Hammer Of God (67 page)

Aieee, the god see him, there were no godbraids in his hair. He had no godbells for singing, she would give him hers. They were his.

“Yuma, do you hear me? I hear the god, I must tell you what it says.”

She smiled, her heart was laughing. “So do I hear the god, Zandakar. It told me I would see you again, did it lie? I think it did not.”

“Listen to your son, Hekat,” said Vortka. “Zandakar has something important to say.”

Tcha. That Vortka, he did not know when to hold his tongue.

“Yuma,” her son said. “I must tell you this, the god wants you to know what I know. It wants you to know what Vortka knows. In Jatharuj the god spoke to Vortka, it spoke the truth and now you must hear it.”

She felt her smile fade, she felt her heart stop laughing. “Jatharuj? How do you know of Jatharuj?”

“Tcha,” said Zandakar, his blue eyes were sad. His blue hair was beautiful, how she hated red hair. “Yuma, I was in Jatharuj. I was with Vortka when the god told him the truth.”

She felt the world tilt around her. “You were in Jatharuj?”

Zandakar nodded. “The god wanted me there. Yuma, you must know the truth. I am sorry, it will hurt you. The voice you hear is not the god. You listen to demons. Your heart has been tricked.”

It hurt to look away from him. She must. She looked at Vortka. “You saw him in Jatharuj? He was with you?”

“Hekat,” said Vortka, his face was wet with tears. “Listen to Zandakar, listen to me. This is the truth, it is time that you hear it. In Mijak, in Et-Raklion, we heard a false voice. You and I were tricked by demons, we did not serve the god.” He pointed at Kingseat, at the smoke and the flames. “The god does not want blood, it does not want this slaughter. That is what demons want. We have served them, we did not know it. But we know it now, Hekat, this slaughter must stop.”

His words were a babbling, she heard only one thing. “He came to you, Vortka, and you said nothing? My son was in Jatharuj and you held your tongue?”

Vortka tried to touch her, she struck his hand away. “Hekat,” he said, “I know you are frightened. This is a terrible truth, these demons are terrible. Let me help you understand this, let me help you not fear. You must let me help you, Hekat, you must hear the god's true voice. You must—”

“I must! I must! You do not say I must! You knew where my son was and you did not tell me, my son was in Jatharuj and you kept that in your heart. My son who you sent away, my son—”

“My son!” shouted Vortka, he seized her arms, he shook her hard. “He is not only your son, Hekat, he is my son too!”

“What?” said the other one. “What did you say?”

She did not listen to Dmitrak, what was Dmitrak? Spawn of Nagarak. She did not look at Zandakar, she fed her eyes on Vortka. She pulled her arms free of him, she showed him her rage.

“You fucked me, Vortka, it does not make him your son! You sowed the seed, the god and I raised him.” Her fists were clenched, she struck his scorpion pectoral, she pounded his stone chest, she was so angry she could weep. “You are nothing to him, he is everything to me. He was in Jatharuj and you held your tongue. And now you shout that you fucked me, was the world meant to know? Was Zandakar meant to know? I think he was not!”

“Yuma,” said Zandakar. “Vortka told me in Jatharuj he is my father. Do not be angry, I am pleased he is. Come home with us to Mijak, the god is waiting there.”

So much rage in her blood, it was burning her alive. “You told him? Was that your business? I think it was not! You sinning man, you wicked sinner! You saw him in Jatharuj, you kept him a secret! You told him the secret he was not meant to know!”

Vortka was angry, she had never seen him angry. She had never seen him like Nagarak, so angry in his eyes.

“He is my son, Hekat, I wanted him to know me. He was sailing away, what if he died and I never saw him again? You love him? I love him. All your life you kept him, you would not share him with me. You are a selfish bitch, Hekat. I wanted my share of him, it was time, it was time! I wanted to know him as my son, I wanted—”

She stepped back, her heart beating. She stepped back, she could not breathe.

Where did that come from? Who put that there? Who put my snakeblade through Vortka's sinning throat?

Vortka was staring, he was dead in his eyes. Someone was laughing…and someone else wept.

Zandakar watched, disbelieving, as Vortka's body slumped to the ground. The sound it made was like any dead man's body, falling, but that was not right. This was not any man, this was Vortka.

My father. He was my father, how is he dead?

Shouting broke the silence, and the drumming of many feet on wood, on stone. The warhost's godspeakers were leaping from the warships to the docks, rushing towards their fallen high godspeaker. Many were clutching their sacrifice knives. It was nearly lowsun, they prepared for the god. They were shouting, they were weeping, they knew Vortka was dead.

Dmitrak killed them with his gauntlet.

Zandakar barely noticed them dying, he did not care if they were dead. The scorpion knife slipped from his fingers and he dropped to the dock, he gathered Vortka in his arms. Vortka was his father, and Hekat had killed him.

Oh, Yuma, Yuma. What have you done?

He could not look at his mother, he did not dare to see her face. He could not breathe, he could not weep, he could not make a sound. In his heart the god was screaming, he screamed with it in his heart.

Dmitrak started laughing again. “You killed the old fool, Hekat, you killed the sinning old man! Aieee, the god sees Mijak's empress, the god sees her in its eye! Vortka was a sinner, he did not hear the god, the god did not see him, he was swallowed by demons!”

Zandakar stared up at him, Vortka so quiet against his chest. So quiet in his arms, he was holding his dead father. “Be quiet! What do you know?”

“What do I know?” said Dimmi, he was laughing so hard. “I know you are not the warlord, you were never the warlord. She fucked with that old man, you are his son. You are demon-born, Zandakar. No brother of mine.”

Yuma spun and struck Dimmi, with her open hand she struck him, with her closed fist she struck him harder, it was a miracle he did not fall. Her godbraids flew about her head, her godbells were raucous, they were shrieking, she screamed.

“Zandakar is the god's get, he was born by the god's want! You are the evil spawn of demons, Dmitrak!”

As Dimmi stared, his laughter dying, Zandakar kissed his father, he kissed Vortka, he pulled out the knife. There was so little blood, there was just a wound, a little wound. A wound so large it must kill the world.

Yuma was weeping, she was beating her breast. She was staring at Vortka but she did not take a step.

“Bitch!” Dmitrak snatched her godbraids, he pulled her to him as her godbells shouted. His eyes were wide and black with rage. They were Nagarak's eyes, it was Nagarak's rage, he was Nagarak's son…and he did not know. “Bitch, bitch, you were always a bitch!”

“Dimmi,” said Zandakar. “Dimmi, let her go.”

He could not release Vortka, the old man was so light. He was so light he might float away, and where would he go?

Dimmi was not listening, he was glaring at their mother. “How can I be born of demons, Hekat? I am the warlord, I am Raklion's son, I am—”

“Raklion?” said Yuma. Her scars were slick with tears. If she felt Dimmi's fist in her godbraids she did not show it. She looked so small, so empty, with Vortka dead. “Raklion never sired one living brat in his life. You are Nagarak's spawn, Dmitrak, rotten in your bones.”

“Nagarak?” said Dimmi. “Bitch, you lie. I am Raklion's son, I am the warlord of Mijak like my father before me!”

“You are Nagarak's!” cried Yuma. “You are warlord by mistake! I was tricked by demons to fuck that high godspeaker. You think that I wanted you? I hate you, Dmitrak, you should have died at birth! You crippled me, you nearly killed me, you stole my warhost, you stole my son! He married that piebald bitch because you did not stop him!”

Spittled with fury, Dimmi pushed her away. “My fault? You make it my fault? I never said Zandakar should marry that Harjha bitch. I said to fuck her, I never said she was a wife!”

Yuma was a knife-dancer, she did not stumble when he pushed. She stayed on her feet and waved a fist in Dimmi's face. “Tcha!” she spat. “You knew I would be angry if he married that piebald, you wanted him to marry her, you wanted my rage. I would have killed him for marrying her but Vortka stopped me. You tried to kill my son, you are demon-spawn.”

“No!” shouted Dimmi. “Zandakar is demon-spawn. He turned from the god in Na'ha'leima, Hekat, now he tries to turn you. I hear the god, I know it wants the world, I give you slaves to kill and I conquer countries. Zandakar and that old fool, that old Vortka, they are eaten by demons, they would see demons conquer you.”

Yuma was shaking, she was shaking and weeping. She slapped at Dimmi, she slapped him and slapped him, she was a wild woman slapping, the empress was gone.

“You do not say that of Vortka, he was a good man! Vortka was godchosen, we were godchosen together! Vortka and I lived in the god's choosing eye! Oh, Vortka – Vortka– you are dead, I have killed you—”

Zandakar stared, breathless, as his mother threw herself to the ground, as she crawled on her hands and knees to weep over his father. She was moaning, she was sobbing, she rocked on her knees, she clawed at her silver scars until her face ran with blood.

Reaching over Vortka, he took hold of her hands, he kept her fingers from clawing. “Yuma, no, Yuma don't, it was an accident, you did not mean it!”

She fell against him across his dead father, she hid her torn and bleeding face against his chest. “Zandakar, my son, my only true son. You are come back to me, the god has seen me, it sees you, we are together. This is the god's want, Vortka could not hear it. His ears were stopped by demons, you must know that, Zandakar. I am Hekat, the god's empress, I hear its voice in my heart. Listen to me and you will live in the world. You are my warlord, you are warlord of Mijak, you are the god's hammer, you will never leave again!”

“No!” shouted Dimmi. “You bitch, I am the hammer!”

Zandakar tried to push Yuma behind him, he tried to protect her, to push Dimmi away. But Dimmi stood above him, he was strong, he was angry. He took Yuma by the godbraids and hauled her to her feet.

“Say it, bitch! Say it!” he screamed, his eyes were mad with fury. He shook her and shook her, her godbells cried her pain. “I am Dmitrak, I am Hekat's son! I am warlord of Mijak and hammer of the god!”

Zandakar did not move, he did not dare provoke his brother more. He did not even dare to speak, for Dimmi wore the gauntlet.

I had the scorpion knife, I let him keep the gauntlet. I did not want to make him small. I was stupid to do that. Aieee, the god see me, I am a fool.

Dimmi was still shouting, there was foam on his lips. “Say the words, bitch! Say them! Dmitrak is warlord, hammer of the god!”

The blood was drying on Yuma's beautiful, scarred face. Her blue eyes were unfocused, she did not defend herself. “Zandakar,” she murmured. “Zandakar, my son.”

Weeping and howling, Dimmi released her. He struck her with the gauntlet as he wept and howled his pain. He struck her so hard he burst her beautiful blue eye. He struck her so hard he broke her slender neck.

Yuma fell to the dock like one of Dexterity's puppets. She fell to the dock, she did not move again.

Dimmi stared at Yuma as though he could not believe her dead. As though he could not remember killing her. As though none of this was real.

Zandakar felt the grief in his throat. But it is real, it is real. Here is my father, dead in my arms. There is my dead mother, all of this is real.

On the dock beside him lay the scorpion knife, abandoned. On the dock before him, rejected, his murdering brother.

He eased himself free of Vortka, he closed his fingers on the scorpion knife. Its power trembled through him as he got to his feet. He saw the knife's blade run blue, it shone blue with power.

Dimmi saw it. He lifted his fist. The gold-and-crystal hammer shimmered with red lights, it pulsed the colour of blood. Zandakar faced him, he faced his little brother, the only breathing family he had left in the world.

I must save him. I must save him. If I lose him…what do I have?

“Enough. Enough. We must end this,” he said, pleading. “The god is not the god. We should not have left Mijak, we serve demons by mistake. We must take the warhost home to Et-Raklion, we must free those nations we conquered and never again cross the Sand River. Dimmi, little brother, we were wrong. We were wrong.”

Dimmi's lips pulled back in a snarl. “Did you never listen, Zandakar? My name is Dmitrak.”

And with a bold leap and a screamed curse, Nagarak's son attacked.

They were losing the light when Rhian found Alasdair, wounded and bleeding in a sprawl of dead soldiers on the doorstep of a burned-out potter's shop in Gimcrack Lane.

By that time her personal army had dwindled to three, and they were the only living soldiers she'd seen in some time. Kingseat's air remained thick with smoke. The fading blue sky was hazed with it, and the cooling autumn air stank of burned wood and flesh. Mijak's warriors still roamed the streets, chanting, though she'd not seen any for perhaps half an hour, and not killed one for longer than that. She'd seen glimpses of survivors: Ethrean faces pressed to windows and swiftly withdrawn, a flash of skirts whisking round a corner, a voice in an alleyway, hurriedly hushed.

Well. Mijak had been in Kingseat for less than a day. They couldn't kill a whole city in less than a day…could they?

Maybe not, but God knows they're trying.

She found Alasdair by accident. Stumbling with exhaustion, hurting so badly from her own wounds, half-blind with thirst and hunger, she was leading her three men by touch and luck down the dark lane, and so was the first to trip over the bodies. When one moaned, she nearly screamed. When she discovered it was Alasdair, she nearly screamed again.

“Oh, dear God,” she said, hauling the corpses off him as though they were so many broken tiltyard mannikins. “Alasdair! Alasdair!”

Mijak's warriors had left him for dead. Rollin's mercy, he looked dead, he was stabbed through his arms and legs and chest. He was covered in blood, hardly breathing at all.

Oh, no. Oh, Alasdair. No no no no…

Weeks of coolness. Estrangement. Hurt feelings on both sides. Misunderstandings, frustration. Marriage was hard. And then their fight at the harbour, only this morning. This morning? It felt a lifetime ago. The look in his eyes when he'd begged her to leave.

I told you to go but, Alasdair, I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it. Are you listening? Can you hear me? You have to stay.

She looked at Revin, the oldest of her soldiers. Sixteen or seventeen, if he was a day. “He's not dead. We can save him.” I hope we can save him. “But he needs a physick, he needs—”

Ursa. He needs Ursa. He needs Dexterity. He needs a miracle.

But here was Alasdair living, when she'd given him up for dead so perhaps she could hope.

“Take his shoulders, Revin,” she said curtly. “Bothy, take his legs. Be careful. Don't drop him.” She looked at her third soldier, a mere child of twelve. One of the harbour taverns' cheeky cellar brats, rough as guts and twice as tough as nails. He'd killed six Mijaki warriors all by himself. “Tob, do you know Ursa the physick? Do you know her clinic on Foxglove Way?”

Tob nodded, so solemn. “Aye, Majessy. Ursa's allus physickin' us cellar brats. Foreign sailors get rough when their beer's slopped too slow.”

Really? She didn't know that. Something to frown over, when this day was done. “I've no idea if she's dead or alive. But if she's alive, Tob, she'll save the king. Run to her. Tell her we're coming. And be careful, you hear me? Avoid any warriors you see.”

Tob scarpered, and she led the others with their precious burden, scouting ahead to be sure the way was clear.

God granted another miracle. They reached the clinic safely to find Ursa and Tob waiting, and nearly two score of townsfolk huddled in fear. Along one clinic wall marched a line of sheet-covered bodies.

For some reason Rhian found them more upsetting than any pile of hacked limbs.

“Mind now, mind now!” Ursa scolded, as they laid Alasdair on a pallet. “Rollin's mercy, those heathens have made a collander of him.”

“Maybe, but he's breathing,” snapped Rhian. “So you have to—”

“Ah,” said Ursa turning to follow her stare. “Jones. Yes. That's a story.”

Dexterity stood in the corner, gently wreathed in golden flames. His eyes were open but he seemed to see nothing. He didn't move, he didn't speak, he didn't come to greet his queen.

“He's been like that for hours,” said Ursa, briskly tallying Alasdair's wounds. “Killed a band of Mijaki warriors, healed everyone here who could be saved, killed two more bands of warriors, and hasn't said a word since.” She shrugged. “I can't explain it. It's like he's…gone away.” And then she sighed. “Majesty – Rhian—”

Rhian saw in Ursa's face what the old woman didn't want to say. She looked down at Alasdair, beneath the blood so still, so pale. She felt a dreadful shudder, rage and grief shaking her, and pushed to her feet.

“No, Ursa. I won't have it. I'm telling you, I won't.”

She marched over to Dexterity and glared into his serenely burning face. “Mister Jones! Pay attention. Your queen has need of you.”

Nothing. Nothing. He burned and said nothing.

“Mister Jones! For the love of God, I'm begging you! Look at me!”

Still nothing.

He was burning. She shouldn't touch him. She shouldn't take that dreadful risk. But she needed him, she needed him. Alasdair needs him. Oh, God, please…

With the last of her strength, with the dregs of her faith, she slapped Dexterity as hard as she could.

“Mister Jones!”

He stirred, then stared at her through the near-translucent flames. “Rhian?”

She pointed. “Alasdair's dying. Heal him. Hurry.”

Dexterity nodded, and drifted to Alasdair. Arms folded, chewing on a ragged thumbnail, Rhian watched as her toymaker made Ethrea's king – her husband – whole.

When it was over, and Dexterity stepped back, she knelt beside Alasdair and took his quiet hand. Looked into his dear face, so plain, so bony. “My love, it's me. It's Rhian.” Alasdair, wake up.

He didn't stir.

“Look out now, Majesty,” said Ursa. “Give me some room.”

Standing, Rhian gave Ursa room, then looked at Dexterity. “I thought you healed him. Why doesn't he wake?”

“He'll wake in his own time,” said Dexterity, then frowned. “You're wounded too. Poor Rhian. Poor queen.”

His sympathy nearly ruined her. She gritted her teeth and forced back the tears. “If you can heal me, heal me. And that's all I need.”

So he healed her, for the second time.

“Thank you,” she said.

But he didn't say, “You're welcome.” Instead, he turned his head to stare through the clinic's broken doors, towards the harbour.

“What?” she said. “Dexterity? What is it?”

“Zandakar,” he whispered. “Take my hand, child. We have to run.”

Zandakar? She shook her head. “No, I can't, I can't leave Alasdair, I—”

Dexterity's flames flared high and hot. “Yes, you can, Rhian! Now run!”

So they ran hand-in-hand through the last of the light. The lowering dusk was a kindness. She couldn't see what had been done to her capital. No warrior challenged them and she didn't burn.

Just as they reached the harbour's Royal Gate they heard the dreadful searing sound of Dmitrak's gauntlet, and the faded evening lit up as a Mijaki warship burst into fire and splinters. A heartbeat later a blue flame streaked through the air, and smoke from scorched stone seared their lungs and stung their eyes.

“Rollin's mercy,” Rhian gasped. “Is that—”

“Yes,” said Dexterity. “That's Zandakar. He's at war with his brother.”

They ran through the gates, past the smouldering harbourmaster's office, down the stone steps to the harbour-front and the docks, just in time to see a shadowed figure roll away from another killing crimson streak.

Zandakar.

“God help him,” said Rhian, her voice catching on a sob. “Dexterity, stop them, before—”

“I can't,” said her toymaker, still gently burning. “It's not my place.”

“What? Dexterity—”

“Hush,” he replied. “Rhian, you must have faith.”

And then, to her gasping shock, he pulled the flames inside himself. All that remained of them was a golden flicker in his eyes…and a soft glow in his hands.

She didn't resist when he tugged her into the shadows.

A blast of power from Dmitrak's gauntlet set fire to six more warships. Within scant moments the docks were bathed in a merry, dancing light. Rhian could see everything, and what she saw stole her breath.

Dmitrak was hunting his brother.

Shorter than Zandakar by perhaps two handspans, he was brutally muscular, not long and lithe. He reminded Rhian of a wild boar in the way he paced the docks, shoulders hunched, head lowered. In the light from the burning ships his hair glowed blood red. Like all of Mijak's warriors, it was long and plaited into many fine braids, festooned with amulets and pretty silver bells. Every step he took shivered them into song.

Dexterity touched her arm. “See there.”

She dragged her frightened gaze from Dmitrak and looked where he nodded. Two flame-flickered bodies sprawled on the ground.

“That's Vortka.” He sounded sorrowful. “Zandakar's father is dead. The woman is poor mad Hekat, Empress of Mijak.”

“And who are they?” she asked, pointing to the other bodies scattered around the docks.

“Godspeakers,” he said, still sorrowful. “The unholy priests of Mijak.”

She didn't ask how he knew, or how he could feel pity. He was her burning man of miracles, and that explained it all.

As she turned again to stare at Dmitrak, to look for Zandakar, a streak of blue fire burst from the shadows further along the harbour, where the warships were yet to burn. Zandakar burst into the light after it, his scorpion knife pointing. A second stream of blue fire lanced from its tip. But it didn't kill Dmitrak, it seared a thin line across the stone of the harbour-front, so the prowling warrior had to leap back.

“Dmitrak!” Zandakar shouted, and then something else, something in his Mijaki tongue Rhian couldn't understand. He didn't sound angry. He sounded desperate and so sad.

Dear God, he's trying to reason with him. Kingseat's burning, it's littered with corpses and running with blood, and he thinks to reason with the man responsible.

If he'd been within reach, she'd have stabbed him herself.

Dmitrak's answer was a stream of crimson fire. Zandakar raised his ugly scorpion knife and met the crimson fire with blue. The two flames collided in a screaming of sound, the light and heat so intense Rhian threw up a hand to protect her eyes.

But still she watched. She couldn't look away.

The two streams of power burned hot and bright as the brothers struggled to destroy each other, as blue fire and crimson melded and writhed and screamed. And then came a great flash, a boom that echoed round the harbour. Zandakar cried out as the scorpion knife flew from his grasp to strike the dock and skitter far out of reach. In the same heartbeat Dmitrak shouted as his gauntlet belched stinking smoke…and died.

Breathless, silent, the brothers stared at each other.

Then Dmitrak laughed. Rhian felt her skin crawl, felt the hair on her nape rise. She watched, cold sweat sliding, as Zandakar's brother pulled his knife from its sheath and crouched, ready to dance.

But Zandakar was unarmed. His scorpion knife was gone.

Rhian whipped Ranald's tiger-eye blade out of its sheath. “Zandakar!” she shouted. “Zandakar! Here!”

He caught the thrown knife, no time to acknowledge her. Dmitrak was not distracted, he launched into his hotas, so fast, so deadly, so implacable in his hate. Zandakar answered with hotas of his own.

Rhian stood at the edge of the firelight and watched the hotas as they were meant to be danced, between bitter enemies, to a bitter death. And she saw, for the first time, how kind Zandakar had been.

He and his brother fought with a ferocity that stole her breath. She could hardly distinguish one hota from the next, they slashed and leapt and whirled and kicked so fast. How long could they fight like this? Their speed was inhuman. Surely not even these two could keep up this pace…

And as though they read her thought, the brothers broke apart, gasping harshly, staggering a little as they sought a brief respite. Dmitrak's blade had opened Zandakar's arms, his legs, his face and his chest. His fine linen shirt and leather leggings were sodden red. Dmitrak was just as wounded, but he wasn't wounded nearly enough.

And then Rhian realised – Zandakar wasn't trying to kill him. He still believed in a victory without death.

God knew, she understood him. Had it been Ranald or Simon she'd have felt the same. No matter their crimes, no matter their wickedness, she'd want to save them. She wouldn't want them to die.

But he doesn't love you, Zandakar. Dmitrak wants you dead.

It was her fight with Kyrin all over again. She felt a flare of anger, that Zandakar could be so two-faced. He'd scolded her for being sentimental, for not dispatching Hartshorn's duke swiftly…and now here he was, making the same mistake.

I'm sorry, Zandakar. You don't give me a choice.

She thought of Alasdair, healed and waiting. Thought of her kingdom, torn apart. Then she stepped from shadow into firelight, where there was nowhere to hide.

“Zandakar,” she said coldly, her skin hot with fear. “You said you'd not betray me. Was that a lie?”

He was too tired and hurt to school himself. Everything he felt for her blazed in his face. Dmitrak saw it. Dmitrak laughed. He said something in Mijaki and then he grabbed his crotch, hips pumping suggestively, greed in his eyes. Zandakar's blood on his knife-blade shimmered scarlet.

“Rhian,” said Zandakar. In his face, love and pain. He looked at his brother. He looked back at her. Watching his face, she felt a cruel stab of grief. How could she do this, make him choose between them? Who was she, what kind of woman, to force a good man to slaughter his brother?

I'm what you made me, Zandakar. Rhian hushla, a killing queen.

Dmitrak leapt for her, and Zandakar killed him.

The silence afterwards was broken only by the sound of warships, burning. Zandakar stood over the body of his brother, so neatly slain by an Ethrean knife.

Rhian looked into his face and wept. “Yatzhay, Zandakar. Yatzhay. Yatzhay.”

He couldn't hear her. Or if he could, had no desire to answer. He turned away from Dmitrak and walked to his mother and father, tumbled together in death a little distance away. She didn't follow him. Gave him what privacy she could.