The Dread Hammer (24 page)

There were three Inherent families in the district of Anacarlin, each ruled by a patriarch as God had decreed. The master of Breden was the oldest of them, and the master of Anacarlin the youngest, but the master of Cuhoxa presided over the largest estate by far in the district, and the others deferred to him.

The three men had gathered on the veranda of the inn, seated in plush chairs arranged in a semicircle, each with a mug of sweet fruit juice and a tray of boiled eggs and wine-soaked berries within easy reach.

When Marick appeared on the threshold, Nedwary of Cuhoxa was first to take note. Though he was a man of middle years, with his black hair and neat beard half-gone to gray, he kept himself trim, and when he rose to meet Marick he did so with the stiff-backed bearing of the general he once had been. “You are the Sheriff Marick?” he asked.

“Sir, I am.”

Nedwary, standing a full head taller than the sheriff, studied Marick with a stern expression. After a few seconds, he nodded. “God bless you then, and welcome.”

He resumed his seat and discussion of the demon began. The master of Breden was most incensed, given the loss of his farm hovel. “Sheriff, it’s your duty to stop this creature! Stop it now, before it does real harm!”

Nedwary wanted details. “We are told this demon is a spirit creature, though one that will sometimes clothe itself in flesh.”

“Exactly so,” Marick agreed. “It appears first as smoke or a mist. In this form it can do no harm, nor be harmed. But in the blink of an eye it can take on the appearance of a man. Then it can be killed—or captured.”

“Captured?” asked the wide-eyed young master of Anacarlin. “Is it possible that shackles could hold such a creature?”

“Not shackles, but an iron cage. If a Hauntén demon is pierced by metal or confined in iron it will be pinned in the world and unable to escape to the spirit realm. So says the King.”

Marick paced in front of them. While the Inherent wore richly colored silks, he was garbed in black: the color of the King’s justice. The Inherent were the chosen of God. In power and in privilege they were set above all others save the King—but His blessing was sometimes given to a freeman too.

Marick intended to earn that blessing by capturing the demon. “It deserves no quick death. The King’s justice is served best by a public execution. If you encounter the Hauntén demon, then pin it. Kill it only if there is no other choice and remember—if you hesitate, it
will
kill you. You cannot save your life or your household by fleeing. The demon will hunt you down, and it has never practiced mercy.”

The masters shared a dark look among themselves. Then Nedwary of Cuhoxa admonished him. “You forget to whom you speak, Sheriff. We have all seen more of blood and battle than you or any of your men. It’s not our custom to flee from danger.”

Marick held his face carefully expressionless, but he could not stop a rush of heat to his cheeks. “I meant no offense, Master. It’s only that I would have no harm befall the King’s beloved Inherent.”

“And yet you would have us help you in your demon hunt?”

“It’s an elusive creature and my men cannot be everywhere at once. I ask that you instruct your servants and slaves to be alert for any sign of the demon’s presence. It must eat. It must sleep. This makes it vulnerable. If you discover it, send word to me. My only wish is to fulfill the King’s command, and bring the evil creature to justice for its crimes against Lutawa.”

His Legend

The demon Dismay was in an infernal mood. He hated everything about Lutawa, but he especially hated the heat. The heat was driving him mad. It smothered him as he slept. It haunted his dreams. It crushed his memory. He was filthy with it, forever caked in blood and sticky sweat. Every dawn he prayed to the Dread Hammer for the courage to endure the unrelenting sun of yet another day.

Each day the sky was bland and pale with heat. There were no rain spirits anywhere, and the only wind spirits he’d met were bitter little gusts that delighted in rattling the dry brush in gullies or on the edge of pastures whenever they discovered him sleeping there.

He slept in the day, afflicted always with a horrible dream in which he was free to journey north again, but no matter how far he ventured along the threads that made up the weft and warp of the world he never could reach the Puzzle Lands where he’d been born, or the cool shade of the Wild Wood that was his home. There was only the plain of Lutawa unrolling ahead of him, forever without end.

And whenever he awoke his head was filled with a murmurous thread of prayers uttered by women who pleaded with him to
Come, come avenge me
.

This he didn’t mind so much. Granting such prayers was the task set for him by the Dread Hammer and it pleased him to do it. It pleased him too to defy the idiot god of Lutawa, Hepen the Watcher, who despised women as weak and stupid, and yet somehow so dangerous that death was meted out to anyone who dared teach a woman to read. Under such a god, cruelty thrived, and in time, cruelty demanded vengeance. Only the most desperate women called on Dismay. Though it pleased him to carry out their bloody retributions, it would please him even more if he could just get a decent measure of sleep beforehand. But how could he truly rest when he had no choice but to sleep under bushes, or in barns, or in the root cellars of farmhouses, with some part of his mind always on watch?

His weariness put him in an irritable mood, and his irritable mood was made infernal by the filth: blood, soot, sweat, offal. The death he meted out never smelled sweet and the stench was only made worse by the heat, the unendurable, crushing heat. Though late autumn had come, each day in Lutawa was still hotter by far than the hottest summer day in the Puzzle Lands. No wonder the Lutawans were crazy. Who wouldn’t be, living with such weather day after day after day?

The demon Dismay had gone a little crazy too.

That was why he was standing at twilight outside a country mansion, contemplating slaughtering everyone inside. No prayer of vengeance had summoned him. He’d been drawn instead by the scent of clean water and spiced soaps, and the fact that the mansion was isolated from the road. There would be no one to hear the screaming.

A paved driveway wound through orchards and gardens, ending at a wide forecourt with a pretty tiled fish pond and beds of sweet-smelling flowers. The house itself was a sprawling single-story with white stucco walls, a wide veranda, a brass door, and blue ceramic tiles on the roof. The roof tiles alone implied such wealth that the demon’s imagination was offended.

He’d been altogether happy living in a hovel in the Wild Wood with a thatch roof and no chimney to let out the smoke from the hearth. What need was there for a roof that must have required dozens of slaves to mix and form and glaze and bake the clay for tiles that were each as fancy as a dinner plate?

The Lutawans were truly fools.

Still, he was quite sure there must be a lovely bathing hall inside. It wouldn’t be so hard to murder the family . . . well, it wouldn’t be hard to murder the men. He scowled. It would not be his choice to murder the women . . . but still, to enjoy a nice, long soak and be truly clean for the first time since he’d left the Puzzle Lands. . . .

He sensed movement in the threads that underlay the world. Someone in the house was coming closer. The shutters along the veranda stood open. Light glimmered through the windows, moving, shifting, pausing here and there to dip and pass its spark to a candle, or an oil lamp, until the windows glowed with sweet light.

Then the front door opened and a servant—or maybe she was a slave; this was Lutawa, after all—came out to the veranda. Smoke, hidden within the inky shadow of an orange tree, watched her from only a few feet away as she lit a lantern that hung beside the stair.

The light showed her to be young and lovely. The pretty yellow shift she wore was belted tight around her waist to show off her figure. It left her arms bare, and revealed her calves behind a little ruffle. Her hair was long, black, and silky, falling in a thick tail down her back.

She turned to light the second lantern, and as she did so its light fell across the demon, curling around his tall, lean figure and glistening against his honey-brown hair that he wore pulled back from his face and tied behind his neck.

He must have looked like a ruffian in his bloodstained brown tunic with sleeves rolled up against the heat, trousers dark with blood and soot, and boots singed by fire. He carried a sword on his back along with a bow, a quiver of arrows, and his rolled-up coat. Two long knives hung from his belt. The girl gazed at him in stunned silence, her eyes so dark and full of life he imagined for a moment he was looking into Ketty’s eyes.

Ketty
, who had sent him away in a fit of anger. Ketty of the Red Moon, cruelest of wives.

The women of Lutawa called him Dismay, but Ketty called him by another name, one he’d almost forgotten.

Smoke.

It hurt to remember.
Pray to me
, he’d told her,
when you want me to come home
. Two moons had passed since then and Smoke was still waiting for Ketty’s prayer. He’d begun to suspect she didn’t love him anymore.

“Dismay!” the serving girl whispered. To Smoke’s surprise she didn’t flee, but instead, after a cautious glance over her shoulder to be sure no one was watching, she scurried down the veranda’s three steps and slipped into the shadows beside him. He saw confusion, not fear, in her gaze. “Dismay, why are you here? I didn’t pray for you. Did the young mistress pray for you? It’s too soon. We’re not ready to call on you yet.” She gestured toward the driveway. “You must go. Later, maybe, we’ll need—”

Smoke bared his teeth and at once she stopped her whispered excuses. It astonished him the way his legend made its way through the countryside even ahead of his own swiftly moving presence, but tonight he was in no mood to be charming. He said, “Know this: It’s a dangerous thing to pray to me, but it’s more dangerous to send me away.”

“But Dismay, if the master sees you—”

“I’ll kill him.”

“No, please. He’s a good man.”

“Better if he doesn’t see me then.”

“But what have you come for? Why are you here?”

“I want a bath. And I’m hungry, and tired as well—tired of sleeping in barns and under bushes.”

“Oh.” Again she glanced back at the door. “The master is away at dinner this evening, and no one will be in the bathing hall at this hour. If I go there, can you find me?”

“Go quickly, and pray to me to come, when the way is clear.”

Her eyes grew bright with the excitement of doing something forbidden and sweet. “I’ll call the young mistress. She’ll want to meet you.” And with that she trotted back up the stairs, to disappear behind the brass door.

Smoke fixed his mind on the tremble and sway of the threads in the world’s weft so that he could follow her progress. She hurried through the great room, and then into a hallway where another woman joined her. The two rushed past a manservant, and then ducked into a room, pulling a door shut behind them. Several seconds passed. Then the serving girl remembered to speak to him in prayer.
Come, Dismay. Come bathe and be comforted.

Scars

The girl’s name was Ui and her young mistress was Eleanor. They were of a similar age and in some ways they looked much alike, sharing the same dark hair and dark eyes. But Eleanor’s hair was carefully arranged, tied back from her face in intricate braids before being allowed to fall free down her back; and she wore a dress of soft-green, patterned silk, that somehow caught the candlelight in a way that enhanced the sweet curve of her breasts and her hips; and while her smooth arms were bare, her skirt brushed the floor, showing not even her ankles; and she carried herself with a trained grace that set off her beauty in a disconcerting way.

Ui was a pretty, lively girl, but she faded beside her pampered mistress.

Smoke could hardly take his eyes off Eleanor, and when he managed the trick, his gaze was caught by Ui instead. They were a delight to all his senses; their buoyant presence was a respite and a relief.

He was Dismay, after all, whose task it was to answer the prayers of vengeance whispered by women who could endure no more. Every woman he’d met these past two moons had been on her knees, abused and broken, overcome with hate, begging him for bloody retribution.

Eleanor and Ui only wanted to please him.

The flush he felt as he set his weapons aside had nothing to do with the warmth of the evening and everything to do with the presence of two cheerful young women.

He stripped off his filthy clothes and at Ui’s invitation he sat on a stool. Together the two set about washing his long hair, and then scrubbing his skin clean. It was exquisite to simply be touched again, but because they were young and lovely and kind it was arousing too. His passion swelled beneath the towel laid over his lap, but it was tempered as his thoughts turned to his wife Ketty, cruel Ketty of the Red Moon, who didn’t care for him anymore, who had forgotten his name, while he had forgotten nothing: not her warmth, her voice, her sweet scent, or the wild joy of entering her sacred gate—

“Ah, Dismay,” Eleanor said, softly, shyly. “You have so many terrible scars.”

She stood behind him, her fingers lightly tracing the ropy lines of the wounds he’d taken, touching first his shoulders, then his back, and then his arms. Smoke closed his eyes. Ketty used to touch him like that, kissing his scars and whispering her gratitude that he was still alive—but Ketty had been born on a night when the moon turned red, and the spirit of the red moon was pig-headed and stubborn.

Eleanor’s soft hand slipped over his left shoulder, to explore the ragged, hideous scar that spoiled the curve of his neck. “That,” Smoke said in a low growl, “was given to me in battle by a Lutawan officer when I was a Koráyos soldier fighting for the Puzzle Lands.”

“Ah, you were in the war,” Eleanor said sadly.

Ui did not share her melancholy. “Did you kill the officer?” she asked with a breathless excitement.

“Long after, but finally, yes.”

Ui held a fresh ewer of water which she poured slowly over his shoulder and chest. “And how many other wicked men have you killed?” she asked, her eyes bright with a bloodthirsty light. “Hundreds and hundreds, I’m guessing!”

Smoke shrugged. “I don’t count them.”

“But why does the King let you do it?” she wondered. “Why does He let you get away with it? Why does He let you live?”

Smoke chuckled, charmed by her naiveté. “I’m a demon. What can he do to stop me? Unless he’s a demon too?”

“Of course he’s not a demon,” Ui chided, turning the ewer upside down to pour the last of the water. “He is the King! And it’s the King’s power to strike down anyone with infernal fire! He should strike
us
down for talking to you.”

Smoke laughed at her zeal. “Infernal fire? What is that? Is it something I should fear?”

“You don’t know about infernal fire?” Ui’s lovely eyes were wide with astonishment. Her voice dropped to a whisper, as if the King himself might overhear. “It’s the King’s fire. He may summon it, anywhere, anytime, to punish the wicked, and it can’t be put out, no matter what.”

Smoke’s eyebrows rose. “Am I wicked?”

He expected her to blush and apologize, but instead she grinned, still holding the empty ewer in her hands. “The King must think so.”

Eleanor’s hands settled possessively on Smoke’s shoulders. “Ui, you are incorrigible.”

Ui gave her a sour look, but then she turned again to Smoke. “Why
does
he let you live?”

“Not because he loves me.”

Ui laughed in delight, but Eleanor’s hands tightened on his shoulders. “Dismay, Ui is right. You must be careful. The King watches over all of Lutawa, he sees everything, everywhere, and he
does
burn up his enemies with infernal fire.”

It was one of Smoke’s gifts that he could always tell if a person spoke the truth, so he knew that both Eleanor and Ui devoutly believed what they were telling him. He puzzled over it, wondering aloud, “What man can do such things?”

Eleanor caught her breath. Then she leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Don’t you know? The King is not a man. He is God-in-the-world.”

“God-in-the-world?” Smoke echoed skeptically.

“Yes.”

How very interesting.

Smoke recalled that his sister, Takis, had once asked him to kill the Lutawan King. That was before he’d left the Puzzle Lands, before he lost Ketty.

He had two sisters, twins, who were like two halves of one soul. Tayval commanded the fence of spells that guarded the border of the Puzzle Lands, while Takis was the Trenchant and commanded the army. Both his sisters wanted an end to the endless war that had gone on for generations between Lutawa and the Puzzle Lands, but the Lutawan King refused to consider peace, so Takis had asked Smoke to kill him. She hadn’t mentioned that the King might be more than a man . . . but then their sister Tayval had doubted his success—and why would Tayval doubt that he could murder a man? Unless she suspected the King was something more?

A wild hunch took hold in Smoke’s mind. “Do you know the King’s name?” he asked Eleanor.

She sighed. “Dismay, don’t you understand? The King doesn’t have a name because he is
God
. He is not a man to have a name.”

Smoke bared his teeth in a wicked grin; his heartbeat quickened with excitement. For two months he’d wandered Lutawa, killing casually, waiting for Ketty to call him home, but now . . . he suspected the Dread Hammer had a greater task in mind for him. “I think I should kill the King.”

Behind him, Eleanor gasped. Her hands left his shoulders, and she backed away. “Dismay, you must not say such things! The King is
God
. He can’t be killed, he doesn’t die.”

Smoke turned his head to look at her frightened face. “I have always heard there is only one god in Lutawa, and his name is Hepen the Watcher.”

“It isn’t true,” Eleanor insisted. “I mean, there
is
only one god and he is the King, but he has no name.”

Smoke dismissed this with a shrug. “You Lutawans have forgotten his name, but we remember it in the north. Hepen the Watcher has long been the enemy of the Dread Hammer. If he and the King are one and the same, then it must be my task to kill him.”

Ui wasn’t afraid. She crouched beside him, balancing the ewer on her knee. “Who is the Dread Hammer?”

“She is the god of the north.”

“
She?
” Ui whispered in awe.

Eleanor was equally astonished. “A woman who is a god?” she asked, creeping around to stand by Ui’s side.

Smoke eyed them both with a lazy smile. “Yes. Long ago, the Dread Hammer and Hepen the Watcher were lovers, but he was cruel. They fought, and she tossed him out of the north. He had no choice but to become the god of Lutawa, and who would want to be that? So of course he’s angry with her still. It’s why he sends the Lutawan army to attack the Puzzle Lands. The war will never end while he’s alive.”

Eleanor looked at him sadly. “Then the war will never end, because whether he has a name or not, the King cannot die. Come, Dismay. Soak for a time in the bath, while I comb out your beautiful hair.”