The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  His fingers closed upon her tunic-covered breasts. She raised her hips, wrapped her hand around him, and guided him deep between her legs. At first she rode him but then instinct took over and his hips were plunging, he thrust hard into her, like Raklion fucking he mewled and sobbed. He was a man, he could not help it. She covered his mouth again to keep him quiet.

  When he was finished and panting, his seed spilled inside her, she eased herself off him and lay down for a moment. Her body was sore, Raklion had fucked like a mad thing in his desperation for a son.

  “Hekat,” said Vortka, and took her hand. “You are certain that was for the god?”

  She nodded, and let his fingers enclose hers. “I am certain.”

  “I think I liked it,” he said, sounding wistful. “How many times will it take us to make Raklion his son?”

  Her other hand drifted to her belly. She pressed her palm flat there and felt something shift. “It will happen quickly. The god has said so.”

  “Oh,” said Vortka, disappointed. “Then you will not come to me again?”

  “I will come if the god desires it,” she said, and rolled to her feet. “Go back to sleep, Vortka. Do not think on what has happened. Nagarak will watch me, he hates that the god whispers in my heart. If he sees you seeing me he will read your thoughts, he will see in your face you have feelings for me.” She gave him a brief smile. “You think you hide them but you do not. You are stupid, Vortka.”

  He returned her smile, sadly. “Yes. I think I am.”

  At least he admitted it now, that was something. She left him in the godhouse and returned to ignorant sleeping Raklion.

  Four times more, in the deepest part of night, the god woke her so she might fuck with Vortka. Quick couplings in ragged silence, they spoke no more before or after. What use were words? Words would change nothing.

  Nagarak conducted his business in the godhouse, except for sacrifice she did not see him. She was not sorry, let him stay there and rot. Raklion remained in Et-Raklion, he left Hanochek and the warhost on the border to frighten Nogolor warlord and his belligerent son. He kept her with him in their chamber, fucked her with vigor and told himself he was making a son. He would not let her knife-dance in the garden, he said she was too beautiful and precious to risk herself dancing with an unsheathed blade.

  She wanted to stab him, but the god would not let her.

  Twelve highsuns later she was pronounced pregnant for the second time. She knew it already, the god had told her, but it was safer to let Nagarak say so. It was stated, with certainty, this child was a boy.

  She knew that, too. The god withheld her nothing.

  Raklion kissed her, and then he wept. Five hundred black bull-calves were slain upon the godhouse’s great altar, five hundred black lambs lost their small lives. Et-Raklion’s godbowls were filled to overflowing, godbells rang until their tongues wore away. She was exiled to the godhouse soon after. She raged, she fought, Raklion would not listen.

  “This son will be born safe,” he told her. “In the godhouse no evil can reach you. No demon can strike you or my son. If it is as Nagarak has said, if all my ills come from the ill-will of the other warlords and their high godspeakers, only in the godhouse will you be protected. Hekat, be silent. I will beat you if you cross me on this.”

  He could beat her and not hurt the baby, so she held her tongue and did as she was told. She and her slaves were settled in the godhouse where she prayed five times daily, drank too much sacrificial blood, walked sedately in the shrine garden and tried not to go mad. If the warlords knew she was pregnant, no-one told her. If they continued their squabbling, rode to war against each other, made and broke treaties, continued their sinful dances with demons, no-one told her that either. She never saw Vortka, ten highsuns after she was banished to the godhouse he was sent far away to serve on a godhouse breeding farm, where the perfect sacrifice animals were born and raised. She hardly saw Raklion, he trained with his warhost beyond the city, riding the Et-Nogolor and Et-Banotaj borders with Hanochek, cowing the warlords with Et-Raklion’s might.

  She begged to be let into the godhouse library, where she could read and forget the forbidden world beyond its walls. Nagarak resisted, whenever he saw a chance to thwart her, he took it. She prayed, then sent word to Raklion so her want might prevail. The god and Raklion defeated Nagarak, she was permitted to spend her time in the library, where she was largely ignored by godspeakers and novices alike. She did not care about that, all she cared for was learning.

  To guide my son I must be wise, I must know the things a warlord should know.

  The godhouse library’s vast collection of clay tablets saved her from madness, when she wasn’t praying or taking air in the shrine garden she read and read, gorging herself on all the things she never knew. Caravanning through Mijak with Abajai and Yagji, then her journey to knowledge was begun. In Nagarak’s godhouse it was completed, for nearly eight godmoons she put aside Hekat knife-dancer and became Hekat scholar, warrior for learning. She unsheathed her mind, it became her snakeblade.

  Nagarak’s godhouse library did not only hold accounts of Et-Raklion’s history, in its cool, dim-lit tablet rooms she learned of all the warlords who ever ruled in Mijak, their treaties and battles, their victories and defeats. She read of high godspeakers who communed with the god, of the demons who tempted them and how those demons were destroyed. Demons were mysterious creatures, no-one ever saw them with their eyes, their presence was marked by the chaos that surrounded them and the sins men committed when fallen victim to their hellish wiles.

  Hekat read from newsun to lowsun and far into the night. She would never much like godspeakers, except for Vortka, but it was a good thing the god created them. They wrote excellent histories, they kept meticulous records.

  The days passed swiftly enough, her belly grew rounder. Her son grew within it, she talked to him as he slept.

  You will be a great warlord, you will fight for the god. You will vanquish demons, you will smite the world.

  Her pregnant body felt different, this time, she knew this growing life was not demon-blighted. Whatever sins had tainted Raklion’s seed, she did not know nor did she care. He would never again sire a godforsaken baby. The god would protect her from Raklion’s poisoned seed, her son would have no rivals, no deformed brothers or sisters to raise questions of his fitness to rule.

  You will never know whose planted seed sired you. You are my son, that is all you must know. When old age claims Raklion you will be Mijak’s warlord. I will still be your mother, my hand will guide you, my voice will counsel you, you will see the world through my godchosen eyes.

  At long last Raklion and his warhost returned from skirmishing on the borders. He did not clean the dirt of travel from his body but came straight to the godhouse weary and stinking.

  “Aieee, Hekat, you are ripe enough to burst!” he marveled, pawing at her enormous belly in the godhouse shrine garden, where she sat in the shade feeling grossly misused.

  She struck his hand away, irritable. “Do you think I don’t know that, warlord? I waddle like a camel, I pish ten times a finger.”

  “I know, I know,” he told her, kindly. “You are near your time, it is expected.”

  “ Tcha ! You are a man, what do you know of such things? Talk to me of what you do know. Raklion. Tell me of the warlords and their skirmishing ways.”

  He sat beside her on the carved stone bench, took her hand with its swollen fingers gently in his, and kissed her tenderly on the brow. “My fierce Hekat. You have not changed.”

  “You desire me to birth a fierce warlord for Mijak, it would be a sad thing if I turned soft like milk!” she retorted. She wanted to pull away from his touch but that would offend him. She must not do that. “The skirmishing , Raklion. How fared the warhost? Did you meet in battle with Nogolor or Banotaj, or any other warlord daring to challenge Et-Raklion’s might?”

  He shook his head. “No. Nogolor still breathes in his palace, Tebek dares not
disobey him and send warriors to break our treaty. We did see riders from Et-Banotaj, we glimpsed warriors from Et-Zyden and Et-Takona riding with them. It seems their fragile alliance still holds. I think they desire to raid again in our lands, if we did not show them our snakeblades they would have crossed our border. It was good we were there, Hekat.”

  Aieee, I wish I had been there . She pressed a fist into her aching back. “The god will break that alliance, warlord. When it says the time is come for you to rule over Mijak they will be at each other’s throats, not standing shoulder to shoulder against you.”

  “I wish it would say so soon, Hekat,” he whispered. “I am not a young man, I grow old in my bones.”

  It will say so soon enough. First my son must be grown out of his cot, and I must know more of what it means to be a warlord.

  “Et-Raklion’s warhost is not big enough yet,” she said, resting her head against his shoulder. He liked such gestures from her, they soothed his mood. “The other warlords are still too strong. Let the god further diminish them, Raklion. Let them sin, and grow weak. The god will tell us when to strike.”

  “How will it tell us? What sign will it send?”

  She did not know, she would never say so. He must never suspect she could not summon the god. She groaned, and flattened her palms to her belly. “Aieee, Raklion. I am so tired, I must lie down.”

  Raklion was distracted, she knew he would be. Tenderly he helped her onto her feet, and walked with her into the shadowed godhouse, to the chamber where for so long she had slept alone.

  He sat beside her till she drifted to sleep.

  Six highsuns after his return, as newsun made the Pinnacle’s godpost shine, she felt the first birth pains, faint griping spasms that promised more to come. Her godspeaker attendant sent for Nagarak, Raklion and the godhouse’s senior healer. Nagarak came, with the healer he helped her to a different chamber, one with an altar in it and waiting godspeakers with sharp sacrifice knives.

  Raklion came soon after, he brought Hanochek with him. In between the deepening contractions she swore at him for doing so. She did not want the warleader there.

  “He is my best friend, he leads the warhost after me,” said Raklion. “He and I will make my son a warrior, I desire him here. Hanochek will stay.”

  Sweat poured down her straining body, it soaked her godbraids and stung her eyes. “ I will make my son a warrior, I am Hekat knife-dancer, I am Bajadek’s doom!”

  “He is a witness, approved by the god,” said Nagarak, standing with the healer beside her bed. “Hanochek will stay to see the warlord’s son born.”

  He only said so to thwart her, she could see the mean pleasure in his face. She was defeated, at least for the moment. She said nothing more against Hanochek’s presence, or the warlord’s claim of his part in her life. Let Raklion and his dear friend think they would guide her son. She and the god had a different plan.

  Soon enough she did not care Hanochek was present, soon enough she forgot he was there. All she could think of was the tearing pain, her body was being pulled apart, torn open, ripped wide. As the godspeakers sacrificed an endless stream of lambs and doves upon the altar, as they burned the sacred blood to stinking smoke, a deterrent for demons, she clung to the birthing stool and pushed and pushed her son from her body. She kept her teeth gritted, she did not scream. She was a warrior, she had her pride. Time lost its meaning, she hardly knew where she was.

  Then she heard the healer shout, “I see the head, warlord! Nagarak high godspeaker, the child is coming!”

  With one last strangled groan she felt her son slide into the world. Nagarak caught him, he used his sacrifice knife to cut the pulsing cord still binding them together. As the healer moved in to do things with his godstone, she heard an indignant, wailing cry.

  “He is perfect! He is beautiful!” cried Raklion, weeping. “See my son, Hanochek! See my glorious, godgiven son!”

  Hanochek was weeping too, they both wept like babies. “I see him, Raklion. You are right, he is perfect.” He had his arm around Raklion, to keep him strong on his feet.

  “Give him to me, Nagarak,” Raklion demanded. “I will hold my perfect son.”

  “Not until he is bathed in the god’s blood, warlord,” said Nagarak. “Not until he is judged free of taint.”

  Exhausted, nearly fainting, Hekat tried to speak. He is not tainted, you fool, he is my son. Give him to me. Did you birth him? I think you did not!

  The words would not leave her, she had no breath to speak. She grunted as another pain rippled through her, as her body expelled the unwanted afterbirth. She struggled to see past the busy healer, she wanted to know what Nagarak was doing. There was a large golden bowl on the altar now, the godspeakers were filling it with fresh hot blood.

  Her son wailed again, she heard Raklion shout. She saw Nagarak lower her child into the bowl, hold him there for a moment, then lift him out, high over his head. He said, “I am Nagarak high godspeaker, the god’s voice in Et-Raklion. I say this boy is demon-free. Take him, warlord. He is your untainted son in the god’s judging eye.”

  Raklion held out his arms, taking her son from Nagarak. He turned around and at last looked at her. “See him, Hekat. See his perfection!”

  The baby was dripping with sacrificial scarlet, he howled in protest, he had strong healthy lungs. The healer was finished between her legs, she pushed herself upright and shoved him away.

  “I see him, warlord. Give him to me!”

  Raklion came to her, the wailing infant held close to his chest. Tears washed his face in a waterfall of joy.

  “ Zandakar ,” he whispered. “That is my son’s name. The world will know him as Zandakar .”

  “It is a good name, Raklion!” said Hanochek, too close beside him. Too eager to be part of this, it was not his business. He should go away, now.

  But it was a good name, she could not say it wasn’t. Raklion placed her son in her outstretched, eager arms.

  “Zandakar,” she agreed, her throat so sore and tired from groaning. He was small, he was warm, his small legs kicked, his small arms pumped, the thickening blood on him smeared her skin. She did not care, she was holding her son.

  Zandakar opened his eyes and stared into her face. She stared back at him . . . and fell headlong into love.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Aieeeee !” screamed Raklion, and plunged his snakeblade through the throat of a faltering enemy warrior. Fighting at his back, Hanochek killed two more warriors of Et-Banotaj, then turned and caught him by the elbow as he slipped in the muddy stew of blood and entrails underfoot.

  “The god see you, warlord!” Hanochek gasped. “I think they are finished here. Does that mean it is over?”

  Raklion coughed, his throat was raw with screaming, with urging his warriors to slaughter and death. He bent double, bloodied arms braced against his thighs, and sucked in drafts of stinking air. His head was swimming, he could hardly see for the blood in his eyes.

  “I think it must be,” said Hanochek, answering himself. His voice was tight with pain, and strain. “We have killed the last of them.”

  That was true. Antobar’s Ravine was choked with corpses, most of them warriors of Et-Banotaj and Et-Tebek. Some were dead warriors of Et-Raklion, he would weep for them later. Raklion straightened, groaning. There was not a muscle in his body that did not protest, not a sinew that did not cry for mercy.

  I am growing too old for bloody mayhem. If I do not break these warlords’ hearts soon they will break mine and that will be that.

  Around them, Et-Raklion’s surviving warriors stood and waited, dazed and exhausted as he was dazed and exhausted. The ravine’s hot close air thrummed with that strange after-battle silence made up of panting warriors, sliding stones, faint moans of the dying and an absence of blade clashing blade, knife slicing flesh, screaming as godsparks fled to hell, or the god.

  A thudding of hoofbeats staggered him about, snakeblade lifted, a new s
cream rising in his throat. Kill them kill them kill them kill them ! He choked it down, seeing it was Iriklia Spear-leader on his horse, his wide face split wider in a smile. His godbraids were bloodsoaked, his dull brown horse turned a wet bright red.

  “Warlord, they are routed! The warriors of Et-Banotaj and Et-Tebek fly from Et-Raklion! We have the victory, victory is ours!”

  “The god sees us,” Raklion murmured, as the last of his strength drained from his limbs. He felt his snakeblade drop from his weak grasp as Hano’s arm slid round his shoulders, keeping him from the ground. “Iriklia, fetch the godspeakers here,” he commanded. Iriklia cantered away.

  “Hano . . .”

  “Warlord,” said Hano, still holding him.

  “Gather our living warhost beyond this ravine, up on the flatland where the battle began. Praise them in my name, I will go to them soon. I desire a moment’s solitude with the god.”

  “Raklion—”

  “Obey me, warleader! Our enemy is dead or running, I am in no danger. I am in the god’s eye.”

  Hanochek did not want to leave him, behind the blood his face was anxious. But he was the warleader, the warlord’s word was his word. “Raklion,” he said, unhappily.

  Raklion nodded at a nearby boulder. “I will sit there.”

  Hanochek helped him to the boulder, then retrieved his dropped snakeblade and handed it to him. “Do not keep your warhost waiting, warlord,” he said softly. “They need you in this time of strife.”

  Raklion nodded, and waved the knife. It was too bloody to glint in the sunshine. “Go, Hanochek. I have said I will follow, and I will follow in my time.”

  Hanochek and those warriors able to walk departed the bloodsoaked ravine. As they passed him sitting on his boulder, most wounded, some limping, they pressed their fists against their hearts and grinned at him through their masks of blood, grime and sweat. He tried to grin back, though feared it was more a grimace.