does his godspark see me, wherever it is? Is my father proud, high godspeaker?”

Shadows shifted across Vortka’s face. “Your father is proud, warlord. Your father knows you are in the god’s eye.”

It eased, a little, some of his tension. “And do you know what Raklion warlord heard, when he swam in the godpool?”

Vortka shrugged. “I cannot tell you, I was a novice in that time. Nagarak accompanied him.”

Nagarak . “That is someone I do remember. He frightened me. He was fierce for the god.”

Vortka smiled. “And I am not fierce?”

“You are fierce in your devotion,” Zandakar said slowly. “You were fierce in your tasking of me, I understand why. But you do not need others to fear you. Nagarak needed that, he fed on terror.”

Vortka frowned, and turned away. “Warlord, we are not here to talk. The god is waiting.”

The blood was thick, it clung to his welted skin as he trod down the stone steps into the godpool. Vortka had told him he must immerse himself completely, he must keep his eyes open and search for the god. The blood soaked his godbraids, they pulled his head back and under the surface. He felt himself sinking, then he struck the stone floor.

I should be drowning. I do not breathe. Is the god with me? Does it know I am here?

A great warmth suffused him, as though loving hands held him close. He felt peace. Acceptance. Sorrow. Love.

Zandakar, my son, my son. I am with you, though the road is long and steep and strewn with stones. All that will come to pass must come to pass. Grieve, weep, endure, surrender. I will be with you, unto the end.

He burst from the thick blood, gasping and confused. “ Vortka !”

The high godspeaker knelt at the edge of the godpool. “Zandakar, what happened? Did the god speak?”

Was that the god? He thought he had heard the god before in his heart, a cold voice, a hard voice, full of knives and spear-points and shooting arrows. It sounded nothing like the voice he’d heard in the blood.

My son, my son . . . It had sounded so mournful, so full of pain. Yet proud and loving, strong and brave.

I liked that voice.

“Yes,” he said, and climbed from the godpool. “I heard the god. It sees me in its eye.”

When Vortka smiled he looked seasons younger. “Bathe now, warlord. Eat, and rest. At newsun you ride for the god’s great glory.”

The following newsun, as light broke over the horizon, the god’s conquering warhost, its godspeakers and its slaves assembled on the plain of Et-Raklion. Beyond the thousands of mounted warriors the remaining warhost and the chosen witnesses prayed with their heads bowed, for Zandakar warlord, the god’s chosen, its mighty hammer.

Zandakar stood with his mother the Empress and his brother Dmitrak as Vortka high godspeaker sacrificed to the god. Five black bulls, five white lambs, five golden cockerels, five pure white doves. The god took all of them, it inhaled them completely, their blood soaked the earth, it watered the ground.

His gold-and-crystal hammer was strapped to his chest in a horsehide satchel made by the Empress’s own hands.

“The god will tell you when to use this weapon,” she told him, when sacrifice was finished. Her face was stern, her eyes unmoved. “Never let it from your sight. Never permit another hand to touch it. You are the hammer, it is your second skin.”

“I will not. I promise.”

Her gaze flicked sideways, it touched on Dmitrak. “ No hand, Zandakar. I charge you, in the god’s eye.”

He would never risk his brother’s life with the hammer. “You have my word, Empress. The hammer is safe.”

She believed him, her eyes were full of tears. They did not fall, she did not falter. “Go with the god, Zandakar. Smite the world in its eye. Destroy every demon beyond the Sand River. Remember your mother, the Empress of Mijak. Know she rides with you, in your heart.”

Aieee, Yuma . He wanted to hold her, kiss her, weep into her godbraids. If he did, she would never forgive him. He nodded. “I know it always. I will not forget her. She will hear of our victories, she will laugh with the god.”

She gave him a small smile. She said nothing to Dimmi.

The farewell was ended. It was time to ride.

Vortka turned to face the multitude, his strong, clear voice cried to the god. The people heard him, they chanted with him. “ Zandakar warlord, Zandakar godhammer, Zandakar precious in the god’s great eye !”

Their voices beat on him, his skin was a drum. He turned to his mother, the Empress, Hekat, he saluted her with a fist to his heart. He saluted Vortka, Mijak’s high godspeaker, then he mounted his stallion. Dmitrak, on his own horse, rode at his side.

Zandakar led his mighty warhost away from Et-Raklion, towards the Sand River and the unsuspecting world. He left his mother behind him.

He did not look back.

A
ieee!” said Dmitrak, and jabbed his elbow into Zandakar’s ribs. “There is a woman ripe for fucking. Pity she is piebald. The godspeakers say piebald women will make your cock rot and drop off, do you think they are right? Or are they just jealous and itchy, they are not vessels, they cannot fuck.”

Zandakar sighed, and looked at the hole his stylus had torn through his damp clay message tablet. Swallowing annoyance, he handed it to his scribe-slave, snapped his fingers for a fresh one, and began again the laborious task of composing a letter to the Empress, their mother.

“Do not bother to send her my love,” Dimmi added, watching. “She has never asked after me in six seasons of warring, why should I care if she lives or dies?”

Zandakar glanced up. “You talk like a barracks slave,” he said curtly. “And watch your tongue. To disrespect the Empress is to disrespect the god.”

“Tcha,” said Dimmi, but nothing else. He held out his ale mug for a slave to refill.

They sat side by side in the open-fronted warlord’s tent, protected from the highsun glare. Beyond it lay the Harjha village called Yanowe , the largest they had found since crossing a river into this land. The houses were built of saplings and mud, their roofs were thatched reeds. Harjha was poor, even though it was green.

Godspeakers glided among the awe-struck villagers, performing sacrifices, chastising sinners, selecting the animal stock that would form the basis of godhouse breeding farms which would, in time, supply sacrifices to the new godhouses in this land. The only woman he could think might catch his brother’s attention sat beneath a tree, a stone’s throw away, with three young men and two boys, also piebald. They received instruction from solemn-faced Valik godspeaker.

Dimmi said, staring into his mug, “Do I dream, Zanda, or have I seen piebald slaves at home?” He sat up sharply, liquid sloshed into his lap. “Aieee! I remember! That godforsaken slave you killed in the godtheater, the first woman you smote with the hammer. It was piebald, I am certain. Or do I misremember? It was so long ago, and you have killed thousands since then.”

Zandakar felt his heart constrict. Yes, Dimmi. Thousands. Thousands of godsparks slaughtered in the god’s eye. Scores of cities like Jokriel, smashed to the ground . “You do not misremember,” he said. He had never forgotten the day his hair turned blue. “What is your meaning?”

“I have none,” said Dimmi, shrugging, and drained his mug. “Except to say that once, in the dark past, these people of Harjha belonged to Mijak. Now they are conquered, they belong to us again. As do the peoples of Drohne, of Targa, of Bryzin and of Zree. Aieee, the god see us! I did not think it could take so long to conquer so little. How big is the world, Zandakar? Will we be old men before we see it fall?”

He sighed. Dimmi was in a talking mood, there was no use trying to write a letter till his words had run out. His little brother was grown strong and tall, he had hundreds more fingerbones than he could wear round his neck, tokens from the wicked sinners he had killed for the god. With a sharp nod Zandakar dismissed the slaves. Dimmi with ale in him was not always discreet, his brother said unwise things, often about the Empress. He did not want a godspeaker to hear.

“ Look , Zanda,” said Dimmi, nudging and pointing to the girl beneath the tree. “Is she not a fuckable woman? Hellspawn demons, why does she have to be piebald?”

Zandakar put down his stylus, covered the clay tablet with a damp square of cloth and pushed his rough work table a little to one side. “I cannot say. Who knows the god’s purpose?”

“Tcha,” said Dimmi, and leaned forward appreciatively. “If I rolled her in mud she would not be piebald. Do you think my cock would drop off if I fucked her then?”

Sometimes it was hard to like his brother. The older he got, the cruder he became. “Dimmi . . .”

“Do not call me that,” Dimmi growled, a warning. Once he could only wave his small fists, now he was a warrior with a snakeblade in his belt. “You play with fire, you know that you do.”

What does it matter, if I can distract you from that woman ? In the last three seasons, since his manhood came fully on him, Dimmi had been tasked over thirty times by the godspeakers, for lewd behavior that offended the god. Dimmi seemed not to care for their smitings, he laughed at their whipping, he told them whip harder, do you wish to tickle me to death ?

“What do you think of this land, this Harjha?” Zandakar asked. “We have been here a godmoon, it seems a green place.”

Dimmi snorted. “Greener than Drohne, at least, and Zree. Targa was green, but too full of demons. The same with Bryzin. I think this is the first place we have found where I will happily sit for a while.”

“On that point I will not argue. It is green, it is peaceful, it seems there are no cities or large villages to be smitten with the hammer. Its people have welcomed us for saving them from the demonstruck men of Targa. They speak our tongue, in a fashion. They may be piebald, Dmitrak, and dangerous to cocks, but I can see no demons here. I can see no offense against the god.”

The words earned him a sharp look. “Their existence is offensive, Zanda. There are no godhouses, no godposts, the sign of the scorpion is nowhere to be found. They are not Mijaki, that is their sin.”

It was the answer their mother would have given, had she been there to hear them. In many ways Dimmi was very like her, though to say so would earn him a blow, or worse. Dimmi was a man now, tears were beneath him, but Zandakar knew the pain in his heart. How could he not know, he had grown to manhood watching it fester.

“Even so, they offer us no warfare, unlike those other nations. They are misguided only, not rotten with demons. As you say, Dmitrak. Harjha is a good place to rest.”

And I am pleased, so pleased. I am weary of smiting, I dream of dead faces, I dream of blue-white fires and cities blown apart. I hear the dead thousands screaming in my sleep.

He held his breath—such thoughts, so sinful. A wonder the god did not strike him dead. The god did nothing, said nothing, it was silent.

It has been silent since we crossed the Sand River. Silent to me, at least. The godspeakers hear it. They say they hear it, I must believe them. Their godgiven smitings have not grown faint.

He turned on his leather camp-seat, aware of Dimmi, staring. “Are you all right, Zanda? Have you taken a sickness?”

“No.”

“Are you certain? You are not yourself. You have been different, distant, for godmoons now. Even the warhost has noticed, Zandakar. They wonder if you weary of conquest.”

Zandakar felt his face go still, heard his heart in his chest thud against his ribs. “To weary of conquest is to weary of the god. I attend sacrifice. I am given the omens. Every fivesun the godspeakers task me, to ensure my godspark is pure for the god. If they whipped any harder they would break their canes. I tell you I am the warlord, Dmitrak. Or do you say I am not?”

Taken aback, Dimmi raised his hands. “Aieee! Do not bite me! I thought you looked sad. Are you sad, big brother? Perhaps I should roll that piebald in mud for you . Five virgins has the Empress attempted to send you, five times you have told her to leave them at home. Will you die unwedded, unbedded, alone?”

“I am not unbedded,” he muttered. “I was fucking vessels before you knew what they were.”

“But not since we left Et-Raklion.” Dimmi grinned. “Unless of course there is something you have not told me.”

“Tcha!” he said, and made a fist at his brother. “You are the one who takes conquered women in the shadows. Enough talk of fucking. It is not the god’s business, it is not why we are here.”

“I know,” said Dimmi, and rolled his eyes. “Zanda, how many more godmoons do you plan to stay in this land?”

“As many as the god needs for it to be conquered. Besides,” he added, and glanced sideways, “six seasons of fighting, the warhost is weary. There is plentiful game and water here. We would be wise to take our ease awhile. Send some warriors home to Mijak, replace them with younger, fresher knives.”

“The Empress will not like that,” said Dimmi, considering. “She will say the god has no need of rest.”

“The god is not a man, Dmitrak. The Empress is not with us. Conquest has a price, she does not see it.”

“And I for one am glad that is so,” said Dimmi. “I am happy here, where I am valued. Do not tell her I said so, in that letter you write. If she thinks I am happy she will call me home.”

Zandakar groaned. “Dmitrak . . .”

“You always defend her,” his brother said, resentful. “Why do you not see that your truth is not the only truth?”

“I defend you, too!” he protested. “I will always defend you. You are my brother, you are half of my heart.”

Dimmi ignored that, he could not be sensible where the Empress was concerned. “You have not properly answered my question. How long do we stay here? How many godmoons?”

“How can I tell you what the god has not told me?” he said. “The godspeakers say we have time yet, before we must move on. I will take that time, all the time that they give me. I am not sad, Dmitrak, but I admit I am weary. I have lost count of the cities I have killed, do you think it is easy , to wield the hammer?”

“I know it isn’t,” said Dimmi, quietly. “Don’t I sit with you after, and look in your face? You never speak of it, though I wish you would. I am your brother, I could share the burden.”

Their mother’s words inscribed in clay, sent to him when the first supply line to Mijak was secured: Remember the god’s will, my son. The hammer is yours, let no-one else touch it. It is your purpose, to keep in your heart . She meant, exclude Dmitrak. Keep him at arm’s length . And he did, but not for lack of trust. He did it to protect his brother, to save him from the hammer’s fury.

The longer I wield it, the harder it becomes. Sometimes I fear it is killing me, slowly. I will not let that happen to him.

“One hundred and seventy four,” said Dimmi, breaking the silence. “That is how many cities you have killed for the god. Before the world is conquered, I think it must become thousands.”

Aieee, god. Thousands . Which meant tens of thousands of slaughtered godsparks, if the people of those sinning cities did not fall on their faces before the god. He had seen twenty-five seasons, he felt twice as old.

“There is only one hammer, Dmitrak, you cannot help me. But . . .” With an effort, he smiled. “Your company cheers me, and that is no small thing.”

Dimmi brightened, it was important to him to know his big brother needed him. Even though he helped lead the warhost, even though he was feared and respected for himself, and not because his brother was the god’s hammer . . .

None of that means anything, if he thinks I do not need him.

“Dmitrak,” he said. “I would ask you a question. What do you hear, when you hear the god?”

Surprised, Dimmi stared at him. “I do not think of it. If I hear the god, it speaks to me in dreams and they vanish like mist when I open my eyes. Why? What do you hear?”

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.