Hammer Of God (57 page)

Confusion and screaming among the armada. The drums ceased their beating. The world held its breath.

“This is madness!” said Ludo. “We're going to die here without striking a single blow.”

Alasdair didn't answer, he just looked at Han and his witch-men. A wind was stirring about them…and only them. Their hair whipped around their heads, their black silk tunics snapped and tugged. He swept his gaze over the vessels nearest to them, over the witch-men gathered in every bow. Like Han and his witch-men, each group stood in the centre of its own small windstorm.

And the wind was rising…rising…

“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!” came the chant from the Mijaki warships, easily filling the distance between them. “Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

“Look!” shouted Ludo. “Alasdair, look!”

Despite the mayhem at the front of the armada, despite the screams and the debris and the boats battling fire, not the enemy, the sailors on board those Arbenian and Harbisland vessels not sunk or burning had recovered their senses and were redoubling their efforts. The sky almost disappeared behind a fury of catapulted fireballs and flaming arrows.

This time the fireballs and arrows struck home.

A cheer went up from the armada as the first Mijaki warships were battered to oblivion. Mingled with the cheering, the screams of dying warriors. The screams of horses, trapped below decks in the burning, sinking ships of Mijak.

Alasdair, stomach heaving, spat bile down to the Ilda's deck.

“That stream of fire, that must be Dmitrak's gauntlet,” said Ludo. He was shaking, shuddering on his knees. “Has his warship been destroyed? Have we killed him?”

In reply to his desperate question, another lance of scarlet fire streamed into the armada. It began to travel sideways, scything through the front line of ships with horrifying ease.

“God's mercy, what is Han doing?” demanded Ludo, close to weeping. “Why don't his witch-men stop this? It's slaughter!”

Whatever power the Mijaki called on, it protected the warship of Zandakar's brother. No fireball fell on it, every arrow aimed to kill it plummeted hissing into the ocean.

But at least other Mijaki warships suffered.

The wind whipping Han and his witch-men increased. Now it was howling around every witch-man Alasdair could see, it howled and raged and when he looked back at their enemy he saw their warships starting to plunge uneasily, like tethered horses scenting danger in the air.

The rain of fireballs was weakening. Fewer arrows flew over the water. The surviving ships of Arbenia and Harbisland were running out of things to throw.

Then came more shouting, the redoubled sound of pounding drums, and the knife-shaped triremes of Dev-karesh came flying through the fleet. Their prows weren't carved to figureheads, they were graced with iron spikes, long and lethal. The ships were driven by the witch-men's wind and by oars, by sailors trained their whole lives to row fast…row faster…to spit an enemy like a boar.

The witch-men's howling wind rose to a fever pitch. Alasdair could feel it plucking at him, even at the other end of the boat. The drums of Dev-karesh boomed louder, quicker, as their ramming vessels aimed for the floating heart of Mijak.

“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!” came the chant from its warships, almost loud enough now to drown the Dev'kareshi drums. “Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

Then the howling wind's note rose high and keening, and there were waterspouts forming among the warships of Mijak. Huge waves were rising, tall as mountains. And the triremes of Dev'karesh were flying like needles.

“Is that Han? Is that the witch-men?” cried Ludo.

“Who else?” said Alasdair, and held his sobbing breath.

Sink them, Han. Sink every last one of them. Drive Mijak's warships to the depths.

The wind and the waterspouts came from nowhere, came howling through the mighty warships of Mijak. The spiked enemy ships came with them, they rammed Mijak's warships to splinters and pulled back, they came so fast, with oars and in the wind. Vortka's godspeakers could not hold against them, their power in the god was not strong enough. Dmitrak could not kill them, he could not see through the wind and the water to aim.

“What is this, Vortka?” Hekat shouted above the noise, as her warship's torn scorpion sail flapped and her boat rolled wildly and below its deck her warriors' horses screamed. “Why do your godspeakers fail in the god's eye? Why do they not blow out these winds?”

Vortka steadied himself against her warship's godpost, struggling to keep his feet. “It is likely a sea-storm,” he shouted back. “The slaves warned us in Jatharuj that—”

“Tcha!” she spat. Had she defended him to Dmitrak? Had she told herself she loved him? He was an old man, an old fool. Was he blind in the god's eye and no longer precious? “Is this a seastorm, Vortka? I think it is not! I feel the demons in this wind, do you say you cannot?”

The vicious wind was whipping the ocean into frothy peaks, spraying them with water as though the sky were full of clouds and rain. Soaked to the skin, shivering with cold, still she struck the godspeaker who tried to give her a blanket.

I am Hekat, Empress of Mijak. The god keeps me warm, the god warms me in its eye.

“Demons?” said Vortka. “Hekat—”

“There are demons, I tell you!” she shouted, grabbing hold of his godspeaker robes. Aieee, the god see her, she could shake him to pieces. “Brothers to the demons who thwarted us in the desert, brothers to the demons who stole the trade winds from the sky. They travel with the enemy ranged before us! They stink in my nostrils, they stink in my mind! Tell me you can feel them, Vortka. Tell me their stink is in your nostrils also. Tell me the god is not lost to your heart!”

She watched his hand play over his scorpion pectoral, watched the pain and indecision twist his old, thin face. At last he nodded. “Yes, Hekat. I can feel the demons, I can smell them.”

As the wind howled around them, as the waterspouts lashed her warships like whips, as the ships of her enemy spitted her warships and killed them, she caught Vortka's silver godbraids in her hand, she pressed her face to his face and let the ocean fall on their heads.

“I knew you were not lost to me,” she told him. “I knew we were still godchosen together. I must sacrifice to defeat these demons.”

He closed his hand over hers and shook his head. “No, Hekat. I am Mijak's high godspeaker. I will give the god its blood.”

She released him and stepped back, for the moment she was satisfied. He would give the god blood and the demons would die.

Dmitrak squatted beside her warship's rail, salt water streaming across his gold-and-crystal gauntlet. It soaked his scarlet godbraids and stopped his godbells from singing. Rising from his crouch, easily riding the warship's roll and pitch, he shouted, “Can he break the demons, Empress? Vortka is old now, and feeble. He is done.”

If they were alone she would strike him for saying so, but the deck around them was crowded with warriors and godspeakers. Instead she seared him with a look, a promise of later retribution.

“He will break them, warlord. He is Vortka, godchosen and precious.”

Vortka's godspeakers gathered around the godpost, they had lambs and cockerels and knives and bowls for the blood. On Vortka's command the animals were sacrificed. Hekat closed her eyes, feeling the demons. They were barely affected by the animals' blood. When she opened her eyes she saw twelve warships broken, the waterspouts smashed them like eggs thrown onto rock. And then as she watched, eight more warships were thrown down, two by the enemy and six by the wind. The wind of those demons whipped up waves so high they drowned her warships and her warriors, she heard them screaming as the water killed them in the world.

She screamed, the demons were killing her warhost. “More blood, Vortka! The god wants more blood!”

The slaves who had taught her warriors to sail these warships had taught them the way of spreading messages to many ships. In Jatharuj she had learned of paper, and ink, and quills for writing. She liked them better than clay and stylus, so neat and so clean. But only she and Vortka had used these new wonders.

Vortka used them now. Two of his godspeakers sheltered him with a blanket. He wrote on paper, wrapped the message round a smooth stone, and a warrior fired the stone in a slingshot from their warship to the next. The godspeakers on that warship read the note and passed it on. One by one, the godspeakers on the warships not destroyed by her enemy, or too scattered for the slingshot, learned the god's want.

And then those godspeakers were sacrificing for the god. Still, still, the blood was not enough.

Hekat looked at Vortka. “Go below to the horses. Give their blood to the god.”

“The horses?” said Dmitrak. “Empress—”

She held up her hand to him. “There are horses in Ethrea, they will be ours.”

Mijak's horses were not bred for sacrifice, she stood above them on the deck of her warship and heard them die unwilling for the god. When Vortka and his godspeakers returned, they were red with horses' blood.

She felt the demons screaming, she felt their pain in her blood. She felt their evil weaken, they were not beaten yet. Almost she wept. Had the warhost's horses died for nothing? Was their blood spilled in vain?

“It is not enough,” said Vortka, as the warship tossed and plunged. “Hekat, we cannot kill every horse in the warhost.”

Around her neck, her scorpion amulet burned. It burned with an answer. The god needed more power, she knew where it was.

“These demons are mighty, Vortka,” she shouted over the wind. “I will kill them with stronger blood.”

Vortka stared. “What do you mean?”

Aieee, the god see her. He would not accept it, even now. “You know what I mean, Vortka.”

He stepped back, unsteady, as the demon wind and water threatened to tear them spar from spar. “We have brought no slaves, Hekat, we have no stronger blood!”

She looked around the warship, at her beautiful warriors. “Vortka, you are foolish. We have the strongest blood of all.”

Dmitrak was listening, Dmitrak leapt towards her. “No. No, I will not allow it! You will not—”

Her snakeblade leapt to her hand, its point pricked his throat. “I am the empress, will you tell me no? I do not think so, Dmitrak. I think you will step back, before the god strikes you down.”

His eyes were anguished and frightened. Nagarak's eyes, in the moment of his death.

“Please, Hekat,” he said. “Your warlord needs his knife-dancers.”

She pushed him away from her. “The god needs them more!”

The warrior nearest to her was young and beautiful, he was named Didalai, no warrior knife-danced like him.

“Didalai!” said Hekat. “Do you serve your empress? Do you serve the god?”

“Hekat, I serve,” said Didalai.

Hekat cut her warrior's beautiful throat. The strong blood pumped from the wound in his neck, Didalai fell to the deck and washed it with his strong blood.

The next warrior was Anik, he was young, too. “Anik, do you serve your empress? Anik, do you serve the god?”

Anik's eyes were wide but they were not frightened. “Hekat, I serve,” he said, and died where he stood.

She felt the god's power rising, she heard the demons howl in fear. She felt them rally against her, she did not care. Strong blood would kill them.

One by one her warriors fell. One by one they served Hekat and the god. At last there were no warriors left to serve. And as the last warrior died…she felt the demons' power fade…felt the wind falter to nothing…felt the god, exultant.

“Dmitrak!” she shouted.

Dmitrak was weeping, he wept for his warriors, he was a weak fool. Warriors lived so they could die.

“Empress,” he said, choking, stumbling to her side.

She took his face between her hands, she pressed her fingernails into his flesh. Her godbells sang with anger as the angry waves tossed her warship beneath the sky.

“You are the warlord, Dmitrak, you are the god's hammer! The demons are weakened. Smite these enemy warships for the god. Smite them to splinters, destroy them in my eye!”

Still weeping, he nodded, he pressed his fist to his chest. “Empress, I will smite them.” Tears rolled down his face.

She released him, she stepped back, she joined Vortka by her warship's mast.

Aieee, tcha, I miss Zandakar. My true son would not weep.

The witch-men of Tzhung-tzhungchai were screaming. On the Ilda, on Han's flagship, on every surviving ship in the armada. Eyes closed, mouths stretched wide, the flesh of their faces compressed against their skulls, they screamed and they screamed…with no whisper of sound.

And the wind died. The waterspouts collapsed. The needle-nosed ships of Dev'karesh were stranded in the open. Zandakar's brother killed them with his gauntlet, like an idle boy stoning chickens in a coop.

“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!” chanted the warriors of Mijak.

“The witch-men are defeated!” cried Ludo. He was weeping. “God help us, we're lost.”

Almost, almost, Alasdair surrendered to despair. Unchecked now, with Han's witch-men failing, Dmitrak's gauntlet cut a swathe through the armada. Boats burned and sank and flew to splinters all around them. In a matter of minutes, surely, they'd be struck or fire would reach them. They would die at the hands of Zandakar's brother.

Rhian. Rhian.

They had to flee, every survivor, while they still could. Dying here in a hopeless attack would condemn Ethrea and the rest of the world to the same kind of slaughter.

“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

Half-jumping, half-falling, abandoning Ludo, Alasdair tumbled from the Ilda's cabin roof. His bones sang with pain as his feet struck the deck. He ran to the bow, to the silent, stricken witch-men. He took the first one by the shoulders and tried to shake him to awareness. Nothing. The witch-man's eyes were open, but he couldn't seem to see.

Alasdair struck him hard across the face. “Wake up! Wake up! Ethrea needs you!”

But the witch-man didn't feel the blows. His open eyes remained glazed and unseeing.

All around them the armada's ships were dying. Han's flagship wallowed without direction. Han stood with his witch-men, blank-faced and silent.