by Karen Miller
Love ? Never before had the god said love . It did not matter, the god had spoken. It did not deny what Hekat believed. Hekat knife-dancer, Empress of the world. Vortka, the world’s high godspeaker. Zandakar, their beautiful son, born the god’s breathing, smiting hammer.
He felt sick. Dizzy. Must this fall to me?
It was the god’s desire, he would obey. He would stand by Hekat, he would guide their son, he would see the god’s will done in the world.
Humbled, he cleansed himself and returned to his chamber, where he sought in vain for elusive sleep.
Hekat slept easily, she slept smiling in the god’s conquering eye. At newsun she waited on her balcony for Zandakar to join her, every newsun they ate honeyed cornmush and figs together. He did not come, she went to find him.
He was in Dmitrak’s chamber, holding the drooling, cooing brat, the nurse-slave was giggling, encouraging, as Zandakar laughed to see Nagarak’s spawn suck his finger. She wanted to shout at him, to scold him, to beat him, but his face was so beautiful, it was shining with love. He held the brat tenderly, as though it was breakable, one day he would hold his own son with such breathless care.
In the godhouse Vortka had asked her, What is the god’s purpose for Dmitrak, Hekat? Did you ask it? Do you know?
Nagarak’s brat? Revulsion had shivered her. He has no purpose. He sits in the shadows, burping and wailing and shitting his wraps .
“Zandakar,” she said. “Give him to the nurse-slave and come eat your cornmush. I have been waiting for you, that is not polite.”
“I am sorry, Yuma,” her son said quickly, and did as he was told. As they walked to her balcony he added, “The warlord said I must protect my brother. He is so small and helpless. Please, do not be angry.”
She breathed hard, once. “I am not angry. I wondered where you were.”
His glance was doubtful, he knew better than to question. They sat on the balcony, listening to the birds sing, watching the god’s sky fade from pink and gold to blue. Slaves served them in silence, they ate their honeyed cornmush. When they were finished she dismissed the slaves.
“My son, our lives are very different now. The god has spoken, it has tasked me with a special purpose. It has tasked you too and we must speak of that. Our words must be secret, no-one else can know.”
His eyes were large and limpid, so expressive. “I can keep a secret, Yuma.”
“The god has made me Empress of Mijak. It desires to make me Empress of the world. It will make of you its smiting hammer, to destroy ungodly demons in its name.”
She watched his beautiful lips shape her words in mimicry. It will make of you its smiting hammer . He said aloud, wondering, “What does that mean?”
“It means you are special, Zandakar. It means you are so deeply in the god’s eye it cannot see any other boy.”
Zandakar frowned. “It cannot see Dimmi?”
Dimmi ? Ah, yes. His stupid pet name for Nagarak’s brat, she let it pass, for now. “I told you, Zandakar. It can only see you. This task is an honor, it is a burden. From this newsun forward you cannot be a small boy. You are Zandakar, the god’s hammer, the Empress’s son. That is who you are, and will be, forever.”
“I thought I was the warlord,” he whispered.
“Tcha. You are more than a warlord. A warlord is nothing . The god throws down warlords, it smites them in the dirt.”
Zandakar looked frightened, he sought refuge in silence. When he did speak again, his beautiful eyes were bright. “Why am I chosen, Yuma? Why me , and not some other boy?”
She left her chair and gathered him to her, she did not often show softness. He must be hard. “Because you are my son. That is why, Zandakar.”
He hid his face against her shoulder. “Yuma . . . can you send for Hanochek to come home? He has been gone for a long time, he must be punished by now. And I miss him. He could lead the warhost since I am not the warlord anymore.”
She opened her arms and let him fall. “ Stupid boy! You nearly died because of Hanochek! He nearly thwarted the god’s great plan! And I have no need of a man to lead the warhost. Before I was Empress I was Hekat warleader. I am still Hekat warleader. The warhost is mine . I would not bring him home even if I could, Zandakar, and I cannot. Hanochek is dead .”
Crumpled on the ground, he stared up at her, shocked. “Hano is dead ?” he whispered. “Yuma, no .”
She leaned down, her shadow fell over him. “If you weep for him, Zandakar, I swear I will whip you on the scorpion wheel!”
He shook his head, she saw he was shivering. “No, Yuma. No weeping.”
“ Good ,” she said, and rewarded him with her smile. “Now, my son, up on your feet. It is time to attend the newsun sacrifice. Then we will go to the barracks. We must knife-dance for the god.”
As soon as Vortka saw his son, kneeling before the altar in the Sacrifice chamber, he knew that something was troubling him. He did not comment, he sacrificed the ten white lambs and poured their blood in the sacred bowls, then prayed in silence as Zandakar, his mother and the attending godspeakers took their sip and were sanctified in the god’s eye.
Hekat dismissed their son to the barracks and lingered to speak with him once sacrifice was done. When they were alone she considered him in silence, then said, “So, Vortka high godspeaker. You understand the god now?”
He nodded. “I understand you heard its will. I understand my purpose in its plan.”
“Good.” She smiled. “Vortka, that is good. We have walked in the god’s eye together this far, I do not wish to walk on alone. The god is mighty. We are its mighty slaves.”
He would never accustom himself to her utter conviction. He accepted she did not doubt the god, but that she would never doubt herself ? Aieee, such confidence. He confessed it, he felt envy.
He said, “When, Hekat? When must we take the god into the world?”
“When Zandakar has become a man, and I have made of the large crystal a weapon. When the god has shown him how to use it. When my warhost numbers in the tens of thousands, each warrior in it sworn to die for the god.” She touched his arm, a fleeting brush of calloused fingers. “Then will Zandakar and I smite the world. There is time yet. I have much to do. Mijak must grow green and fat again, it must be beautiful to honor the god.”
Zandakar . He said, “What has upset our son, Hekat? Do you know?” Do you even notice? Your eyes are so often fixed on the god . “I thought he—”
She waved her hand. “I told him sinning Hanochek was dead. He fancies himself grieved, he will not grieve for long.”
“Dead? What happened? How did you—”
“Tcha! Does it matter? I think it does not. I must go, Vortka. I am expected in the barracks.”
He took a step after her. “ Hekat —”
“No!” she said, turning. “You are too kind-hearted, you will make him soft. Zandakar is my son, he is born for the god. Is the god soft, Vortka? Does a smiting hammer weep? I think not, high godspeaker. Do not interfere.”
She was Hekat the Empress, she was Zandakar’s mother. He bowed his head. He did not interfere.
Eight godmoons after Raklion’s pyre burned out, Hanochek warleader wept for his death. A small distance away, beneath the pitiless sun on a stony, makeshift warhost field, forty threadbare warriors danced with snakeblades made of charred sheep bones. More than half bore faded scarlet godbraids, or scarlet patches on their ragged shaven skulls.
Aieee, Raklion. Raklion. That bitch killed you, I know it. Hekat killed you, my beloved knife-brother. She turned you against me, and you sent me away. I would have saved you if I’d been there, Raklion. I would have killed that poisonous bitch first. Aieee, god, god. Why did you let him send me away . . .
He smudged his cheeks dry with a sunburned hand. It was hot and ugly in the savage north. Primitive. Uncivilized. Godforsaken, for the most part. More snakes and lizards than upright men.
But I am free, here. I am not known or watched. I am making a warhost. I wil
l avenge you, Raklion. I will save Mijak from Hekat, I will save Zandakar. That is my oath to you, my warlord. My friend.
He shaded his eyes and looked at the knife-dancers. Aieee, god, what a sorry lot. But it was a beginning. He had to start somewhere. The savage north stretched a long, long way, a haven for runaways and criminals and escaped prisoners, like him. He had turned less promising recruits into lethal killers for his warlord, Raklion.
And here I am, a fugitive, doing it again.
When he had first reached Et-Jokriel’s godhouse, the godspeakers had never let him from their sight. Nagarak was not their high godspeaker but they were no fools, they knew to fear him. They had fed Nagarak’s prisoner stale bread and flyblown meat, offered him water that was three parts pish. At first his anger would not let him touch it, then his belly took over and he forced it down. Then it forced it back up again, moments later. But he knew his hunger meant he wanted to live. To live and one day go home to Et-Raklion, forgiven, reinstated, returned to his life.
In those first few godmoons he truly believed Raklion would relent. That his friend would turn away from Hekat’s poisoned whispers and remember the laughter, the blood on the battlefield, and the rare, precious moments of intimacy after, their life together before Hekat came.
But the highsuns kept passing, with no word of forgiveness from Raklion warlord, or his high godspeaker. Only a stubborn determination not to let Hekat win had kept him alive, when the pain of living threatened to throw him from Et-Jokriel’s godhouse roof.
It was Hekat’s doing, I will not blame him. He was her victim, like I was. Like Zandakar.
Aieee, god. The poor little boy. That bitch for a mother and his father dead. And now there was another son, he was told, another helpless child facing ruin.
News traveled slowly in the savage north, but it trickled in eventually. As it had trickled today, bringing word of Raklion’s death.
He felt fresh tears, he did not hold them back. He shouted at his faltering knife-dancers, threw stones to make his point. They hopped, they yelped, the tears retreated.
It was hard to recall exactly when he had decided to take revenge. To reject his harsh exile, and reclaim his life. It did not matter. What mattered was he was able to plan an escape, right under the noses of a godhouse full of godspeakers. Aieee, god, he was a warrior. Of course, it helped that the godhouse was distracted, disheveled, that the warlord and high godspeaker’s failure to return from the meeting with Raklion and Nagarak cut their legs out from under them as neatly as any snakeblade.
By then they had almost forgotten about him. He was quiet, obedient, he toiled in the stables, he cleaned the godspeakers’ shitboxes, emptied their pishpots and never complained. Never once gave them cause to notice him, after his shine had rubbed away.
Was it a sin to steal one slave from that slave pen in the city? Break his neck, dress him in my clothing, collapse that old dry godhouse wall on his body and run away in the night? If it was, god, you must forgive me. What is one more death, after the hundreds of warriors I have killed? And I did it for you, as much as me. I did it to save Mijak from that murdering bitch Hekat. I did it to save Zandakar, who I love like a son. And the other one, whose name I do not know.
He had forty warriors, the seedling start of a warhost. He only needed a few thousand more . . .
It might take me five seasons. It might take ten. What does that matter? I’m a man rich in time. I will build my warhost. I will train it in the savage north, where no warlord rules but me, no warleader wields a snakeblade but me, where no warrior rides who does not answer to me. We may ride camels, we may throw spears made of bone, we may cut an enemy’s throat with less style than I would like. But dead is dead, Raklion. You know that now. And before I join you . . . I will send Hekat to hell.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Five horses raced on the barracks horse-field, leaping ditches, logs, piles of stones, heaped goat carcasses, they slithered down steep slopes, plunged through water and blood and fire and smoke. A single mis-step meant a fall, or worse, a broken leg or snapped neck, death, for horse and straining rider alike.
Zandakar leaned low over his red-striped stallion’s sweaty shoulders, he urged it with eager cries and kicking heels, but he could not reach his speed-maddened brother. Dimmi was only just past his twelfth season, but he rode like a man grown, and like the Empress, their mother, he knew no fear. The other three warriors had fallen far behind them, this race was between him and Dmitrak now, and Dimmi was winning.
He often won when they raced over obstacles in the horse-field. He did not care if a horse broke its leg, he did not care if he ran it to windless exhaustion, all that mattered to him was leaping the last obstacle first and snatching the goat’s head from the pole, a victory.
Zandakar did not like to lose, but losing to Dimmi was a bearable sting. This race he had lost to him in front of Hekat. Perhaps, this time, she would see her younger son’s skill. This time, she might reward him with a smile.
She did not often smile at Dimmi. Zandakar knew why now, the whole warhost knew why. Dimmi’s birth had ruined her; they had forgiven him, it seemed she never would.
The finish pole was on them, his brave stallion was clipping Dimmi’s heels, too late, he’d lost. The goat’s head was snatched by Dmitrak’s quick hand, held high in the air, his prize, his trophy.
The watching shell-leaders and the other warriors selected for the day’s training shouted and hooted and drummed their snakeblade-hilts on their saddles. Hekat sat her black mare stiffly, her eyes were disappointed. She did not smile.
Her displeasure was a knife in Zandakar’s side, he tried not to feel it as he eased his stallion to a blowing halt. Dmitrak galloped in circles around him, laughing and brandishing the goat’s severed head, adoring the warriors’ wild acclaim. Zandakar watched their mother watch him, then turn for quiet words with her shell-leaders. It was as though, to her, Dimmi no longer existed. He saw his brother reef his pony to a rearing halt, saw him see her indifference, saw his brother’s face go cold and still.
Aieee, Yuma. Is it so hard to praise him?
She turned her horse and rode away, not words for him either, he was in disgrace. She left the horse-field slowly, she could not gallop anymore. She did not look back, he did not ride after her.
As the other straggling warriors finished the contest he urged his stallion to join Dimmi’s brown pony, a fiery thing with blood in its eyes. It snapped at his horse, he backed away. “Dimmi—”
Dimmi ignored him, he pitched the goat’s head into the crowd of warriors, flung himself from his saddle and stalked away, towards the horse-field’s fringe of trees.
Zandakar turned. “Arakun!”
The grey-haired old shell-leader, retired now to training younger warriors, left his fellow trainers and came to his side. “Warlord,” he said, fist pressed to his heart.
It was a courtesy title, he was not warlord yet, even though he had killed his share of godforsaken criminals in training, and led the warhost when it rode once each season through Mijak. He would not be warlord till the Empress decided.
She is so often angry, she might never decide.
“Take my stallion, Arakun, and my brother’s pony,” he said, sliding to the grassy ground. “Walk them till their breathing is eased. If you can keep them from killing each other, that would be good. My brother and I will not be long.”
Arakun took both sets of reins. “You rode the course well, Zandakar,” he offered, briefly smiling. “If Dmitrak did not take so many chances . . .”
It was the closest he would ever come to criticizing the Empress’s younger son. Zandakar nodded. “I know,” he said, rueful. “I will tell him.”
Leaving Arakun with the horses, he went after his brother.
He found Dimmi in some miserly shade, kicking a tree trunk, beating it with a dead fallen branch. The boy spun around when he heard footsteps approaching, his cheeks were wet, his eyes stretched wide.
“I am
not weeping !” he shouted. “This is sweat , I am sweating , I rode hard and I beat you, Zandakar!”
Zandakar sighed. Every time he saw Dimmi he saw a small, swaddled baby with his finger in its mouth. He could not help that, he did not tell his brother. “You rode hard, you rode well, I could not catch you. The warriors saw you, they shouted your name.”
Dimmi’s face was rebellious. “Tcha! What are warriors, they are dogs to be trained. She did not see me. She has no eyes. I am less than the wind to her, if I blew she would not feel me.”
“Dimmi . . .” Zandakar took a step forward, his hand outstretched.
His raging brother struck him with the dead branch. “Do not call me Dimmi !”
He hated that pet name, he said it made him small. It is hard to remember. You are my little brother . Zandakar glanced at the groove the branch had made in his forearm, swiftly filling with his blood. Dimmi gasped and dropped his makeshift weapon.
“I am sorry, Zandakar! Please, do not tell her! I did not mean to hurt you, it is not my fault!”
No, it was not. He was young, he was high-strung, his heart was bruised by the Empress. Zandakar pulled him into a tight embrace. Dimmi’s head barely reached the middle of his chest. His thin body was shaking, he was nearly undone. “I know, I know, it was an accident. Dimmi—Dmitrak—please, do not mind so much. She does not mean to hurt you, riding is a pain to her, it shortens her temper, it hardens her heart.”
“Her heart is always hard,” muttered Dimmi, muffled against his linen training tunic. “At least towards me.”
“She is the Empress, Dmitrak. She cannot be soft. It has been twelve seasons since the god threw down the warlords and their high godspeakers and gave her Mijak to rule in its name. Twelve seasons , little brother, and not one hint of rebellion, not a single disobedience, we have perfect peace in our land. Would that be true if she was soft? I tell you, Dmitrak, I think it would not.”
Still muffled, Dimmi snorted. “She is soft with you , Zandakar. For you there are smiles and kisses, for you there are always words of praise. She does not praise me . I am never good enough.”