Hammer Of God (21 page)

“Dmitrak trains the warhost well,” he said. “He does not let them sit idle, he does not say ‘this is enough’. Look at the warships dancing, Hekat. Who would think your warriors had so lately learned to sail?”

She grunted. “Dmitrak does what he is told to do.”

“He serves the god, he is fierce in his service. If you do not acknowledge that you make him weak before his warriors, Hekat.”

“My warriors,” she said, glaring sideways. “The warhost is mine, it has been mine since Raklion stumbled. If I told it to kill him, Dmitrak would be dead.”

Aieee, god, it was true. They obeyed Dmitrak, it was their blood and breath to obey, but it was Hekat they screamed for when she rallied them to war.

“He is a good warlord.”

Another sideways look. “You do not love Dmitrak, why do you pour honey on him? Do you think he will be sweet to me with your honeyed words?”

“I think he is your warlord, empress.”

Her face tightened, the old scars twisting. “He is Nagarak's spawn. He is nothing of mine.”

They had reached the harbour and its closed city gates. The warriors on guard there bowed to their high godspeaker, then pressed their fists to their chests, smiling to see their mighty empress.

“The god sees you, Empress Hekat,” the taller woman said. “The god sees you in its conquering eye.”

“It sees you also, Nedajik,” said Hekat. She nodded at the other guard. “It sees you, Yogili.”

“It sees you, Empress Hekat,” said the shorter, younger guard. “How do we serve you?”

Hekat's teeth bared. “You stand aside. The god sends us to make sacrifice.”

The guard Nedajik frowned. “Sacrifice, Empress?”

“Are you stupid?” said Hekat, staring. “Sacrifice, Nedajik. Blood for the god.”

Flinching, the guard Nedajik shook her head. Silver godbells sounded her dismay. “Empress, there is no blood here.”

“There is blood. There are slaves, discarded for age and other reasons. You stand aside, Nedajik, or Vortka high godspeaker will give you a slave braid.”

Vortka watched the warriors exchange anguished glances. Touching his fingertips to Hekat's arm, he met her sharp look calmly. Then he turned to the guards.

“What has happened to the blood?”

“It is spilled, Vortka high godspeaker,” the guard Yogili whispered.

“Spilled?” Hekat seized the warrior's face between her fingers. “How is it spilled? I am the empress, I spill blood in Mijak. Speak!”

“Dmitrak warlord,” whispered Yogili. “He trains his warriors, he says blood must be spilled for a blade to stay sharp.”

Vortka closed his eyes briefly. Dmitrak, stupid boy, do you seek confrontation? Did your mother not tell you never again take her slaves without asking? He could feel his heart pound behind his scorpion pectoral.

“Dmitrak warlord,” said Hekat. Her voice was stony. Grating. She released her cruel hold of the warrior's face. “You Nedajik, you Yogili. Did your snakeblades drink the blood of these slaves?”

Yogili shook her head. “No, Empress. Dmitrak warlord ordered the shell-leaders to draw lots, only those warriors in the god's eye drank the slaves' blood.”

Pressing her fist to her chest again, Nedajik bowed. “Empress, the warriors chosen did not know the slaves were yours.” It was the closest she would tread to laying blame at Dmitrak's feet.

“Tcha!” spat Hekat. “All slaves are mine!” And then she relented, and Vortka relaxed. She would not smite her warriors, she knew they were not to blame for this. He felt a wicked sense of relief. If the useless slaves were dead already, Hekat could not stain herself by spilling their blood.

“Stand aside,” said Hekat, so frail, so furious. “I will see for myself what the warlord has done.”

Vortka followed her as she discarded her warrior guards and walked more quickly than was wise to the pens put aside for those old sick slaves who must be kept separate.

They were empty.

Breathing harshly, Hekat looked at the pens where the slaves should be. Vortka looked too and read the story of that place. Shackles were there, abandoned like dead snakes. Emptied waste troughs were there, and troughs for the slaves' food. The salt breeze was fresh, only a faint hint of human remained where the slaves had been. Other slaves had cleaned away their memories, doubtless glad for the task. Better to clean than be cleaned up after.

“Dmitrak has done this to anger me, Vortka,” said Hekat, her jaw clenched. “He is Nagarak's son, he seeks to slay me with anger.”

She was so harsh, she would not be soft with this son. “Hekat, Dmitrak is the warlord. He trains his warhost as he sees fit. When you were warlord you gave your warriors slaves and criminals for their snakeblades to drink, why should Dmitrak believe this is denied him?”

“He should believe because I told him it was so! The last time he killed slaves without my permission, I told him.”

He sighed. “Nearly a fat godmoon has passed since then.”

“Does that matter, Vortka? I think it does not,” said Hekat, stabbing him with a hot blue glare. “If I did not spend my time in that palace, away from the warhost, resting by your want, this would not have happened. I spend my time in that palace, the world does not see my face. Dmitrak does not see my shadow, he forgets I exist. I exist, Vortka. And I have rested in that palace long enough. Jatharuj is not the world. The god desires the world and I will deliver it.”

Aieee, god, the iron in her voice. Vortka felt her words like fisted blows. “Yes, you will, Empress, when the time is ripe.”

“Ripe?” She laughed, a bitter sound. “Vortka, it is rotten. And we will rot with it if we stay here another godmoon.”

Aieee, the god see him. The trade winds again. Can she not think of anything else? “We will stay here as long as the god desires our staying.”

“The god?” She clenched a fist. “Are we penned in this harbour like slaves by the god? I do not think so. I think we are penned in Jatharuj by demons. They must be broken. This is the desert again, Vortka, can you not see it?”

“The god has not said so.”

She stared. “It has said so to me. And it looks to me to break these demons. You did not break those demons in the sand, I broke them.” She pointed at the harbour before them, where the warhost's boats no longer danced but turned at last towards the shore. “The ocean beyond the harbour, that is another desert. It is a desert of water and I must break it.”

“Not with slaves' blood, Hekat.”

“Tcha!” she spat. “That is not for you to say! You do not serve the god in this, you do not bring the trade winds, Vortka. You have had many godmoons and still we are here. So I will bring the trade winds to Jatharuj.”

Vortka felt his belly knot with fear. “Hekat, you cannot. The god's words in the godpool—”

“I am the empress!” Her bird-claw fingers jabbed his scorpion chest. “You do not tell me I cannot.”

Despair was a black tide closing over his head. “Hekat—”

“Dmitrak has wasted the slaves here, but no matter,” she continued, ignoring him. Her silver godbells shone in the sun, the amulets in her godbraids gleamed like fresh blood. “There are always more slaves. Their blood will flow, it will drown those demons. I will summon the trade winds and we will sail from Jatharuj.”

His eyes burned, he could weep. Hekat, Hekat, will you not let me save you?

She turned her fierce face to the open water, rested her eyes on the horizon, so distant. “Dmitrak is right, the warhost needs blood. Like its empress it has rotted here long enough. The warhost was weary, it is weary no more. Now it is hungry, it needs to be fed.”

“And you will feed it in defiance of the god?” Vortka demanded, anger stirring with his fear.

“Nothing I do defies the god, Vortka,” she said, suddenly serene. “I am its chosen, every breath serves it sweetly.”

“Hekat!” If she was not frail he would shake her to pieces. “The god has told you, do not sacrifice more slaves!”

“I have thought on that in my resting, Vortka,” said Hekat, coldly smiling. “I have wondered why the god would say such a thing when it knows the power human blood brings it.”

He could feel his scorpion pectoral thrum in time with his heartbeat. “You think a demon spoke to me, not the god? In the godpool, Hekat?”

She shrugged. “Demons have power.”

“You think I would not know the difference?”

“I think you are a man and a man may be deceived.”

“And you cannot?”

She laughed again, a soft chiding sound. “I have lived in the god's eye since I was a child, Vortka, I cannot be deceived. I will bring back the trade winds, I will help you change the horses. I will lead my warhost into the world.”

Where they stood, at the slave pens, they could see clearly the warhost's ships ride into their moorings like obedient stallions. They saw Dmitrak leap from the deck to the dock, his scarlet godbraids flaming under the sun. His warriors leapt after him, lithe and lethal, exultant in their skills.

“Hekat,” said Vortka, watching her son, “I know you are certain, does it matter I am not?”

“It matters to you, it does not matter to me,” she said. “You have doubted me often, I have never been wrong. When was I wrong, Vortka? Can you tell me? Tell me once.”

He could not tell her once and she knew it. Aieee, the god see me, she knows I cannot. “You are quick to dismiss me, Hekat, but if I had lost my purpose would the god see me still? I think it would not, I think Vortka would be blind in the god's seeing eye.”

She laid her hand on his arm, he could feel new strength in it. “Of course you have a purpose, but it is not to thwart me. Your purpose was always to serve me, Vortka. When you serve Hekat you serve the god, has that not always been true? From the very beginning, is it not so?”

“Yes,” he whispered…even as he heard his heart cry out no. Heard his heart cry out stop her.

“Good,” she said briskly. “Vortka, this is good. Now let us greet Dmitrak, Mijak's warlord. He must answer to his empress. He has wronged her, and should know.”

They skirted the empty slave pens and walked to the top of the long pier where Dmitrak's warriors clustered round him as they waited for all the returned ships to empty. When the last warrior had joined him Dmitrak turned and led his warhost away from the water. The sliding sun flashed on his gauntlet, gold-and-scarlet in the light.

The warhost saw its empress and stopped in one breath. Fists punched against horsehide chests, in one joyful voice they shouted.

“The god see Hekat! The god see her in its eye!”

Vortka, looking sidelong, saw the warm pleasure flash in Hekat's thin face. Then she settled her blue gaze on Dmitrak and that pleasure plummeted cold.

“Warlord.”

Dmitrak's gauntleted fist at last kissed his breast, lightly. “Empress.”

“We will talk now. Your warriors will leave us.” Her cold gaze warmed again as she smiled at them. “The god sees them, warlord, it sees them in its satisfied eye. Go now,” she told them, raising her voice. “I will see you at sacrifice, we will serve the god together then.”

“Empress!” shouted the warhost, and continued along the pier without a second look at Dmitrak. They bowed their heads, godbells sighing, as they passed their high godspeaker.

Vortka nodded, he needed no more than that.

The smile Hekat gave her son was full of memories and spite. “They are mine first, Dmitrak, they are mine always. Remember that.”

Whatever dark thoughts curdled behind his eyes, Dmitrak was too canny to let the world see them. Instead he nodded. “You are the empress, you were warlord many seasons.” His gaze shifted. “Vortka high godspeaker.”

“Dmitrak,” he said. “I am no warrior but I think your warships danced their hotas well, to please the god.”

“To please me,” said Dmitrak. “My warriors please me, high godspeaker. After the empress, the claim on them is mine.”

Hekat stepped forward, eye to eye with her son. “There were slaves in the slave pens, warlord. They are not there now.”

Dmitrak shrugged. “Old slaves. Diseased slaves. What is their purpose but training for the warhost?”

“Whatever they are, warlord, is my place to name it. I told you the slaves of Jatharuj belong to me.”

Dmitrak shrugged again, he flirted with insolence. “Empress, you have been long within your palace, we do not see you. Your voice is hushed, it fades with time.”

She looked down. “I see your legs, warlord, the god has not cut them from your body. I hear you speaking, it has not taken your tongue. You could not walk on your legs to my palace, warlord? You could not use your tongue to ask ‘May I have those slaves?’”

Now Dmitrak scowled. “If I am the warlord then I am warlord of those slaves, Empress. Whatever my warhost needs it is my purpose to provide it, when I am in the world with my warhost do I ask you before I wield it? Do I send a warrior to ask you ‘May Dmitrak warlord kill these slaves?’”

She stepped closer again, and spread her hand on his broad chest. “Your heart beats, Dmitrak. I feel it. You live. You live because I say so. You are warlord by my will.”

Dmitrak's eyes, so like Nagarak's, stared fearless at Hekat. She tried to deny it but he was her son. “And the god's hammer by its making,” he replied softly. “By blood and by its purpose do you and I walk together, Hekat. There is no breaking of us. We are two, and we are one.”

Seabirds cried in the silence that followed. Mooring ropes creaked, wooden hulls groaned, salt water slopped and splashed, a soothing sound.

Hekat smiled. “Until I say we are not.”

Dmitrak glanced away, for a heartbeat. He lowered his head. “Empress, my warriors' snakeblades were thirsty. The warhost is becalmed here, as its warships are becalmed. There is little to do, there is much time to fill. You were once the warlord, you taught me well. Idle warriors are prey to demons.”

Hekat's fingers fisted and punched his chest. “This is true, Dmitrak,” she said, stepping back. “You say a true thing. So I will not smite you for the taking of those slaves. You thought of the warhost, the god sees you in its eye. Vortka—”

“Empress,” he said, not looking away from Dmitrak's dark face. What are you thinking, warlord? Are you pleased or disappointed your mother has spared you? Did you hope to provoke her, or show her your worth? You have done both, do you know it? Was that your desire?