The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  The god did not smite him, Hekat knew it would not. Nagarak cried out to the watching warlords. “ Aieee! You are witness! Raklion of Et-Raklion is in the god’s seeing eye, it does not smite him, his cause is just !”

  As Raklion stood, the other warlords and their high godspeakers began their own descents to the crater’s hot floor. Hekat stood with Raklion and Nagarak, watching them come. She had never seen Mijak’s other warlords face to face, their sigils told her who they were.

  Mamiklia, heavyset but still in his prime, his skin was lighter than the others’, his eyes pale blue and narrow with suspicion. For the moment treatied with Takona and Zyden, they would be fools to turn their backs on him.

  Takona, a younger man and virile, he walked lightly on the ground. As he descended he glared at his brother warlords, his fingers curled as though he held a knife.

  Zyden, even older than Raklion. He had a son to follow him but showed no sign of dying. Nor, so Raklion said, did his son seem eager to put him on a pyre. That was a rare thing among the warlords.

  Jokriel, the warlord who might have ruled her village in the savage north if his long-dead forebear had not abandoned it. He was near to Raklion’s age, worn thin and dry by his profitless lands.

  Tebek, sullen in his recent defeats by Raklion, stung and eager to prove himself. A stupid boy, he should have followed his father’s wisdom and kept the treaty with Et-Raklion.

  Banotaj, most dangerous of all. Poisoned by his father Bajadek into belligerence and blood. Greedy, vicious, treacherous as a demon.

  Hekat smiled at the warlords walking down to the crater’s red floor. They could die soon, I would not weep . She glanced disinterested at the high godspeakers walking with them. They were the god’s business, it would deal with them. If they truly lived in its eye they would hear Nagarak’s words and know he spoke for the god. If they were false the god would smite them.

  Around her neck, the stone scorpion shivered.

  At last the warlords and their high godspeakers reached the crater’s red floor. Stiff with dignity and with pride they spread out beyond arm’s reach of each other; even unarmed and some of them treatied, still they were wary.

  “The god see you, my brothers,” Raklion greeted them calmly. “May it see you in its judging eye.”

  Banotaj ignored the greeting. “What is that ugly bitch doing here? You insult us before we begin!”

  “She is no bitch, she is Hekat,” said Raklion. His face and voice were cold with temper. “Mother of Zandakar, my son, born the hope of Mijak. She is my finest knife-dancer, you should beware.”

  Banotaj laughed, a harsh crude bark. “You coupled with a common barracks slut? That is the bloodline of your precious son?”

  “Common?” said Hekat, before Raklion could answer. “I slew your sinning father, Banotaj. I am Hekat, I am not common. Your tongue is common, if you are not careful the god will pluck it out.”

  “ Tcha .” Banotaj stabbed his brother warlords with a look. “He was never fit to be a warlord, here is more proof. A barracks bitch. Ha!”

  The other warlords said nothing. Hekat watched them carefully, saw the ones with daughters frown, considering. Could they find a way into Raklion’s good temper, tempt him with female flesh for his son?

  No. You could not. Zandakar is destined for greater things than rutting with the offspring of weak, godblinded fools.

  Banotaj threw back his shoulders. “What do you want, Raklion? Why are we brought here? Speak quickly, we are not slaves to be sent for at a whim.”

  “Of course you are slaves,” said Nagarak. “Slaves to the god. You are here to learn how you will serve it in its new age.”

  Takona’s high godspeaker spat on the red glassy ground. “Be careful you do not choke on your arrogance, Nagarak. The god does not love a conceited man.”

  “Nor does it love a man deaf to its desires,” Nagarak retorted. “Open your heart, Vijik, or see it eaten by the god.”

  Vijik high godspeaker’s fleshy face grew ugly. “The god be blind to you, Nagarak, I am not some novice in your godhouse to be spoken to like a clod of earth! I have a godhouse, I—”

  “ Peace !” said Raklion, and raised his hands. “We are not here to bicker, we gather at the god’s will so you might learn its desire.”

  “That is godspeaker talk,” said Zyden, his eyes suspicious. “And you are no godspeaker. I will tell you my desire! I desire to know why my lands are dying when Et-Raklion is green and fat!”

  “That is my desire also,” said Takona, broad hands fisted at his sides.

  “And mine!”

  “And mine!”

  “And mine!”

  “And mine!”

  “Do not look to me for an answer, brothers!” cried Raklion to the hostile warlords. “Look to yourselves and to your high godspeakers! If the god smites you how am I to blame?”

  “You are to blame if the god does not smite us!” said Tebek. “ Demons might smite us, with you their master!”

  “You accuse me of consorting with demons?” Raklion’s face twisted with fury. “When one of you called on demons to blight my seed, murder every son born to me before Zandakar? I am not touched by demons! If I were it would have killed me when I knelt before it in this crater. You were all witness, I was judged pure. You proud warlords, you haughty high godspeakers, if you love the god you will listen to Nagarak. If you do not there will be a harsh reckoning.”

  The warlords and their high godspeakers drew apart and huddled, they whispered and poked fingers, they threw hot glances over their shoulders. Smiling, Hekat touched her fingertips to her scorpion amulet.

  They are blind, stupid men, their ruling lives are over and they cannot see it.

  Raklion turned to Nagarak. “Is the god in even one of them?” he asked amazed.

  Nagarak shrugged. “The god is in me, warlord. It speaks to me, I hear its voice. That is what matters. These other mere men are dust on the wind.”

  The huddling warlords and their godspeakers broke apart. “Say it is true,” said Jokriel. His voice was reedy, thin as his godbraids. “Say Et-Raklion is not protected by demons. What do you know of the god’s desire that has not been revealed to any of us?”

  Raklion said, “Brother, it is not for me to speak of the god. Nagarak will tell you of sacred things, but know this: I have been shown wonders and omens, the god has whispered in my heart. What Nagarak will tell you is its truth.”

  “Speak then, Nagarak,” said Mamiklia, his raised fist a threat silencing Banotaj and Tebek. He had an odd voice for such a large, square man, high-pitched and fluting. “We will listen.”

  “You please the god,” said Raklion, and glanced at his high godspeaker. “Tell them, Nagarak.”

  Nagarak tipped back his head, rolling his eyes to crescent slivers. His arms stretched wide, his robe fell open, revealing his scorpion pectoral.

  “ I am Nagarak, the god’s high godspeaker!”

  His voice rolled round and round the glassy crater, full of echoes and strange harmonies.

  “ I am the god’s vessel, I speak its words, I dress its words in my voice that they might fall like honey from my truthful tongue!”

  As Raklion stared at his high godspeaker, Hekat watched the faces of his brother warlords and their high godspeakers. Anger, suspicion, fear, hatred: she saw all these things and felt herself tense.

  “ Hear the god’s words, you warlords and you high godspeakers !” Nagarak commanded. “ You sinning men who are tasked to protect Mijak, you who have failed so your lands have turned brown, you warlords who have displeased the god! ”

  The warlords muttered and looked at each other, they looked at their high godspeakers with their eyebrows raised.

  “ The god desires that you are cast down, it throws you from your mighty heights, it bends your knees and lays you in the dirt before Mijak’s one warlord, its true warlord, the warlord desired by the god ,” cried Nagarak. “ You will kneel to Raklion, he will be your warlord, you will
breathe beneath his godchosen fist! ”

  “What demontalk is this?” demanded Zyden. “Mijak is ruled by seven warlords, you speak not for the god but for Raklion alone!”

  “You dare dispute me?” Nagarak demanded. His eyes were still white crescents but he stared straight at Zyden. He tore off his robe and tossed it aside. Sunshine struck his scorpion pectoral, the scorpion-marks on his shining skin glowed fiery red in the searing light. “I warn you, warlord, the god will not be denied!”

  “Your words do not come from the god,” said Tebek’s high godspeaker. “It has long been suspected you are a demon clothed in human flesh. You are not normal, Nagarak. Your power is too great.”

  “My power is great because of the god!” shouted Nagarak. “Are you a high godspeaker, Trag? Is the god’s voice in your heart? Listen, fool, before it smites you!”

  “No, Nagarak,” said Jokriel’s high godspeaker, a wizened old man with godbraids white as sadsa, one hand a clutching, withered claw. His spine was bent, his chin sat level with his breastbone. “What you are saying is against the god’s law. Would you destroy Mijak a second time? Curse it with one warlord, when one warlord brought us to ruin?”

  “I destroy nothing, I inflict no curse, I say the words the god gives me to say,” said Nagarak. “It is the god’s desire that Raklion be your warlord, and after him his son Zandakar. Accept the god’s desire, Goruk and you others, or be destroyed in your sinning pride.”

  Goruk high godspeaker waved one fist, incensed. “The pride is yours , Nagarak! We did not come to hear your demon-words spill like bile from your wicked tongue! We are also high godspeakers, the god speaks to us, it has said nothing of one warlord, your Raklion, his common son, this common slut he fucked to make him! You—”

  “ Aieeeeeeee!”

  Nagarak’s scream almost shattered the sky. A great shudder ran through him, he rose high on the balls of his sandaled feet. His arms flung wide, his head fell back, all the muscles and tendons on his body stood out.

  His scorpion pectoral came alive.

  Shocked to stillness, the warlords and their high godspeakers stared. Hekat stood her ground, she was not afraid of the god, but Raklion slid his arm around her. She tried to resist, he pulled her sideways.

  “Tchut tchut, Hekat,” he whispered in her ear. “Let Nagarak see nothing between him and the objects of the god’s rage.”

  Hekat stopped resisting, she stood to one side with Raklion’s hand on her arm and watched the god in its smiting fury.

  The living, hissing scorpion on Nagarak’s chest lashed its tail, snapped its pincers. It was still strapped to his body, it had not detached from the fastenings that wrapped his ribs. Nagarak’s eyes were turned bright red, they glowed as though his godspark was burning. He opened his mouth and screamed again, the terrible sound rolled round the crater, shivering rock-falls from its rim to its floor.

  Zyden’s high godspeaker was the first to move. He stirred like a man waking from sleep and looked in the faces of his fellow godspeakers. “Tcha!” he said, pointing. “You see this trickery? This demon Nagarak? He thinks to frighten us, he thinks we are blind to his demon ways! We are brought here under false pretenses, he and Raklion seek to overturn our minds and steal the authority given us by the god!”

  The other high godspeakers held their tongues, their gazes darted nervously from him to Nagarak, who stood still as a godpost while the living scorpion bound to his breast hissed and snapped and whipped the air with its tail.

  Their own scorpion pectorals remained cold stone.

  “Zyden, we are leaving!” declared the warlord’s high godspeaker. “To stay longer is to insult the god.” He turned on his heel with an arrogant flourish, he reached out one hand to catch his warlord by the elbow—and stopped in his tracks, like a man become rock.

  Nagarak extended one finger. Zyden’s high godspeaker spun about, gasping, his pale eyes wide with fear and disbelief. His feet began moving, step by panting, unwilling step he walked to Nagarak, who looked barely human he was so filled with the god.

  Zyden’s high godspeaker reached Nagarak and staggered to a halt, he tried to speak but the words would not leave him, he drooled, he dribbled, tears of blood wet his cheeks. Nagarak’s fingers clenched into a fist and Zyden’s high godspeaker lunged towards him, into his living pectoral’s furious embrace.

  It held him, it stung him, he screamed and screamed, then slid to the ground. Twisting, flailing, his body swelled, his skin split open, blood and venom sprayed into the air.

  He died.

  Before the warlords or their high godspeakers could beg for mercy, drop to their knees before their new warlord Raklion, Nagarak’s smiting fist clenched again. This time the scorpion needed no contact, its tail lashed wildly and the remaining high godspeakers crashed to the crater’s floor, jerking and thrashing, voiding their bodies of wastes, of life.

  Nagarak staggered as the last high godspeaker died, Jokriel’s Goruk, so thin and dry he spilled little blood. As though Nagarak’s body was her own Hekat felt the god’s power leave him. His eyes faded swiftly from scarlet to brown, the living scorpion returned to stone. Exhausted, depleted, Nagarak dropped to the ground. Raklion leapt to aid him even as Banotaj woke from his trance.

  “ Demon! Usurper !” Bajadek’s son shouted, and suddenly there was a snakeblade in his hand, he was a man without honor, his face distorted with madness and rage. He leapt towards Raklion, sunlight flashing on his blade.

  Raklion turned, unbalanced, one arm raised to shield himself. Nagarak was almost senseless, he could not help Raklion. Banotaj’s knife slashed and plunged, opening flesh, spraying blood. The other warlords shouted but they did not step forward, they were cowardly men of honor who brought no blades, who refused to defend Raklion.

  Hekat reached beneath her tunic, seizing the snakeblade secreted there. Her first strike caught Banotaj across the back of his neck, severing his godbraids, scattering them like straw. He let out a roar of pain and surprise, he clamped his fingers to the wound in his flesh and spun around, forgetting Raklion, seeing her.

  Raklion’s blood dripped down his face, slathered his leather breastplate, soaked his linen tunic. Hekat leapt upon Banotaj, her snakeblade raised. There was no mercy in her, Banotaj had tried to thwart the god.

  She cut him and cut him, he did not cut her. She severed his tendons and opened his veins. At any moment she could have killed him, she did not want to, he must suffer first. He suffered, screaming, his own blade abandoned, he fell to his knees first and then to the ground.

  She dropped beside him, soaked in his blood, and dragged him onto his back to face her.

  “You Banotaj warlord, you defier of the god,” she said, and spat into his clouding eyes. “You broke the god’s law, you harmed a warlord in this sacred place. You spit on the god, you deny its desires. Raklion is its chosen warlord, you would change this? You seek to rule Mijak in his place? It will not happen. You will die here by my hand, like your father Bajadek. Demons will take your godspark to hell and my son Zandakar will rule your bones!”

  Wheezing, bubbling, Banotaj gasped for air. The hot sun baked his wet blood dry, it boiled him in his leather breastplate. “Bitch,” he whispered. “Demonspawn. Hellcat. Mijak’s death is in your eyes, your evil corrupts it, your spawn son will—”

  She plunged her snakeblade into his throat.

  “Hekat . . . be with me . . .”

  Ignoring the silent, staring warlords she danced to her feet and went to Raklion. He smiled through his pain, he struggled to touch her. “Be still,” she scolded. “You are sorely hurt. Nagarak will heal you.”

  “Nagarak,” said Raklion vaguely. His legs were splayed, they lolled without purpose. Banotaj had stabbed him over and over, his wounds bled slowly, his heartbeat was weak.

  She looked at the high godspeaker. Nagarak stirred feebly, pinned to the ground by his scorpion pectoral. Still holding her snakeblade she retrieved his robe and rummaged in the pocket for his godstone, n
o godspeaker traveled without one. She thrust it into Nagarak’s cold fingers and pressed the point of her snakeblade in his throat.

  “Raklion needs you, heal him , godspeaker. Will you disappoint the god now , you stupid man?”

  Blinking, Nagarak shoved her away from him, then staggered piecemeal to his feet. The watching warlords retreated, fearful, their mouths were open, they held their amulets in their fists. Their grossly dead godspeakers littered the glassy ground around them. They did not look at them, or at slain Banotaj. The god had eaten their pride and arrogance, they were men without bones. They could hardly stand.

  “You warlords,” said Nagarak. Though he was exhausted, power remained in his voice. “You have seen the god here, you have seen its fury. Banotaj is struck down in his sinning pride. Deaf to the god, your godspeakers are slaughtered. Learn from their smiting, do not repeat their mistake.”

  The warlords did not look at him, their eyes fed on his scorpion pectoral. It was asleep but could wake in a heartbeat. They nodded and pressed their fists to their chests.

  “Nagarak!” Hekat said sharply. “The warlords are chastened, the god sees them in its judging eye. Help Raklion!”

  Nagarak limped to Raklion and knelt, his godstone flashing weakly in his grasp. His power did not pour in its usual torrent but trickled reluctantly, as though from its dregs.

  Hekat dropped to a crouch beside him. “Nagarak, why do you not heal him?”

  “I have no power,” said Nagarak, his voice low. “I am emptied by the god.”

  “No, you are not emptied!” she insisted. “We have not come to this place to fail in the god’s eye! He is Raklion, warlord of Mijak! Heal him, high godspeaker. That is your purpose!”

  “Hekat . . .” Raklion’s voice was a thready whisper. “Show respect to the god’s chosen speaker. Nagarak is mighty, he lives in the god’s approving eye.”

  She did not love him, but it hurt to see him weakened. “Hush, warlord,” she said, and wrapped her fingers around his cold hand. “Save your strength, you must stand so these craven warlords might kneel. Nagarak, heal him .”