The Godspeaker Trilogy (13 page)

Hano pulled a face. “You will let this stand?”

“I must,” he said, shrugging. “I must have Et-Nogolor’s Daughter. There are shadows in the warlord’s eyes, I smell his fear like rank perfume. Bajadek is a vital man, his warriors are not known for mercy. Bajadek may have threatened him.”

“And risked smiting by the god?”

“The god does not always smite, Hano. Warlords have broken their word before now and the god has left them unsmitten. Why that must be I do not know. The god is a mystery, I do not seek to understand it. I am not a high godspeaker.”

“Bajadek warlord is the cause of this trouble,” said Hano, taut with anger. “He wants a woman of warlord bloodlines and thinks there is gain for him in discord between Et-Raklion and Et-Nogolor.”

“I know this,” said Raklion, watching Nagarak and Grakilon, stiffly silent, seek the exact site for the scorpion pit. “At least, he is part the cause.” And I am the rest. This is my doing, I must somehow undo it .

Hano punched his thigh, he read his warlord too easily. “Raklion, you are wrong. None of this is your doing. The god sees you in its eye, it knows you are not a sinful man. You are dogged by demons jealous of your greatness. They kill your women, they kill your sons, you are the battlefield between the god and the dark ones. Would they choose a man unseen by the god in its eye for such a battle? No. To wound you is to wound the god.”

Raklion stared at him, surprised. “I thought you were my warleader, Hano, not my godspeaker.”

“I am your warleader and your friend,” said Hano fiercely. “You are father and brother and warlord to me. This time the demons will not win, Raklion. If I must with my own hands sacrifice one thousand bull-calves and throw my last gold coin in the barracks godbowl, Et-Nogolor’s Daughter will bear you a son. Then will I sire sons, so they may serve him as I serve you.”

Raklion was not a man of tears, but for a moment his tongue could find no words. “Brother Hano,” he said at last, “that is an oath I will hold you to. My son could not be better served if the god itself became a man and pledged its body to him.”

“When this is over,” said Hano, his voice rough with feeling, “do we punish this faithless warlord of Et-Nogolor?”

Raklion shook his head. “Let the god smite him if smiting is required. I do not wish our treaty broken, Hano. It is useful, it serves us well.”

“Then do we ride upon Et-Bajadek with ten thousand angry warriors? Do we smite its scheming warlord for daring to trespass on the treaty between Et-Raklion and Et-Nogolor? For trying to steal Et-Nogolor’s Daughter, promised to Raklion warlord before the god?”

Do we ride ? Raklion frowned at his fingers, clasped upon the reins. It could rightly be said that stealing another warlord’s godpromised wife was an act of war. Seducing another warlord into betraying his godsworn treaty was an act of war also. Bajadek had done these things. In secret, yes, but now the secret was discovered. These acts of war, could he close his eyes, turn his shoulder to them?”

No. I cannot. Bajadek is defeated here, he will try again when he thinks himself safe. Mijak’s browning will be his excuse. He will rouse the other warlords to envy, he will promise them a share of Et-Raklion’s spoils. If I do not smite him . . .

Hano said, “A wise man might see this thwarting of his desires as a fortunate escape, he might see it as a warning from the god. Bajadek is not wise. What he wants, he takes. Raklion, if you do not smite him . . .”

He smiled at Hano. “As ever we share a single thought. When the Daughter is planted with my son I will teach unwise Bajadek his lesson.”

“And if he rides against us before she is planted?”

“Then we will meet him in battle,” he said. “But I think he will not. Bajadek is a coward at heart, he skulks in the shadows and seeks to gain his desires with stealth. When he learns the Daughter is in my bed he will lie low, he will hide his teeth. Let him skulk, and think I have no heart for fighting. I will smite him, in my time.”

Once the scorpion pit was dug, Nagarak and Grakilon each sacrificed a white lamb and drank the steaming scarlet blood. Then they stripped themselves naked and climbed into the pit. The witnessing godspeakers tipped the scorpions over them, three hundred from Et-Raklion godhouse, three hundred from the godhouse of Et-Nogolor. Larger than a man’s hand, they were bred for venom and for spite.

Raklion felt his throat scald with bile. He feared little in the world, he was a warlord, but he feared the godhouse scorpions. He stared into the pit where the scorpions scuttled and swarmed and seethed around and over the seated bodies of the two high godspeakers. The men’s eyes were closed, they breathed unflinching as the scorpions crawled up their godbraids, crawled over their faces, dropped from their shoulders into their laps and sought out the softness of their unguarded genitals.

The scorpions raised their barbed tails and stung the god’s high godspeakers, stung them everywhere upon their flesh. Great scarlet welts bloomed in the wake of those stings, like tended gardens the godspeakers’ naked bodies grew blossoms of venom.

Grakilon began foaming at the mouth.

Watching on either side of Nogolor warlord, the godspeakers of Et-Nogolor cried out in terror and despair. Still foaming, Grakilon began to convulse, he thrashed and flailed, unseen in the god’s eye, smitten for his lies. He vomited blood, he vomited his entrails, he emptied himself from the inside out.

Nagarak sat in cool still silence, he did not watch as Grakilon died.

When it was finished, the scorpions stopped stinging. Nagarak opened his swollen eyes and stood. His godspeakers helped him from the pit, they fastened his pectoral over his chest, they dressed him in his loincloth and robes.

“The god has seen me in its eye,” said Raklion to Nogolor. “Its desires are known beneath the sun. Bring to me Et-Nogolor’s Daughter. She will go to Et-Raklion and a son will follow upon our mating. Our treaty holds. We are still brothers.”

Nogolor stared down into the pit, at the god’s scorpions, slowly dying, and Grakilon’s swollen, distorted body. He nodded, barely, as though movement pained him. “The god sees you in its eye, Raklion warlord. Its desires are known beneath the sun.” He turned to his eldest son, the warrior Tebek. “Go into my city. Ride up to my palace. Bring to this place Et-Nogolor’s Daughter.”

Tebek obeyed, and Nogolor returned to his staring.

Nagarak said, “Your godhouse must choose its new high godspeaker, warlord.”

“Yes,” said Nogolor. He sounded lost. Dazed. He wrenched his gaze away from dead Grakilon and looked to the nearest godspeaker. “You. You will see to the choosing. But first take Grakilon from the pit, he—”

“No,” said Nagarak. “Grakilon is unseen in the god’s eye, he cannot be carried up to your godhouse. He will stay in the pit, a nameless man, the dirt will cover him and—”

The godspeakers of Et-Nogolor cried out in protest, some surged towards Nagarak as though they would touch him with their angry hands. Nagarak’s godspeakers moved to stop them, and four were flung into the pit by Grakilon’s defenders. The dying scorpions stung them, and they died.

Nagarak cursed the sinning Et-Nogolor godspeakers with his godstone, he seared them with its blinding light. They fell to the grass and wept out their suffering at his feet.

“Nogolor warlord, I will take four of your godspeakers for my own,” he said. “See this pit filled in and the grass laid upon it. Horses will ride over it, carts and wagons will roll across it. Grakilon is dead to memory. Before newsun next you must have a new high godspeaker. I will know if it is not so, the god will tell me, I sit in its eye.”

Nogolor nodded, subdued. “Yes, Nagarak. This will be done, it is the god’s desire.”

Nagarak climbed back into the pit and handed up the bodies of his four slain godspeakers. Those scorpions still living scuttled away from him, they did not raise their stinging tails.

Raklion returned to his warriors to wait while Nagarak made his choices from the chastened group of Et-Nogolor godspeakers, and for Tebek to bring him Et-Nogolor’s Daughter, mother of his unborn son. He waited in silence and solitude, ignoring Nogolor who looked so old and defeated.

A voice beside him said, “The god sees you in its eye, warlord. That Nogolor is a stupid man. His high godspeaker was stupid also, to defy the god.”

Startled, he looked down. It was the ruined beauty from the knife-dancing field. “ You ?”

She looked at him through her spiderweb of scars. “That Zapotar, he says there is no omen for me to stop my chicken-killing and learn to dance for you with a snakeblade. I came here in the cook’s wagon, I feed your warriors salted goat and cornmush.” She nodded at the scorpion pit. “Shall I dance with the scorpions, Raklion warlord? The god sees me in its eye, it has a use for me. I must be a warrior, Raklion. I will dance with the scorpions and show you an omen.”

She would do it, he could see it in her eyes. He caught her by the shoulder just in time. “No, Hekat! Return to your cook-wagon. When we are safe in Et-Raklion you will cease your chicken-killing, you will train to be a warrior in my warhost.”

Her blue eyes narrowed. “That is your word?”

“My word as the warlord.”

Satisfied, she nodded. “I will trust it. In Et-Raklion, warlord.”

Bemused, amused, he watched her run lightly to the cook-wagon where she belonged. The four godspeakers chosen, Nagarak returned to his side. He seemed unaffected by his ordeal in the pit. Raklion knew he should not be surprised, he had never seen Nagarak affected by anything.

“So,” he said, as they waited for Et-Nogolor’s Daughter. “The god was with us. Nogolor is chastened.”

“Bajadek must also be chastened,” said Nagarak.

“He will be,” said Raklion. “In my time. War is warlord business, Nagarak. I will come to you for omens, when I am ready.”

Nagarak nodded. “When you are ready, warlord. I will be waiting.”

Soon after that, Raklion was given Et-Nogolor’s Daughter. She was shrouded in veils and linens, he had never seen her face. It did not matter what she looked like, only that she was the child of a warlord and fertile. Nagarak assured him she was both, it was all he needed to know of her.

“My thanks to you, warlord,” he told silent Nogolor. Then he pulled the weeping Daughter behind him on his blue spotted stallion, and rode away from Et-Nogolor without looking back.

T
hree highsuns after the god killed Grakilon high godspeaker, rare clouds jostled the sky, then rained on the warhost returning to Et-Raklion. Not for long, but heavily, so that Vortka’s novice robes were soaked to his skin. Even after the rain stopped the clouds remained to smother the sun, the temperature dropped, the world turned grey.

Cold, chafed and miserable, he plodded with the other godspeakers of Et-Nogolor chosen by Nagarak to take the place of his godspeakers killed in the scorpion pit.

Nagarak . He shivered, but not because he was wet. Grakilon had been a nothing man, feared and revered because he was high godspeaker, not because he was Grakilon. His eyes had not burned like Nagarak’s eyes. His scorpion pectoral had not seemed to breathe. He could not smite with the lifting of a finger.

Why me, god ? he wondered. I never asked to be a godspeaker, but you chose me so I serve. Why did Nagarak choose me? The godspeakers who died weren’t Et-Raklion novices. I cannot do the work lost because they are dead. Novices are menials, little better than slaves. Why would Nagarak choose me? I do not understand .

The god did not answer. Vortka sighed, and ceased his wondering. Doubtless he would learn Nagarak’s purpose if and when the god desired it. Until then he would do his best as a novice of Et-Raklion. His best was all he could do.

I hope it is good enough .

He had no ties to Et-Nogolor godhouse, no novices there it hurt him to leave. Godspeaker friendships were sternly discouraged, godspeakers needed no friend but the god.

Even so, godspeakers talked, they were not mute. Nagarak presided over a disciplined godhouse, that much he had learned in Et-Nogolor. Of all Mijak’s people, godspeakers moved the most freely, even more than Traders. The godhouses had a loose alliance, their first allegiance was to the god, not any warlord. Warlords died, new warlords succeeded them, in time they died and were replaced in turn. Only the god went on forever. In Et-Nogolor’s godhouse he had spoken with godspeakers born in Et-Zyden and Et-Takona and from far away Et-Jokriel. Every one of them said the same: Nagarak high godspeaker is a fearsome man .

Head down, heart heavy, Vortka prayed to the god.

He has seen me once. Please, I beg you. Do not let him see me twice.

Eventually the hot sun appeared again and the air stank of wet wool and horseflesh steaming dry. Vortka walked among the godspeakers, Nagarak did not see him. He stopped counting the highsuns. Counting was pointless, it did not make the journey go faster. They walked and they walked, they reached Et-Raklion city at last. Once through its gates, Raklion’s warhost continued through the streets to be greeted by the people with cheering and thrown amulets. Nagarak did not ride with the warlord, he led his godspeakers up the long, winding road to Et-Raklion’s godhouse on the Pinnacle’s peak.

Vortka’s feet faltered when he saw how tall and wide and grim Et-Raklion’s godhouse was, how its black stone walls seemed to drink in the sunlight and spew it out again as shadows. Compared to this place Et-Nogolor’s godhouse was small and cheerful. Scores of godspeakers bustled in and out of the scorpion-guarded main entrance, they were silent and industrious, they stopped and lowered their heads as Nagarak passed by. So did the citizens of Et-Raklion who had walked the long road here for their own reasons, some even fell to their knees as the high godspeaker approached.

Nagarak led his godspeakers into the godhouse and left them standing in the enormous, echoing entrance hall. Vortka watched him climb winding stone stairs out of sight to some room high above. His fellow Et-Nogolor godspeakers were hustled away by the other Et-Raklion godspeakers. The only novice, he was left standing alone on the uneven black stone floor, surrounded by air and the distant sounds of godhouse business: prayers, sacrifice, chiming godbells, harsh wails of the godsmitten.

He had no idea what to do next. He was too afraid to ask.

A few moments later he was collected by a godspeaker, taken to the novice-room below the godhouse’s ground floor and shown the straw pallet he must sleep on, one of many in the large stone chamber. It looked just like the novice-room he’d left behind in Et-Nogolor. Then he followed the godspeaker to the duty chamber on the first floor.

“So. Vortka,” said Salakij the novice-master, seated at his small stone desk. He was an old man but his eyes were sharp. Vortka could tell he would brook no mischief. “What were your tasks in Et-Nogolor godhouse?”

“I cleaned the godhouse, master, I tended the sacrifices. I was about to start work in the godhouse library when—”

“Yes, yes,” said Salakij. “Are you called as a vessel?”

Vessels were those godspeakers chosen to lie with the warlord’s warriors. The god made godspeaker vessels sterile. Warriors needed to fuck, they did not need children. Not unless the warlord desired them to breed. A warrior discovered fucking anybody but a sterile godspeaker was delivered to an unspeakable death. In the godhouse it was counted an honor to be chosen as a vessel, mainly because only the vessels were allowed to fuck. All other godspeakers lived celibate, their bodies and their devotion reserved for the god.

Vortka shook his head. “No, master. In Et-Nogolor I was not—”

“You are in Et-Raklion now,” snapped Salakij. “Let me not hear those words again.”

“Forgive me,” said Vortka, and received the testing stone handed to him. It was dark yellow, like the one in—like the one that had tested him before. This stone did not waken either.

“You are not called as a vessel,” said the novice-master, taking back the stone. “You were to start work in the library, you say? That means you read and write?”

“I do, master. I also have a good grasp of numbers. Before the god chose me I—”

“You did not exist before the god chose you,” said Salakij, impatient. “You are a novice and do not know that? How long has it been since your last tasking?”

Vortka swallowed. “Master, it is forty-three highsuns since my last tasking.”

Salakij was affronted. “Forty-three highsuns? Tcha ! You overflow with sin. From newsun next you will toil in the library, Vortka novice, under the eye of Firuk godspeaker. Between now and lowsun sacrifice you will kneel before a taskmaster, that your sins might be beaten from your flesh. Tell the taskmaster not to spare you. Tell the taskmaster I will know if you are spared. Forty-three highsuns .” Salakij leaned across his stone desk. “You will find, Vortka novice, life is very different in Et-Raklion godhouse. In Et-Raklion godhouse we serve the god.” He waved his hand in curt dismissal. “Ask a godspeaker to show you to the taskmasters. I have stomached enough of you for one day.”

Vortka wanted to say, That is unfair, it is not my fault. I traveled with the warhost, there was no tasking then . He held his tongue. A novice who questioned was a novice who walked with demons. Such a novice did not live long.

As he followed a helpful godspeaker down the stairs and through the godhouse’s maze of passageways Vortka tried, and failed, to discipline his fear. Another sin he must confess to the taskmaster.

I must not mind. I must endure. My life could be worse, I could still be a slave.

Sadly, knowing soon he would weep beneath the taskmaster’s cane, the thought was not as comforting as he would have liked.

Upon their return to Et-Raklion the warlord kept his word to Hekat. She left behind her chicken-killing days, she was given to Zapotar for training as a warrior. After she learned how to ride a horse—such stupid creatures—he assigned her to a knife-dance shell. She slept in the shell-barracks with twenty-nine other warriors who told her their names but did not make friends with her. She did not care, their friendship did not matter. Her bright new snakeblade mattered, her clean fresh linen training tunic mattered, and her stiff leather sandals she must soften with sheep-fat. Her knife-dancing mattered. That was all.

When they were not training, Raklion’s warriors were free to sleep or game or fuck a vessel in the vessel-house. Hekat knife-danced. In the beginning Zapotar ridiculed her knife-dancing, but he did not laugh long. She learned fast, she learned well, soon he watched in silence as she danced the hotas with her snakeblade. His eyes were frightened.

His fear was food, his fear was drink. She ate and drank him as she danced for the god.

After two godmoons he summoned her to dance with him, he tested her as cruelly as he could. She pricked him four times, he pricked her once. He nodded, and said, You are a warrior . Before the knife-dancers and Hanochek warleader he heated his snakeblade and pressed it burning into her naked flank. She stared in his face, she did not scream. Now she bore her first warrior’s mark. She could ride to battle with Raklion’s warhost.

After Zapotar she trained with Antokoi and his archers and slingshotters. The armorer made her a special bow, she was strong for her size but a full bow was beyond her. The god sat in her eye and in her fingers, she struck her targets over and over with arrows and with stones, she killed as many sheep and goats for their dinner as any of the seasoned warriors.

After one godmoon Antokoi told her, You are a warrior . He shot her with an arrow, then. A godspeaker healer dug it from her thigh and sealed the bloody hole in her leg. The arrow’s scar was her second mark, it was tattooed with crimson ink to make it different from the arrow scars she would later earn in battle. The armorer pierced the arrowhead for her, then passed a heated wire through her ear. She dangled the arrowhead like an amulet, its weight made her smile when she turned her head.

She was given to the chariots next, and her training continued with Bodrik Chariot-leader. He had seen her knife-dance and kill with slingshot and bow, he knew better than to sneer because she was young and ugly. She was too light to manage a chariot and its mad warhorses, she stood with the driver and loosed her arrows and her shot-stones, first at standing targets and later at godforsaken criminals let loose in the chariot field. No matter how fast the horses galloped, how desperately the criminals twisted and turned, she almost always hit her target.

She did not grieve for the ones she killed, they were sinners and deserved to die.

Bodrik said, one godmoon later, You are a warrior . She was tied to a chariot wheel and beaten with a chariot-whip, eight cuts to mimic the spokes of a wheel. The whip scars were her third warrior’s mark.

She was not yet ready to learn the spear with Dokoy so she returned to Zapotar and her shell of knife-dancers. Through her other warrior-skill training she never once forgot her hotas , every day she had practiced them on the knife-dance field no matter how tired she was. Knife-dancing was her gift to the god and to Raklion, its chosen warlord. Of all her war skills, it was her best.

She danced with her shell-mates and wished the warlord could see her. But Raklion stayed within his palace, plowing the Daughter, planting a son. Hanochek warleader trained with the warhost, he told them each newsun: You are Mijak’s greatest warriors, you make me proud .

Tcha. What did she care for Hanochek’s praise? He had no power, he answered to the warlord. She wanted Raklion to see her, Raklion to smile and nod and say, You are a warrior . How long must it take him to plant his son? How long before they rode to smite that Bajadek, insolent warlord, sinning man?

She did not know. She would have to wait. And dance while she waited, and dream of the god.

Alone in the center of the knife-dancers’ field, as lowsun’s last light drained below the edge of the horizon, Hekat danced the steps of the sandcat striking . It was one of her favorite hotas , she felt like a cat as she flowed from pose to pose, leaping, twisting, flipping through the air to land lightly on her unshod feet. She could leap higher than any other knife-dancer in Raklion’s warhost, she could somersault over Zapotar’s head.

I leap for the god, I leap in its eye.

Someone called her. “Hekat? Hekat! Is that you?”

She twisted in mid-air to see who dared call her name while she danced for the god. After a moment’s hard staring, she knew who it was.

“ Vortka?”

He stood three paces distant, his beautiful face alive with surprise. He was tall now, he had grown many handspans since last she saw him in Et-Nogolor, in the slave pen.

“Hekat! It is you,” he said. He was smiling. “How can that be? I did not think a sla—”

In a single striking leap the tip of her snakeblade pricked his throat. “You cannot be here! Only a warrior may tread this ground!”

“I am a godspeaker,” he said, and touched the scorpion shell bound to his brow. “I tread where the god sends me.”

It was a very small scorpion shell. Leaving her blade against his throat she said, “You are a novice godspeaker.”

He was still smiling, he did not seem to notice her knife. “True. But a godspeaker, even so.”

“You were taken by the godspeaker in Et-Nogolor,” she said, baffled. “How are you here?”

“By the god’s desire. And you? You are a warrior ?”

He was beautiful, but she should kill him. He knew her from her dead life, he knew her with Abajai and Yagji. She pressed her snakeblade closer and felt it slide beneath his skin.

He gasped. No smiling now. “What are you doing?”

“I am not a slave,” she hissed. “I am Hekat, chosen by the god. I dance in the god’s eye for Raklion warlord. Why do you come here? Are you demon-sent, to cause me trouble?”

His shining eyes were wide but not frightened. He should be frightened, she had killed many men. “Demon-sent?” he said. “ No ! I came down from the godhouse library with tablets for Hanochek warleader. I thought to walk my slow way back, I spend my days within four walls, it is good to see the open sky, feel cool fresh air against my face. I saw you knife-dancing, I thought you were beautiful. And then, as I watched, I thought I knew you.” Despite the knife at his throat, the thread of blood trickling down his chest, he traced one daring fingertip across her scarred cheek. “What happened, Hekat? Your face was a glory to the god.”

“The god took my face. It does not matter.”

“The god would never take your glory,” he protested. “Was it Trader Abajai? Did he—”