The Godspeaker Trilogy (44 page)

Dimmi struck his outstretched hand aside. “I understand, Zanda.” With a grunt, he bounced to his feet. “What is a brother, compared to a son? Even a son who looks like a slave.”

“ Dmitrak !” he shouted, but it was no use, Dimmi would not listen, he vaulted into his saddle and rode his stallion away.

Disconsolate, Zandakar mounted his own horse and followed his brother back to the village.

Speak to him, god. Tell him the truth, that I still love him, I will always love him, he is my brother. No son can change that.

In the village he found Lilit in her mud-and-sapling home, weeping beside her dead father’s body.

“He is gone, Zandakar, his spirit is fled,” she sobbed, falling against him.

“Not his spirit, his godspark,” he said, and kissed her brow. “Lilit, dry your tears. Weeping will not bring him back, do I not know it, who also watched a father die?”

She rubbed her hands across her face. “Yes. You are right. And he was ready to go. His eyes told me he was ready, I could not keep him.”

He gazed at her belly, still flat beneath her shift. “I have something to tell you, Lilit. Two things I must tell you, both from the god.”

“Then tell me, Zandakar. I learn from the godspeakers, I know the god’s will is first in all things.”

He framed her face with his hands. “You carry my son. The god has seen you quicken with my seed, you will be the mother of the god’s warlord in the world.”

She gasped. “The god has told you? It has told me too!”

“When? How?”

“In a dream, three nights ago.”

“And you did not tell me?”

“I am sorry, Zandakar,” she whispered. “I was not certain. I thought it might be only a wanting dream.” Tears welled in her beautiful eyes. “I was not keeping secrets, I swear to you, I swear! Please don’t be angry.”

He kissed her lips. “I am not angry.”

“And you are pleased, about the baby?”

“Pleased?” He pulled her to him. “Aieee, god. I am pleased. This son is the god’s gift, I will ride my smiting way through the world undefeated because of the son sleeping under your heart.”

“Oh, Zandakar,” she breathed, and slid her arms around him. “I am glad too. What else does the god tell you, that I must know?”

He rested his cheek upon her head. “It is time for the warhost to ride out of Harjha. Between here and the Great Desert there are lands yet unconquered. I must reclaim them for the god. I must make them part of Mijak’s empire. That is my purpose, and the Empress’s desire. Once those lands are conquered, we will divine our way across that desert, the god will guide us and see us through safely, its godposts will spread over the face of the world.”

“A fearsome thing, Zandakar,” she said softly. “I do not know what lies beyond the desert. Perhaps many countries, many people, many cities. Will you smite them all, warlord? Must they all kneel, or die?”

He kissed her. “You know they must.” He kissed her again. “And you must leave Harjha and ride to Et-Raklion. To the Empress, my mother, where you will be safe.”

“Leave Harjha?” she said, and pulled away. “Leave you ? No, Zandakar, I do not want to!”

“What you want cannot matter to me, Lilit,” he said. “All that can matter is our son. Will I see him born here, in the godless wilderness? I think I will not. He must be born in Et-Raklion, the place of my birth. Vortka high godspeaker must sacrifice for him with his own hands. My son will be the warlord of Mijak, he will one day wield the god’s gold-and-crystal hammer. You and he must go to Et-Raklion, Lilit.”

She wept, her tears burned him. “Aieee, Zandakar, how will I live in that faraway city? I want to be with you, I want—”

“Even if you stayed here we would not be together,” he said, his voice harsh. “Have I not told you? I ride for the god. I ride to smite first Na’ha’leima.”

“Not Na’ha’leima!” she cried in protest. “It is a quiet land, not like Targa, demons do not possess it, those people are good .”

He shook his head. “They are not good if they do not know the god, Lilit. They must be smitten, it is the god’s will.”

Now her eyes were angry. “Will you smite the children, warlord? Will you smite the women with babies in their bellies? Zandakar—”

He flung her from him and turned away. Was Dmitrak right, did a demon live in her tongue? “ No more, Lilit ! Do not tempt me from my purpose! That is a sin and the godspeakers will know!”

She moaned, and pressed her hands against his back. “If you do this you will suffer, Zandakar. Do I not hear the weeping in your heart? Do I not know your sorrow, I—”

“ I have no sorrow! The god’s hammer does not weep !” He turned on her, desperate, and caught her hands in his. “I was weary when I came here, Lilit. Six long seasons of constant war, what man would not be tired? But I am rested now, I am strong in the god’s eye. The god has given me you and a son, will I thank it with a sinning heart? Will I thwart its desire in the world? I will not do that, and you will not ask me.”

Tears and tears washed down her face. “I am afraid, Zandakar. I am afraid to leave you. I fear what will happen in Et-Raklion city.”

“Nothing will happen, Lilit,” he soothed her. “The god will protect you, and so will my mother. I promise. I promise . You will be safe.”

He wrote a letter to his mother and one to Vortka. He dried the damp clay tablets overnight in his hot tent and after newsun sacrifice gave them to Akida, wrapped in thick protecting cloths.

“Here are important messages for the Empress and her high godspeaker. Here is a woman, Lilit, she lives in my eye. You and your shell must deliver her and the messages unharmed to Mijak, to Et-Raklion’s palace. If you fail in this the god will strike you down.”

Akida looked disappointed. “We do not ride with you to smite Na’ha’leima?”

He shook his head. “I have a warhost full of warriors, but here is something precious. Only Akida is trusted to guard it.”

She banged her fist above her heart, pleased by his praise and trust. “Warlord.”

He put Lilit on her horse. “Do not forget me, beloved. I will come home to see our son born. That is my promise, my word is my word.”

“Warlord,” she whispered. Her eyes were full of tears and love. “Remember me, and think of this. If it is possible, do not be cruel to Na’ha’leima.”

He watched her ride away, surrounded by his warriors. He thought he felt his heart tear, and bleed. When she was gone from his eye he turned to Dimmi, silent and unsympathetic by his side. They had hardly spoken since their fight in the woodland.

“It is time for the warhost to ride for the god, brother. We must smite Na’ha’leima in its conquering eye.”

“Tcha,” said Dimmi. He did not smile. “It is past time we did this. You are come to your senses, warlord. Let us pray it is not too late.”

Aieee, Dimmi. Dimmi. He was still angry.

He will forgive me. We are brothers. He must.

Two warbands rode out of Harjha, one led by Zandakar, the other by his brother. They swept into Na’ha’leima like the fiery breath of god. Its people were peaceful, as the Harjhans were peaceful, but they said they had a god already, they had no need of Mijak’s god.

The villages of Na’ha’leima were smitten for their sins.

As his warriors took their ease amid the death and ruins of another village, Zandakar stared at the body of the village’s elder, sprawled at his feet and dead by his hand. Her tattooed face was smeared with blood and brains, her nose-ring dulled with slime. Planting a foot on her smashed chest, he grasped the long single braid of her orange hair and deftly severed her head from her neck. His snakeblade snagged on gristle. A practiced flick of his wrist, a small grunt of effort, and the spinal cord surrendered. A little blood pooled sluggishly, thickened now, with no beating heart to pump it freely.

I am sorry, Lilit. She had to die.

His stallion was too well trained to pull away, flattened black ears were its only protest as he tied the head to his saddle and prepared to remount. A small noise stopped him, breathy, shocked. He looked around. He and the horse stood at the entrance to the elder’s dwelling. Behind them, six dead dogs and four hacked bodies, two men, two women. They’d perished trying to protect the elder. One severed hand still clutched a kitchen knife, scant protection against the god’s warlord. No more sound from those slashed throats, no cries of pleasure or pain, no laughter, no tears, no jokes, complaints, railings, compliments or accusations. They had died in sin, abandoned by the god.

The noise came again. Louder, this time. A baby. Crying.

Zandakar wiped his snakeblade clean, he sheathed it and ducked into the dwelling. They were a short people, these Na’ha’leimans. Short and peaceful and unprepared. Inside the small house oil-lamps burned, stinking the air, dispelling gloom. Woven rush mats on the floor deadened his footfalls. Fresh flowers spilled red and orange and blue from an earthenware vase. A loved house, this. Poor by palace standards, no bright jeweled columns, no intricate mosaics beneath his boots, no hand-seamed silken curtains to flutter in slave-made breezes . . . but it had a rough charm, all the same.

The baby wailed again. More demanding this time, the fear ebbing, crossness growing in its stead. He ducked through a threadbare curtain into an adjoining room. The kitchen. Eggs in a bowl, brown and cream and speckled. A knob of butter. Kneaded bread on a windowsill, rising for no-one now. High in one corner a small cage, and in it a blue and green bird that cocked a suspicious eye and fluttered its striped wings in warning.

He set it free, balancing the cage at the open window and rattling the bars until it darted through the unlatched door into the freedom beyond. Eight determined strokes of the air and it was vanished from sight.

“Won’t last till newsun, most like,” said a respectfully disparaging voice. “Perish of cold, or get eaten by crows.”

He turned. Vanikil shell-leader, reeking of blood.

“Sun’s fast sinking, warlord. We need to ride.”

“Yes. I know.” He turned back to the window, stared into the sky, hoping for a glimpse of the bird. It might not die. It might survive. Not all things ended in death. Not so swiftly, at least.

The baby wailed again, resentment echoing through the still cottage. “A brat?” said Vanikil, and scowled. “I’ll see to it, warlord.” He ducked out of the kitchen.

Zandakar opened his mouth to stop him, but there was no point. It had no mother, its people were dead. In the next room the baby screeched on an upward sliding scale that ended abruptly with a sharp crack as the thin wall beside him vibrated. Then Vanikil was standing in the doorway, dead dripping flesh dangling from one large fist, limp as a neck-wrung chicken.

“There was only this one, warlord,” he said.

Zandakar stared at the baby. It was dressed in soft brown wool. The side of its head was flattened, scarlet slowly soaking scant orange hair. An echo of the elder’s flaming braid. Daughter? Son? At this age they were sexless. Its eyes were open. Staring.

I am sorry, Lilit. It had to die.

Vanikil stepped back. “Warlord?” He tossed the dead child away, it struck the edge of the kitchen bench and fell to the floor. “It was your place to kill it.” He dropped to his knees, and waited for smiting.

Zandakar heard himself say, “Stand, warrior. The brat is dead, the god is served. We must ride before it is dark.”

He and his warriors released the village animals before leaving, so they might survive and service the settlers from Mijak when at last they arrived. The only sound as they rode away from the village was the excited cawing and pecking of carrion birds, who lined the branches of the surrounding trees and eagerly eyed the feast spread below.

Z
andakar and his warriors reached their camp site two fingers later on horses stumbling with weariness. Cook-fires were already smoking, godspeakers prepared the lowsun sacrifice. One of Dimmi’s warriors came to take his horse. There was blood on her face, she had not cleaned herself since returning with his brother and their warband. Fresh fingerbones dangled round her neck, fleshed and gristled still.

“The god sees you, warlord. How was its business, in the wild?”

A cry, a screech, a crack. Silence. Soft brown wool. Dead, open eyes.

“Its business was its business,” he said, and tossed her the reins. “See to my horse, it will be sacrifice soon. Give the head to the godspeakers.” To discourage demons they would bind it with charms and burn it in a sacred fire. No settlers could come here until the land was cleansed of evil and the memory of its former inhabitants. One head taken from every cleansed city and village. How many heads since leaving Et-Raklion? He had lost count of that, too. He did not want to know.

The warrior—his mind was empty, he could not recall her name—nodded. A shadow of hurt touched her eyes, he was not usually curt with his warhost. “Yes, warlord.”

“Where is my brother?”

“At his ease,” she said, pointing to a break in the trees, where smoke was rising.

He nodded, her gaze was on him as he walked away. His skin crawled, even though he had hurt her there was adoration in her eyes. He was the warlord, the hammer, the god was in him. Her favor made him feel old and tired and unclean.

Dimmi sat on the grass by a cheerful fire, chewing on dried goat meat. He looked up and nodded. Since leaving Harjha his mood had sweetened, they spoke again now as though nothing were different. On the surface nothing was, beneath it all had changed.

Lilit, Lilit, do you travel safely?

“The god see you, brother,” said Dimmi. “You hunted well today?”

“I hunted,” he said, folding to the ground. “What of you?”

Dimmi shrugged. “I hunted also. It will not take long to cleanse this land. Did you wield the hammer?” His eyes were avaricious, he loved the gold-and-crystal weapon, he loved to watch it burn and destroy.

Zandakar shook his head, frowning. The fire was small, were it as large as Et-Raklion itself it would not warm him. “No.”

“Why not? It is the god’s weapon, the god’s power must be seen in the world.”

“The god’s power is its power, in a blade of grass and a flower in the field. There was no need to wield the weapon, the village was small and undefended. I was a warrior before I was the god’s hammer. If I do not dance with my snakeblade the god will take my hotas from me.”

“ Tcha ! The god will never take your hotas ,” said Dimmi, scornfully. He picked up a goatskin and drank from it, then held it out. “Drink. You look like you are come from a godmoon’s tasking in the godhouse.”

Zandakar took the goatskin and drank the sour wine. If he drank enough, would he forget his day’s work for the god?

Children playing, chickens scratching through the dirt. Men in the grain field, women picking fruit. The music of laughter, small lives unlived in the god’s eye. Blood, screaming, terror, death . . .

Aieee, if Lilit had seen his work this highsun, if she had seen him dancing with his snakeblade. If she had seen the blood he spilled . . .

If she had seen that slaughtered baby.

“Stop thinking of that woman, Zanda,” Dimmi said curtly. “And do not deny your thoughts to me, you know I know when she eats your heart.”

I am the only person who has ever loved him. He is a man, he is still afraid.

“I have told you and told you, Dmitrak,” he said, with patience. “I love her, I must think of her. You are my brother, I love you no less.”

Dimmi’s face twisted. “Love,” he spat. “Do I speak of love, that milkish thing? I speak of the god, Zandakar, I speak of your godspark. The godspeakers sit in their godhouses and under the stars, they sacrifice and read the omens, that is their purpose, they ponder the god. You are its hammer, your purpose is killing . Kill these maggot thoughts, brother, before they eat you and you die!”

He sighed. “I do think of Lilit, I think of my son growing in her belly. You are right, I should forget them. They ride to Mijak and I am here, the god’s chosen hammer. Dmitrak, forgive me. I do not mean to worry you, little brother.”

“Tcha! Not so little anymore!” growled Dimmi, and caught him in a fierce embrace. “It pleases me you are returned from hunting, untouched in the god’s eye,” he whispered. “You may be the god’s hammer, and these slaves of Na’ha’leima no more than pitiful earth-grubbers, but there is such a thing as demonstrike. When you ride to war without me I am always afraid.”

Zandakar returned the gesture, feeling Dimmi’s hard adult muscle beneath his hands, remembering the baby who once fitted so neatly in the curve of his arms.

A cry. A screech. A vulnerable skull meeting unforgiving wall. Pale orange hair, drenched in blood.

“No need for fear, little brother. Am I not in the god’s eye?”

Dimmi released him. “You are. Do not forget it.”

The godbell sounded, it was time for sacrifice.

More blood. More death. I am sick of bloodshed . . .

“Come, Zandakar hammer,” said Dimmi, smiling. “Let us worship the god.”

Heartsick and weary, Zandakar followed his lead.

For newsun sacrifice there was a brown goatkid, brought back by Dimmi from a slaughtered village. A meek thing, it bleated once as the godspeaker drew her curved knife across its upstretched throat. Hot blood splashed scarlet into the golden sacrifice bowl.

As a child of three seasons, Zandakar had learned to hide his revulsion at the taste of hot blood. I am Hekat, I am not disgraced in public, his mother had hissed as she dragged him to the godhouse taskmaster, all flaming eyes and pinch-lipped fury. You are a warlord! You will drink the blood, you will glory in the blood, you will thirst for the blood ! The taskmaster had beaten him, she had watched every stroke, unmoved by his cries of pain.

He’d forgiven her, of course. How could he not, when she’d eased the burning weals herself? Held his hand as he swallowed his tears, whispering, There, there, my little warlord. I do this because you are godchosen and precious, the god sees you in its eye. In its time you will lead the warhost, you must be strong for the god.

The pain faded, eventually. The weals disappeared. He never again betrayed his disgust when a sacrifice bowl filled with blood touched his lips.

He drank now, the merest touching to his tongue, then passed the bowl to Dimmi, who swallowed with evident enjoyment and passed it to the next man. And so sacrifice proceeded, until every last warrior had tasted of the sacred blood. Then the godspeaker read the omens, taking a long time to do so. After that she threw the godbones. At last she turned and said, “Zandakar warlord, the god shows me a sinning city. The warhost must ride to it, it must be subdued.”

He added. “What is this city’s name?”

“What does it matter?” said Dimmi. “It will soon be destroyed.”

A city. That meant the hammer, no knife-dancing with his snakeblade. He must unwrap the gold-and-crystal weapon, he must draw it onto his hand and arm, summon the god’s power and let it scour him with fire.

“Aieee!” said Dimmi. “That is good to hear!”

Of course Dimmi would think so. His warriors thought so too, they were smiling and nodding, they gloried in the power of his smiting fist. The people of the sinning city might fight but they would still die. The crows and the wild dogs, the carrion eaters of this place, they would feast well after, until the maggots reduced succulent flesh to greasy putrefaction.

Lilit’s tear-filled eyes, her beseeching whisper. Do not be cruel to Na’ha’leima .

He shook his head. Lilit, leave me . He said, “The god sees you, godspeaker. It sees you in its eye. Dmitrak—” He turned. “Prepare the warhost for riding.”

Dimmi grinned, and struck a fist to his breast. “ Warlord !”

As his brother and the warhost withdrew to break camp, Zandakar turned back to the godspeaker, making certain she would not see the sorrow in his eyes. “I am the god’s hammer, you know my purpose. Tell me where the warhost must ride, so I might smite this sinning city to its knees.”

They rode for a finger towards the rising sun, they saw no living creatures, all the villages were dead. The fat land was quiet, it was holding its breath. The god guided Zandakar and his warriors, they rode deep inside its eye, they would not be seen or heard until the god desired it. The god whispered in Zandakar’s heart, he surrendered to its ravenous will. The warhost trotted down rocky slopes, through shallow streams, up tree-studded inclines, along the spines of craggy ravines and back down to flat lands, where they rode fast.

As they reached the peak of a slow-rising hill, he raised his fist in the air, slowing his warhost. They spread around and behind like a shadow on the land, like the god’s black breath extinguishing the light.

The nameless city, too small to be called that by Mijaki standards, nestled undefended at the foot of the hill. Through the thin morning air came a cockerel’s self-important gurgle. The rattle of a metal pail. Above several houses, smudges of smoke. The township was waking. All unknowing, making preparations for the final sleep of death.

Zandakar put on his hammer. Fractured scarlet sunlight flashed, a shiver of power thrummed his bones. Beneath him, his knowing, eager stallion half-reared. He raised his arm above his head, fingers fisted tighter than rock. Summoning the god, he cried “ It is time !” and sent a column of blue-white fire towards the sun.

His brother and his warhost screamed. “ Mijaaaaaaak! Ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-aieeeeee !”

As one ravening beast Zandakar and his warhost launched from the crest of the hill towards the walking dead below.

Pounding hooves. Flashing blades. War cries, shrill and loud and chilling. Shrieks of alarm. Men running. Dogs howling. Women screaming. Cattle lowing. Children sobbing. Panic. Terror.

Breathless with laughter, Dimmi galloped beside Zandakar down the hard-earth streets, between dingy mud-brick houses and shops, knocking the people down, galloping over them, smashing them to pieces beneath iron-hard hooves. Dimmi swung his longblade and took two heads with one blow. His familiar face disappeared beneath the fountaining blood. Steaming, dripping, fragrant with death, he pivoted his horse on its haunches and killed two more.

“Kill them, Zandakar!” he bellowed. “Smite them for the god! Kill them before they draw our blood!”

There was no need. These people had no defenses. No weapons. No god to save them. The victory had been his before the first blow was struck. It was show and gaud, to annihilate them with the hammer.

“Zandakar!” cried Dimmi, “What are you waiting for? Use the hammer , wield it for the god!”

It is my purpose. I am the god’s hammer, the hammer smites. It destroys the godless, it throws demons down.

His arm was so heavy. He raised it high and summoned his power. Blood-red crystals blazed in the light. Like every sinning city before this one, the dwellings before him disappeared in shards and lumps and flying spars of burning timber. He struck again, he killed buildings, people, anything that moved. He lost his mind in an orgy of bloodshed, in blood he drowned Lilit’s beautiful voice.

Do not be cruel to Na’ha’leima.

The screams of the dying were ferocious, they were claws in his belly, tearing him wide. He lost sight of Dmitrak in the smoke of his burnings, he could still hear his brother, laughing as he killed. His horse plunged beneath him, maddened with bloodlust.

A flicker of movement caught his eye. A woman sobbing, stumbling, a meager length of firewood in her hands. She thought it was a weapon. Clutching her skirts, a small girl-child. Zandakar summoned the god, felt it boil in his veins. Ripple and curdle and batter and blind, tremble him, fill him, hollow him, devour him.

Blue-white fire shot from his fist. Woman and child transfixed now, twin pillars of flame. Within the azure incandescence, silhouettes of suffering. Eyes wide. Mouths open. No sound but burning. The stench of scorched flesh.

“Zandakar! Warlord! Hammer of the god!” Dimmi, his brother, raucous with pride. Eyes blazing in a wet, crimson mask.

Warriors paused in their slaughter to echo the cry. The hammer’s blue flame spurred them on. A city man, running, contorted with grief. Pitchfork in his hand, hatred in every straining muscle.

And now there were three columns of flame.

Dimmi howled his triumph, he sounded like a dog. A cheer went up from the warhost, wails of fear from the doomed.

Three piles of ash. Big. Smaller. Smallest.

A boy running. A warrior hunting. Four strides. Three. Two. One. Her swinging longblade sliced the child’s head from his shoulders. Blood flew through the air, his head struck a smashed wall, his body skidded across the ground.

Do not be cruel to Na’ha’leima.

Time stopped. Zandakar stopped with it.

Blind, he saw everything.

Deaf, he heard all.

Dumb, he said: No more .

He heard a whispering voice inside him: Enough killing, Zandakar. That was your purpose, it is ended now. Return to Mijak, and be what you are .

It was the sad voice he’d heard so long ago, in the godhouse godpool, in Et-Raklion. The voice he remembered now, from his haunted dreams.

A scream sounded behind him, he wheeled his horse. A family, running. The warrior pursuing them struck down three, three more remained. The warrior’s horse stumbled, throwing its rider.

“Mine!” shouted Dimmi, and started forward.

“No!” cried Zandakar. “Dmitrak, stop !”

Dimmi ignored him. He sent a stream of godfire into the ground before his brother’s cantering horse, the beast swerved wildly, Dimmi nearly fell.

“ Zandakar ? What are you doing ?” he demanded, incredulous, wrenching his stallion under control.

He felt so peaceful. So completely at ease. I am ending this, the slaughter is done. I am gorged on blood, my belly is full . “Conquest is over, Dmitrak. We will kill no-one else.”