by Karen Miller
A small silence, then, as they considered each other. Nagarak said, “Do not become comfortable speaking with Raklion’s voice. He is feeble now, he will be strong enough soon. He is the warlord, that is the god’s desire.”
“I know.”
He tapped the stone desk with a single finger. “Your amulet, Hekat. Where did you get it?”
Aieee, her amulet again. “I told you, Nagarak. It was a gift from the god. Do you question the god’s gifts? I think you do not.” She bared her teeth. “I do not question either. That would be a sin.”
He breathed in, he breathed out. Sunlight from his chamber’s single window played over his pectoral, the shadows gave it an illusion of life. “I will tell Raklion he cannot ride to Et-Banotaj.”
That suited her purpose, in this he would listen more readily to Nagarak than to her. “Tell him it is the god’s desire he stay behind and become a strong man,” she suggested. “There is much to think and pray on in the reshaping of Mijak. The god has given us great work to do.”
Nagarak shook his head, his heavy godbraids clattered and chimed. “Be warned, woman. Dare to think you can speak for the god, and the god will smite you in a smiting never seen before in the history of the world.”
Tcha. He was a stupid man, his godbells were so loud he was deaf to the god. She stood, the pony bridle in her hand. “After Et-Banotaj is thrown down, then must the rest of Mijak be swiftly brought to heel. That must largely be godhouse business, Nagarak. The warlord and I must eat, sleep and breathe Mijak’s new warhost. Are you and your godspeakers ready, do you know yet how that task will be accomplished? Perhaps we should—”
Nagarak snorted. “Ignorant woman, it is already begun. I am the high godspeaker, do I need a knife-dancer teaching me how to impose the god’s order in its own land? Godspeakers of this godhouse are even now being chosen, they will be sent to those other godhouses to ensure obedience to the god’s will.” Eyes narrowed, his finger again tapped upon his stone desk. “It is in my mind that one of those chosen will be Vortka godspeaker.”
She stood very still, she did not let him see her thinking. It is a test, he tests me. He wishes to see Vortka in my heart . “Who?” she said, she made her voice puzzled, disinterested. “As you say, I am a knife-dancer. The names of godspeakers mean nothing to me.”
“Are you so certain? This godspeaker was waiting for us at the Warriors’ Gate. He seems to have an interest in the warlord’s son.”
Nagarak can see nothing the god does not show him. The god shows him little, he is seldom in its eye . “That one? His name is Vortka? He never said so. As for Zandakar, what heart in Et-Raklion does not beat for him? My son is precious, he is beautiful, he is the god’s gift to Mijak. I would be worried, Nagarak, if this Vortka were not interested.” She shrugged. “If you think he will serve the god best in some other city, in Et-Zyden, or Et-Takona, send him to the godhouse there. Why should I care where a godspeaker goes? I am the warleader. I care only for warriors.”
Did he believe her? She thought he did not, his eyes were suspicious. It was no matter. Whatever he thought, he would never know the truth. The god would not let him. She and Vortka were precious in its eye. Nor would Nagarak send Vortka away, not if the god did not desire it.
As she left the godhouse, ignoring as always the avid stares of city supplicants, she put an offering in one of the godbowls at its main entrance. Reaching for the golden coin in her pocket, her fingers brushed against the cloth-wrapped red crystal she kept with her all the time.
Its touch made her shiver, it made her think of Zandakar . . . and the brother she must give him, in her service to the god.
How long must I wait, god? When will you send a man to me?
The god did not answer. She would have to be patient.
Nagarak permitted no dissent, Raklion accepted he could not ride to Et-Banotaj. After a full highsun of rest and healing he rose from his bed, closer to himself again, and walked slowly on his own feet from the godhouse to the barracks where his warhost greeted him with shouts of joy. Hekat walked with him, she was his warleader. The warhost shouted to see her as well.
After wandering through his busy barracks, making sure to thank Tuglia for Zandakar’s bridle, he sat with her and the shell-leaders in the warlodge, a small stone building filled with plans and secrets, and they talked of many warhost things, the new shells, the new barracks. The remaking of Mijak, and the mighty warhost they would create.
He told them he was not riding with them upon Et-Banotaj. “The god has made its desire known to me. I must remain in the godhouse, I must spend much time in prayer. To be warlord of Mijak is a solemn, sacred thing.” He took Hekat’s hand, he raised it to his lips. “Here is my warleader, she will lead the warhost to that wicked place. Nagarak will ride beside her, he takes the god to a godless land. You are my godgifted warriors, you will bring Et-Banotaj to its sinning knees.”
Arakun and the other shell-leaders pressed their fists to their breasts, they were pleased to hear Hekat would lead them into battle. They knew they could trust her to give them the victory.
Raklion said, “The warhost will number ten thousand warriors. Hekat, with them you will take those fallen warlords. They must see in blood and fire, for they might still have doubt in their secret hearts, that their old lives are finished. They serve Raklion now, no man serves them.”
Hekat looked at him, he sounded weary. He should not appear weak before the shell-leaders, it was too soon for him to fail. She said, “The god speaks through you, warlord. Your commands will be obeyed. Ten thousand warriors in the warhost, I will ride with those of the fallen warlords myself. Do you have any other commands for your shell-leaders? They must prepare the warhost to leave in two highsuns.”
Raklion pushed himself to his feet and looked at the shell-leaders in turn, round the table. “No. I am pleased with each of you. I am well served. I return now to the godhouse, to pray for the god’s smiting of wicked Et-Banotaj. Hekat . . . walk with me to the barracks gates.”
They made slow progress, Raklion was often stopped and blessed. Still he managed to say to her, in private, “I wish you had not given Zandakar such a penance, Hekat. Five highsuns on his knees in the godhouse shrine garden? I think he was already punished enough.”
Aieee, he was stupid. If she left Zandakar’s raising to him her son would grow into a soft, weak man. “I do not think so.”
“How can you say that?” Raklion demanded. “He lost his pony . . . he lost Hanochek, his friend . . .” His thin, aged face tightened, it hurt him to say that sinning man’s name.
Let it hurt him, I do not care. His blind trust of Hanochek nearly killed my son . “Warlord, Zandakar is no ordinary boy. Zandakar will be Mijak’s warlord. He cannot sin and escape the god’s wrath.”
Raklion sighed. “I know. But Hekat, I remember what it was like, to grow up in a warlord’s shadow, knowing my life would never be my own, knowing I was not an ordinary boy. I was Zandakar’s age when my brother died, when I learned I would be Raklion warlord. Do you know, I wanted to be a winemaker? Even so young, I knew I wanted that. I never wanted to be a warrior. I never wanted to hold so many lives in my hand. The god decreed otherwise, I am obedient to its will. I have served Et-Raklion, I will serve all of Mijak. Zandakar will serve it after me. That is also the god’s will. But there is time yet for him to be a boy. Let him be a boy, Hekat. He will be a man a long, long time.”
Tcha, he was as bad as Vortka. “He will be a man, yes, but to be a strong man first he must be a strong boy .”
Raklion laughed, he kissed her cheek and took her hand. “I sometimes think you should be warlord, Hekat. You are stronger than any man I know.”
True, true, Raklion, that is true. And I would be the greatest warlord Mijak has ever known . She smiled. “You flatter me. I am the warleader and Zandakar’s mother. I am content, do I need more? I think I do not.”
They reached the barracks’ gates, she stopped and slid her fingers from his gra
sp. “I will lead the warhost to victory in Et-Banotaj. The god is in me, I cannot fail.”
Raklion kissed her again. “I believe you, Hekat. The god is deeply in you. So deeply I think my prayers are not urgent. Something else is urgent. I think it past time we gave Zandakar a brother. He needs a closer friend than the warriors’ children he trains with in the barracks. He needs blood of his own to bond with, to play with. It is not good for a boy to grow up alone.”
She looked at him. The marks of his suffering had not faded from his face, he was thin, no longer robust. His eyes were sunken, he was not a well man. Did he have the strength to fuck? She could not ask him, he would take offense. And even if he did, nothing would come of it. He was destined never to sire a son.
She did not want to fuck him. She did not want to fuck anyone, not even the man the god would send her in its time. She did not like fucking, she thought she never would. “And the warhost, warlord? There is much to do, with little time before we ride to Et-Banotaj.”
He recaptured her hand. “There is time enough for you to lay with your warlord. My warhost is long-trained to ride out at short notice. And a good warleader trusts her shell-leaders, Hekat. They can manage without you. I cannot.”
He would not be dissuaded. Resigned, resentful, she let him lead her away.
Later that night, after lowsun sacrifice, Nagarak brought the chastened warlords down to the palace. Raklion waited for them in his torchlit audience chamber, shadows flickered its cold stone walls. Hekat stood by his right hand, Zandakar at his left. The warlord was dressed in his finest wools, crimson and dark blue and rich Et-Raklion green. His breastplate was new-made, its snake picked out in rare diamonds. Emerald snake-eyes stared unblinking at the world. Zandakar’s clothing echoed his, for this important moment he was excused his penitent linen and leggings.
Hekat wore her training tunic. Her only decoration was her well-blooded snakeblade, she held it naked in her fist.
The godforsaken warlords knelt before Raklion’s great chair. Their godbraids were silent, no bells to lament. Except for their loincloths they were naked. They bowed their chastised heads at Raklion’s feet, all their arrogance was sweated out of their skins. Nagarak stood close behind them, his scorpion pectoral fully revealed. Three lesser godspeakers stood behind him. Vortka was not one of them, Hekat felt no surprise.
Raklion said to his fallen brothers, “You must know I did not seek this. I did not know this would be my life. But the god has spoken, I must obey. Mijak is whole again, I am its warlord. Nagarak is its godspeaker, no voice but his now speaks for the god. Hekat is my snakeblade, the god dances in her. She is Zandakar’s mother, Bajadek’s doom and the doom of Banotaj, his son. Hekat is the warleader of Mijak’s warhost, there is no-one more powerful after me. Here is Zandakar, my son in the god’s eye. Your sons will obey him, as all men’s sons will obey him, as all men breathing now obey me. Zandakar will be warlord in his time. Say his name. I would hear it on your lips.”
“ Zandakar ,” said the kneeling men in a ragged chorus.
“And who is he?”
“ Your son in the god’s eye. He is the warlord after you.”
“And who am I?”
One by one, the warlords looked up. Each face was a wasteland, their eyes were full of tears. Hekat examined them, she searched them for demons. Her amulet stayed silent, she could sense no sin. Nagarak had done what was needed, these proud men were indeed chastened.
“ You are Raklion ,” they said, they sounded humble. “ Warlord of Mijak, in the god’s eye .”
Raklion nodded. He was tired after fucking, he did not show that in this room. “I am Raklion, warlord of Mijak. Banotaj is dead, he defied the god. You five are chastened men, the god has thrown you down. It has thrown down your high godspeakers, they will never rise again. If you once disobey me, you will join them in hell. I warn you, do not tempt me, do not tempt the god. The past is the past, I am your future.”
“He is your future,” said Nagarak, echoing. “And the god will be watching you. It knows all your hearts. If you are sinful my scorpion will wake.”
The kneeling warlords shuddered, remembering, they moaned in their throats and rocked on their heels.
“Listen to me, you fallen warlords, as I tell you what your lives will be,” said Raklion. “In this whole Mijak, ruled by Raklion warlord in the god’s eye.”
Hekat listened, but she had heard it already, as she lay in bed with Raklion after fucking. Mijak’s future had been swiftly decided between Raklion and Nagarak in the godhouse healing chamber. She could find no fault in their plan for Mijak, the god had guided them. She must be content.
The fallen warlords’ mastery of their territories was ended. No longer would their sons succeed them, their sons and their daughters would serve Raklion in Mijak’s warhost. They would live in his city, far from their own blood, away from temptations. The warlords’ cities would still be cities, they could keep their names and the fallen warlords could rule them as governors, for as long as they remained obedient to the god and Raklion warlord in its eye. The cities must lose their warlord prefix, no longer Et -Zyden, but Zyden plain, and the same with all the rest. Nor would their godhouses remain independent. Godspeakers from Et-Raklion would be sent to those godhouses. Each city’s godspeakers would come to Et-Raklion, to be examined in Nagarak’s eye. If they harbored demons they would go to hell.
The fallen warlords’ sad faces grew slowly more sorrowful, but they said nothing. What could they say? The god had spoken. Their time was done.
Raklion told them more of Mijak’s warhost, that their warriors were his now and Zandakar’s after. Hekat watched those words strike them, they were proud fighting warriors who would never again fight. She saw their eyes again fill with water, they grieved for their losses, they were wounded men. The god did not see them, they were blind in its eye.
Should I feel sorry? I think I should not.
At a signal from Nagarak one of the three godspeakers departed the chamber, returning with a gold basin full of sacred blood. Nagarak took his sacrifice knife, he cut Raklion’s hand and bled it into the basin, he cut each kneeling warlord’s hand and added their blood to Raklion’s. Last of all he cut himself, his blood mixed in the basin, he took a cup, filled it, and the fallen warlords drank. That was their oath to Raklion, and the god. Then Nagarak whipped them with a scorpion flail, it was the god’s promise of retribution should they break that oath. After the beating Nagarak healed them, that was the god’s protection against demons.
The audience was over. Nagarak led the five silent men from the chamber, they were chastened, they were broken, they walked like slaves in heavy chains. Raklion turned to Zandakar.
“You see, my son, how a warlord deals with his people.”
Zandakar nodded. “Yes, warlord. I see.”
“Zandakar,” said Hekat. “It is time for your bed, you have not finished your penance in the godhouse shrine garden. A godspeaker comes for you at newsun, and you must be ready.”
“Yes, Yuma,” said Zandakar. He saluted her, he saluted Raklion, he left the chamber. He was a good boy.
“Aieee, Hekat,” Raklion sighed when they were alone. “This task the god gives me, I fear for my strength.”
“You are foolish, warlord. You are chosen, the god will not let you fail.” Not until it requires your failure . “Now we must sleep, too,” she added, and helped Raklion down from his warlord’s chair. “I ride for Et-Banotaj with the warhost at newsun.”
Aieee, how it pleased her to say so.
I am the god’s knife-dancer, I hunger for war. Come the newsun I will worship with my blade.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Vortka concealed himself in the godhouse shrine garden and watched the smiting warhost depart, Hekat and Nagarak side by side in the lead. He wondered which of them chafed most at that, and had to smile at the thought.
They are unlikely oxen, yoked by the god.
He stifled a yawn, after another n
ight on the streets of Et-Raklion seeking out sinners he was so weary. He had attended sacrifice, he was free to sleep, but how could he shut himself away in his cell when Hekat was riding to smite Et-Banotaj?
The warhost was vast, thousands of warriors, slaves to see to their needs, five carts full of living sacrifices and three hundred godspeakers. So many had never ridden into battle before. They rode behind Nagarak, surrounding the fallen warlords who were being taken to see the fate of cities seduced by demons. They were already chastened, those warlords, he had heard snatches of gossip in the kitchens as he ate his quick meals. Nagarak had shown no pity, they were wicked sinners.
After Et-Banotaj they will not dare sin again.
He was not sorry to see Nagarak ride away, the warhost would be gone for more than a godmoon. A whole godmoon free of Nagarak and his suspicions, aieee, it was a blessing. More than ever, Nagarak terrified him. He knew now what had happened at the Heart of Mijak. The chosen warriors who rode there had spoken in the barracks of Nagarak’s scorpion pectoral coming to life and killing the high godspeakers of those warlords. The barracks godspeakers had heard the stories and repeated them in the godhouse. It was gossip, it was forbidden, but it spread even so.
If ever I speak with Hekat again I will ask her if that gossip is true. I have never heard of a stone scorpion killing, I—
Aieee! Except he had. Once. Abajai and Yagji’s deaths in their villa. The scorpion scarring on their chests. Hekat had told him her scorpion amulet had killed them, the god in her amulet had sent them to hell. He remembered that day, how could he forget? He had touched Hekat’s godspark and nearly burst into flame.
The god in Nagarak’s scorpion pectoral, the god in Hekat’s scorpion amulet. Both made of the same stone, sacred and rare. Both wielded by people deep in the god’s eye.