Hammer Of God (36 page)

On the highest floor of the godhouse there were no godspeakers burning feathers, sacrificing lambs or tasking novices. There were shadows and silence, this was Vortka's domain.

Banto pointed an unsteady finger at a closed door ahead of them. “There is the high godspeaker's chamber,” he said, and stopped.

Zandakar rested his hand on the novice's shoulder. “Vortka will want to see you, Banto. Do not sin against the god now.”

The novice Banto whimpered, he led them to the closed door and knocked upon it. When the door opened, Vortka stood before them.

“Banto?” he said, his face and voice were puzzled. “It is the quiet time, why are you not in the streets serving the god?”

Zandakar felt his heart pound, he heard the blood in his veins. Vortka. Vortka.

“Vortka high godspeaker,” said Banto, he sounded close to panic. “I am come – the god wants – there is a man – you do not see him?”

Vortka looked around them. “I see you, Banto novice. I see you in distress.” He stepped back. “Come in, we will talk of this, you will tell me what this means.”

Aieee, the god see him, Vortka had always been kind. With a glance at Dexterity, Zandakar followed the novice into Vortka's private chamber. When the door closed behind them he stepped close to the high godspeaker, he took the old man's hands in his.

“Vortka, it is Zandakar. I am come. I am home.”

“Zandakar?” said Vortka. His voice was a whisper, his body shaken head to toe. “Zandakar, am I dreaming?”

He tried to smile, his throat was so tight. Here was Vortka, his friend from boyhood, the man who had saved him when Yuma would kill him, when Dimmi would kill him. His face deeply lined, his eyes weary beyond anything, but he was still Vortka.

“No, high godspeaker. I am here, the god has brought me. We have much to speak of, the god tasks me with its want.”

“Zandakar,” said Vortka, and seized him close in a suffocating embrace. “Aieee, the god see me, you are come home.”

Never in his life had Vortka embraced him, never had the high godspeaker wept out his name. Something cold and hard within him broke, then, and he held tight to Vortka like a man drowning in a sea of grief, or joy.

At last Vortka released him and stood back. His godbraids were silver, as silver as his godbells. “You are not dead, the god told me you were not.”

“No, I am not, I am safe in the god's eye,” he said. Aieee, tcha, it was good to speak in the tongue of his people, the music of Mijak flowing like wine. “The god has kept me safe, Vortka, it is a journey!” Turning, he caught sight of the novice Banto's astonished face. “High godspeaker, this boy cannot be here now, he cannot remember I came to you.”

Vortka shook his head. “No, he cannot.” Stepping forward swiftly he took Banto by the shoulder, he pressed his palm to Banto's cheek. “Forget, Banto novice, let the god take this night from you.” Heat and light flared beneath Vortka's pressing palm. The novice cried out softly, his eyes rolling in his head.

“Stop that!” shouted Dexterity. “Are you hurting him? Are you killing him? Stop that at once!”

Zandakar turned. “Wei, Dexterity, Vortka wei hurt or kill.”

“What is this?” said Vortka, startled, as the power faded from his touch. “Who do you speak to, Zandakar? What strange tongue is that?”

“Send this novice away, Vortka,” he said. “Then I will tell you. I have much to say.”

Vortka stared deep into the novice's glazed eyes. “Return to the quiet time in the streets of Jatharuj, Banto. You came to the godhouse to tell me of night bats, you feared they were an omen, you thought I should know. I told you there was nothing to fear, bats are bats, they are not demons.”

“Bats are bats,” murmured Banto. “They are not demons.”

“The god see you, Banto novice,” said Vortka, and patted the boy's shoulder. “The god see you in its eye as you serve it in the quiet time.”

“The god see you, Vortka high godspeaker,” the novice Banto replied, all anxiety wiped from his face. The glowing mark of Vortka's power shimmered like moonslight on water, then sank into his skin. Smiling serenely, he left Vortka's chamber.

“Always Banto thinks he sees demons,” said Vortka, closing his chamber door behind the boy. “No-one will question that he came to me because of bats.”

Aieee, such kindness in his voice. Zandakar smiled.

Dexterity was still distressed, his hands were turned to fists. “Are you sure he's all right, Zandakar? Are you sure that boy's not been harmed?”

Sighing, he nodded. “Zho, I am sure.”

“Aieee, tcha!” said Vortka. “You speak again to the air, Zandakar, you speak in a tongue not familiar to me! What is this, you will tell me! Is Banto right, are you come here bringing demons, Zandakar?”

“No, no, Vortka, I do not bring a demon,” he said swiftly. He turned to Dexterity. “Touch Vortka. Show him you are here.”

“Show him and then what?” said Dexterity, stepping back. “He'll touch me and I'll lose my mind?”

“Wei! Trust Vortka. Trust me.”

“Oh, Hettie,” said Dexterity, his eyes squeezed shut. “The trouble you get me into, I swear!” Uncertainly he opened his eyes and stepped forward, his hand shaking. He reached out and took staring Vortka by the wrist. “There. Has that done it? Can your Vortka see me now?” He looked directly at the high godspeaker. “Sir, my name is Jones. I'm a friend to Zandakar.”

“Aieee, the god see me!” cried Vortka, and stumbled back against the door. “What is this? Who is this strange man who steps out of the air? Where is he from?” With a dreadful hiss of fury his stone scorpion pectoral came to life, tail lashing, eyes glowing, seeking for sinning flesh to sting.

“Oh, dear God and sweet Rollin defend me!” cried Dexterity, and tumbled to the floor in his haste to seek safety. “Zandakar, get him away from me!”

Zandakar leapt between them. “Vortka! No! This man is Dexterity, he is my friend, he saved my life! I was dying on a slave ship, he took me to his home, he healed my hurts! He is in the god's eye, Vortka, to hurt him is a sin!”

Vortka stared, his eyes wild and disbelieving. “He saved you?”

“Yes. He does not speak the tongue of Mijak, he does not understand what we say. Vortka, we are here for the god, you cannot hurt him, you would displease it.”

The hissing stone scorpion pectoral lashed its tail and clutched with its legs. It was stone and it was alive, he remembered Yuma's stories of Nagarak at Mijak's Heart, of the sinning warlords and their high godspeakers who would not obey the god's want. He felt sweat on his face and on his skin beneath his clothes, he felt his ribs drumming in time with his heart.

“You wear no godbraids,” whispered Vortka. His eyes were empty of love now, his eyes were wide with fear and disbelief. “You speak a tongue the god does not know. You come to me like a demon, with a man hidden in the air. Are you truly Zandakar? Or are you a demon wearing his face, are you come to destroy me, to destroy Mijak in the world?”

Zandakar shook his head, his heart still pounded. “No, no, I come to save Mijak. I come to save you, Vortka, before it is too late. You have known me all my life, you comforted me when my pony Didijik died, you saved me from the empress's snakeblade, you saved me from Dimmi. I am Zandakar, I am no demon, I live for the god.”

And before the fear stopped him, before he could retreat, he stepped himself into the stone embrace of Vortka's hissing scorpion pectoral.

“Zandakar!”

Two terrified voices, crying his name at once. In his pounding heart a third voice, distant and sweet.

Brave boy, brave warrior, do not flinch now. Have faith.

The stone scorpion stung him without mercy. Its stone legs held him, its stone breath scorched his sweating face. Every remembered pain in his life was nothing, his worst tasking in the godhouse of Et-Raklion, his knife wounds in battle, his hurts when Didijik fell and threw him to the ground. This was pain like the heart of the sun, so great he could not speak it, so great he was struck dumb.

Dimly he felt the stone scorpion release him, dimly he felt his body fall to the floor. Scorpion poison flooded his veins. He felt the convulsions, felt his bones shake, his muscles twist. Felt his head banging on the floor. There was a battle within him, a raging war in his blood. It seemed as though his flesh was a battlefield, he heard again that sweet imploring voice.

Fight the darkness, Zandakar! Fight it! Don't surrender! The world is lost forever if you surrender now!

The god was in the stone scorpion pectoral, the god was trying to kill him, and the god was in his heart, it was trying to save him, it did not want him to die. It made no sense, his mind was in confusion, his blood burned, his world was pain. His eyes were open but all he saw was a red and black mist, he heard a roaring fury and that sweet, faint voice.

Fight, Zandakar. The god who loves you does not seek your destruction, it wants you to live.

So he fought the darkness, he fought the stone poison, he thought of Lilit and his dead son, he thought of Rhian, he fought to live.

“Zandakar!” someone cried, beseeching. “Zandakar, don't die!”

The words were Ethrean, it was Dexterity who spoke. He closed his fingers, felt the warm reassurance of human flesh. Heartbeat by heartbeat, the terrible pain faded. The red and black mist faded. He blinked, he could see again. He could see Dexterity on the floor by his right hand, white as goat's milk, staring down at him.

He managed a smile. “Wei, Dexterity. I wei die.”

“In God's name, Zandakar, what was that?” Dexterity whispered. “What just happened?”

How could he answer when he was not certain himself? With trembling fingers he plucked at his roughspun shirt and lifted it, looked down at his chest and belly, saw the shiny red blotches welting his skin. Marks of the stone scorpion which did not kill him after all.

“Chalava,” he croaked, then rolled his head on the stone floor. “Vortka.”

Vortka knelt by his left side, his eyes wide and bright. The scorpion pectoral was cold stone again, it clasped his ribs harmlessly, it did not seek to kill.

“Aieee, the god sees you, Zandakar,” said Vortka, wondering. “The god's wrath smites you and yet you do not die. Like Hekat in the scorpion pit you defeat the god's scorpion.”

He knew that story too, how Nagarak had called Yuma a demon and she swam with the scorpions to prove he was wrong. She is my mother, I am her son. We have blue eyes, we dance with scorpions, we do not die. With an effort he stretched out his other hand and grasped Vortka's shoulder. “No, Vortka. The god sees me, for I must live.”

“You must live to be great in the world,” said Vortka. There were tears on his seamed and sunken cheeks. “It was foretold in a vision. The god gave it to your – to Raklion, and to Nagarak, when you were still a child. Hekat said the foretelling was ruined, when you returned from Na'ha'leima with that sinning place unbroken she said the god had cast you from its eye. But it has not. The scorpion kissed you, you did not die.”

“I did not die, I am not a demon. This man is Dexterity, he is not a demon.” Zandakar tightened his grasp of Vortka's shoulder. “Trust him as you trust me, he is in the god's eye. I have seen the god in him, like you he is a man of power.”

Vortka said nothing, he stared at Dexterity. Dexterity stared back, he was brave to stare at Vortka high godspeaker. He was Dexterity, a burning man of the god.

“What is this strange tongue you speak with this man?” said Vortka, not ceasing to stare. “I have never heard it before.”

With an effort, Zandakar smiled at him. His pain was almost gone, the scorpion fire in his blood burning out. “It is the tongue of Ethrea. You know of Ethrea? I think you do.”

Vortka nodded, suddenly wary. “It is a place I know of.”

“It is where I have come from. Yuma and Dimmi wish to break it with the warhost.”

Now Vortka looked at him, his eyes wide. “How do you know this?” he whispered. “You cannot know this.”

He sat up. Vortka and Dexterity helped him. “I know many things, Vortka. Much has happened since you saved me from Dimmi.”

Dexterity cleared his throat, he sounded cross. “I do wish you'd stop jabbering on so I can't understand a single word you say, Zandakar,” he complained. “Have you any idea how disconcerting it is?”

He had to smile at that. “Zho, Dexterity. When you save me from slave ship, you and Ursa, jabber jabber jabber.”

“Oh,” said Dexterity. The pale skin around his beard turned pink. “Yes. Well. Hmm.”

“What does he say?” said Vortka. “He sounds angry, is he angry? He should not dare. You are Zandakar warlord, you are the god's hammer, where is his respect, this godless Ethrea man?”

“Am I a warlord, Vortka? Am I the god's hammer? I think I am not, I think Dimmi is those things.” He released Vortka's shoulder. “And Dexterity is not godless, you must believe that.”

Vortka looked doubtful, then he sighed. “Have you ever lied to me, Zandakar? I think you have not. You say this man is not godless, I will believe you.”

It was a start, it was something, as Ursa would say. He felt a blade prick of new pain in his heart. “How is Dimmi, Vortka? How is Yuma? The god told me they are here in Jatharuj.”

“Aieee, tcha,” sighed Vortka. “I will tell you, but tell me first of these things you know and how you know them. Tell me of your life since we parted in Et-Raklion.”

“What's he saying?” said Dexterity. “Tcha, I wish I'd asked you to teach me Mijaki while Helfred was teaching you Ethrean.”

As Vortka went to speak, Zandakar held up his hand to halt him and looked at Dexterity. “Yatzhay. Vortka wants my Ethrea life.”

“And you want to tell him?” Dexterity looked alarmed. “Zandakar, you can't. That's – that's giving information to the enemy. And besides, it isn't as though we've unlimited time!”

He shrugged. “Yatzhay, Dexterity. I must tell. He is Vortka. I wei hurt Rhian. I wei hurt Ethrea.”

Dexterity chewed at his lip, then nodded. Still he did not look happy. “Well, all right, but tell him quickly. Then tell him he must help you stop the Mijaki army from leaving Jatharuj.” He shuddered. “All those warships. God help us, Zandakar, even with an armada of vessels from every trading nation we don't stand a chance against your people.”

“Zho,” he told Dexterity, then turned again to Vortka, who was frowning to hear Dexterity's cross voice. “Do not look at him with your high godspeaker eyes, Vortka. He has been my good friend, he has saved me many times, he has fed me and clothed me, he has bound my wounds and protected me when men would strike me down. I was alone in Ethrea, Vortka, for a long time I did not hear the god. Did I want to live? I think I did not. Dexterity would not let me die, he fought for me when I was nothing to him, when I was a trouble that could have cost him his life.”

Vortka was staring at Dexterity, his face hard with disbelief. “Why would he do this?”

“Because he is a good man.”

“Tcha!” said Vortka, he wore his terrible high godspeaker face. “This is a godless man, how can he be good?”

Zandakar closed his eyes. The stone scorpion pain was gone completely from his body, its poison had been pushed out of his blood to lie sticky on his skin. He could smell it beneath his Ethrea clothes, he could feel it on his flesh. Harmless now, for he had defeated that poison, he had won that battle.

Now here was another battle he must win.

“Dexterity is not godless, he is a man of power for his own god,” he told Vortka, stern as a warlord. “The god of Ethrea.”

“A false god,” said Vortka sharply. “A wicked thing to be destroyed. The god is the god, there can be no other.”