The Godspeaker Trilogy (228 page)

By the time she could run after him, Alasdair was gone.

There was no time to look for him, dead or alive. She had a skein of surviving soldiers to pull together and lead. Man by man, as she encountered other swordsmen and archers, dazed and lost and too-often bleeding, Rhian gathered to herself a small, personal army. They followed her gratefully, their fierce, killing queen.

She danced her hotas and Mijak's warriors died. Cleaning her knife swiftly, with casual expertise, she thought: So much for staying safely out of harm's way .

Her royal castle was in ruins. Mijak's warriors roamed her streets. She might be a widow; she didn't know, and not a soldier she collected could tell her if Alasdair lived, or had died. And the man she'd championed as Ethrea's greatest ally against Mijak had simply…disappeared. Just like Han and his witch-men, Zandakar was gone.

He was gone. She was alone. All she had were her hotas …Ranald's dagger…a killing short-sword…and her furious, stubborn faith.

Kingseat township and its districts were home to some one hundred thousand souls. Not one of them had fled in the face of Mijak. All of them had stayed to fight, for her and for their kingdom. Terrified, mostly untrained, nothing in their history had readied them for this. But they were so brave, her beautiful people. From their windows and rooftops they dropped rocks on the heads of the warriors below. Dropped rocks, claypots of burning pitch, jars of stinking urine, plates and mugs and footstools and whatever they could find. Sprang the traps she and her council had carefully devised; weakened walls set to tumbling, glass windows loosened to fall in shards on Mijaki heads, alleys blocked with sudden barricades so Kingseat's soldiers could kill at will.

It wasn't enough.

Rhian knew, her heart weeping, that what happened here was happening all over her kingdom. In Hartshorn and Arbat, in Meercheq and Morvell and in the wider duchy of Kingseat where Ludo and Adric struggled to keep the kingdom safe, the warriors of Mijak plundered her people, and her gallant people fought to their deaths.

And she knew one other thing, in her weeping heart and in her bones.

If Ethrea must die…it would not die cheaply. She and her people would make Mijak pay in blood.

Hour after hour, the fighting raged on. Kingseat township echoed to the dreadful sounds of men and women and children screaming, fallen horses screaming, the crash of stone and timber as Dmitrak's gauntlet lashed out. Blood slicked the cobblestones. Smoke filled the air. The slain and mortally wounded lay in piles, like driftwood.

And Mijak's warriors chanted, chanted as they killed.

“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

In the Duchy of Hartshorn, so betrayed by its stubborn duke, Kyrin, the warriors of Mijak turned fallow fields to lakes of blood. In duchy Morvell, Edward's cherished domain, his son and his daughter watched him die, and died soon after. Rudi of Arbat, irascible and gruff, breathed his last in the arms of Damwin's son, Davin, who promised to tell Adric of his father's great love. But Adric, fighting for Kingseat, for the ducal crown he wore with too much pride, perished back-to-back with Ludo of Linfoi…whose last living words were of his cousin, the king. The great river Eth, lifeblood of Ethrea, turned scarlet with the lifeblood of the people it sustained. And the warriors of Mijak chanted as they rode: “ Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho! ”Dmitrak kept his promise only once he sent captured Ethreans to Hekat so she could slay them for the god. Vortka watched her slit their throats, he could not stop her, she would not listen. When she was finished killing she sheathed her snakeblade and prowled the harbour. She prowled it like a sandcat snatched from freedom, and caged.

She snarled at him if he tried to soothe her, so he waited in silence for her to speak. They were alone now on the harbour's docks, he had commanded his godspeakers to pray on the warships. He wanted them safely out of the way.

“Tcha!” spat Hekat, glaring up at smoke-wreathed Kingseat township. “I can still hear screaming, why is this nest of demons not dead? Is Dmitrak the god's hammer? Can he kill Ethrea for the god?”

Vortka did not answer, his heart was heavy in his chest. Somewhere in Ethrea, perhaps even in Kingseat, his beloved Zandakar must be fighting for his life.

“I was wrong to listen to him,” said Hekat. “I was wrong to listen to you. I am Empress of Mijak, I am godchosen and precious, I should have ridden with the warhost, let Dmitrak ride behind. How can this Kingseat not be fallen for the god? There are thousands in my warhost, thousands trained to kill!”

Vortka sighed. “Kingseat is a large city, Hekat, many thousands live here.”

“It is not so much larger than Jatharuj, Vortka. Jatharuj fell between newsun and highsun! We are past highsun. Kingseat still stands and Dmitrak sends me no more slaves!”

“Kingseat has demons, Hekat,” he said. “It has a warhost.” A warhost trained by Zandakar, I think. Any warhost he trains will not be easy to kill . “Jatharuj had no warhost, it had merchants and traders. Hekat—”

She stamped away along the row of moored warships, she was so angry her godbells growled. “Tcha! I will not stay here, Vortka, I will not wait like a slave who must stand where it is told. There are Ethreans alive for me to kill, I will kill them. I will give Ethrea to the god.”

Vortka stared after her, stabbed with fright. No. No. She must not do that. If she goes into Kingseat she might find our son . If she goes into Kingseat, she might die.

As Hekat stamped back again and pushed past him, he caught her by the hand. Before she could smite him, before she could call out, he pressed his palm to her face and prayed to the god.

She breathed out hard, her eyes rolled back. With her bones turned to water, she slumped into his arms. He carried her to a patch of shade, he let her rest against his breast.

I am sorry, Hekat, I am sorry, my love. You must be safe, I must save you.

Twisting his head round he looked up to the township, wreathed in smoke, soaked in blood, soaked in Dmitrak's rage.

Zandakar, my son, my son. Help me to end this, no more killing for the god.

Ursa's small clinic on Foxglove Way was crammed to collapsing with the wounded dragged in from Kingseat's killing streets. She and three other physicks struggled to help the wounded, but there were too many patients and not enough physicks. Not any more. One by one the other eight who'd been bringing back Kingseat's people for healing had failed to return.

Some nine hours after the killing began, Dexterity stood with Ursa beside a bloodstained pallet on which a girl of maybe thirteen lay drugged with poppy, and dying. Ursa folded her arms, as close to utter despair as he had ever seen her.

“Are you sure you can't do anything, Jones?” she demanded. “Rollin's mercy, she's just a child .”

Dexterity bit back a sharp retort. Everyone wanted a miracle today. If he could heal the girl, or any of these poor people, didn't she think he would? He'd tried his hardest, to no avail. The best he could do was fetch and carry basins of water and roll ban-dages, like the handful of unhurt townsfolk who'd taken shelter here and were helping. The best he could do was hold hands with the dying so they didn't die alone.

Ursa sighed. “I'm sorry,” she muttered. “I don't mean to nag.”

She was so weary. So grief-struck. Bamfield was one of the physicks who'd never returned. And she was a healer, Kingseat was in its death throes, but for the first time in her long life she had no help to give.

Beyond the clinic's barricaded doors, the sound of chanting, coming closer. The sound of Mijak's warriors with their knives and lust for death.

“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

The conscious wounded heard them, and cried out. The unhurt helpers cried out too. Dexterity looked at Ursa and saw resignation in her eyes. Saw that she expected to die now, with him and every helpless soul beneath her clinic's roof.

A booming thud of timber against timber. A second. A third. A fourth. There was a splintering groan – and the barred doors gave way. Suddenly the clinic's entrance was full of Mijak's warriors and languid afternoon light.

The warriors were covered in blood from their braided hair to their booted feet. The blades in their bloody fists dripped scarlet on the floor. There was nowhere to run. Dexterity snatched up an empty basin. Taking one step, then another, he picked his way towards them through the laden pallets crowding the floor.

“ Wei ,” he said loudly. “ Wei chalava. Wei Mijak. Wei hotas, zho ?” He brandished the basin. “Go away!”

Stunned, the warriors stared at him.

“Jones!” hissed Ursa. “Jones, what are you doing ?”

Ignoring her horror, he brandished the basin again. “ Wei chalava . Vortka, zho ? Vortka wei —” He pretended to hold a knife and stab with it. “ Wei. Wei .”

Still the warriors stared, as though they couldn't trust their ears.

And then he saw Hettie, standing in the corner. She was thinned to a shadow. Her voice, when she spoke, was the merest whisper of sound.

“Oh, Dexie…Dexie…I think it's over…Dexie my love, I think we've lost…”

Lost? No…no…they couldn't have. Rhian .

Desperate, he reached within himself, searching for the flames of God he'd never wanted or understood. It's here, the power must be here. Han felt it, didn't he? He felt something in me!

But he couldn't find it. They were going to die.

“ Jones !” shouted Ursa. “You fool, what are you doing ?”

He didn't have time for one of Ursa's scoldings. Shuddering, he tried to bring the power back. Something deep inside him shifted…or twisted. He felt the golden warmth, that suffusion of flame – and then he felt a searing agony. Felt the blood power of Mijak like rotten wine in his veins, clotting and clinging and choking his heart.

“Hettie!” he gasped. “Hettie, please, help me !”

He saw her shadow weeping, he saw her ghostly face twist. She screamed…and as she screamed she dissolved into the air.

Dexterity, screaming with her, burst into flames.

The warriors of Mijak cried out, their bloodied blades lifting. Burning and burning, Dexterity approached them. Every step was torment, the rotten blood power of Mijak in his own blood like acid. He pointed a trembling finger—

— and the warriors were consumed. Nothing left but a drifting of ashes. Just like Marlan, a lifetime ago.

“God be praised!” cried Ursa. “Jones, are you all right?”

Painfully burning, he stared through the clinic's splintered doorway at Kingseat township, and saw to his desolation that Garabatsas had been… nothing . Saw flames and ruination and slaughter.

Heard chanting and screaming, hooves on cobblestones, windows breaking, chimneys falling. Heard in the distance a great boom from Dmitrak's gauntlet. Smelled the choking stench of death. It seemed that half of Kingseat was on fire and the other half drowned in blood.

Did Rhian still live? Zandakar? Alasdair? Prolate Helfred? He didn't know, and couldn't leave to find out. It was all he could do to stand upright, to keep himself from suffocating beneath the weight of Mijak's evil. With luck he could keep this clinic protected. Ursa and her patients. That many, and no more. He didn't even know how long he could do that.

Long enough for a miracle, maybe. It was all they had left.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Z
andakar wept as he searched Kingseat for Dmitrak. He wept for Rhian, who might even now be dead, who might have died believing he had betrayed her.

Live, Rhian hushla, so you can learn why I ran.

He had run to find Dmitrak, who would take him to Yuma and Vortka, so his mother and brother could learn the truth about demons. So he and Vortka could take them back to Mijak, and find a way to heal their demon-ravaged hearts. By saving them he would also save Ethrea, which could not stand against the might of Mijak. In saving his family he would keep his word to Rhian.

As he searched for his brother he killed many warriors. He had to kill them, he could not let Rhian's people die. He had to kill them with his scorpion blade, he dared not risk knife-dancing with Dmitrak's warhost. Aieee, the god see him, it was a hard thing to do. He did not look closely at those warriors' faces, if he saw someone familiar he feared his strength would fail. He killed the warriors and their horses, As they died he saw Hano, he saw Didijik his pony. As they died he wept for them all.

Everywhere in Kingseat, Dimmi's warriors killed Rhian's people like goats in a barracks' slaughter-pit. For every Ethrean he saved, twenty times that number died. He saw women dead, he thought of Rhian, and prayed the god would keep her safe.

As he searched the township he could see where Dimmi had used the god's hammer, there were buildings rubbled and others burned, but to his searching eye too few were destroyed.

If I were still warlord and wore the god's hammer, Kingseat would be razed by now. Aieee, Dimmi, little brother, I think you have not changed. I think you still like to kill with your snakeblade, so you do not use the hammer to kill Kingseat quickly.

It was not such a bad thing, that Dimmi hunted Ethreans for sport. It gave Ethrea a slow death, it gave him time to find his brother. He needed that time, he hunted Dimmi on foot in the twisty turns of Kingseat township, trying to remember where Rhian's traps were set.

He saw the warhost killing Ethreans, he saw soldiers killing warriors. He watched those killings, he did not help. It hurt to see those warriors die and yet he was pleased for Rhian's people. He had taught them how to fight Mijak, he had taught them well.

The most important thing he taught them was that a walking soldier could not hope to kill a mounted warrior, so Rhian had ordered Ethrea's glass-blowers to make thousands of marbles. They were put into buckets and left in every street, so when Dmitrak's warriors rode through Kingseat, Rhian's soldiers could roll those marbles and bring the horses down. Bring them down, and kill their riders. He watched Rhian's soldiers follow their training, he watched them slash and stab those warriors on the ground. Not one of them rose again. All of them died.