The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  “ Tcha !” spat Dimmi, and flung himself against the wall. His dark brown eyes were bloodshot and furious. “She does not care , she does not want me. She hates me, I tell you. She wishes I was dead . She only wants you , her precious Zandakar!”

  The words cut like a snakeblade. There was real hatred in his brother, Zandakar had never heard it before. “That is not true. Has she not praised your riding skills of late, Dmitrak? Did she not let you have a new horse?”

  “No. It’s a pony .”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “But a better-bred pony than the one you had before. She does not hate you, Dmitrak, you must not say she does. She is busy. Distracted. What the god has commanded, it is a frightening task.”

  Dimmi fell silent. “Zandakar, are you frightened?” he asked, at last.

  Aieee, god. Am I frightened? I am frightened to death. If I fail the Empress, if I fail the god . . .

  He forced a smile. “How can I be frightened, little brother? I am the god’s hammer, I live in its eye.”

  Tears and temper forgotten, for the moment, his little brother grinned. “You still have not told me how it feels to kill like the god.”

  No, Dmitrak. And I never will . He said, “This thing we do for the god, you must know it will take us a long, long time. The world is a big place. Who knows how big it is? You are not a warrior yet, Dmitrak, you will be one soon. And then you will join me in the world. We will fight together, we will fight side by side, as brothers. We will throw down the world’s demons as we fight for the god.”

  Dimmi frowned as he thought about that. “And the Empress will not live forever,” he said, almost to himself. “One day she will die, and you will be Emperor . Then I will be warlord, I will lead the warhost to war.”

  Aieee, god, what a blessing we are alone ! Zandakar slapped his hand over Dimmi’s mouth. “You must never say that, it is a smiting sin . You wicked boy, I should tell Vortka. I should drag you to the godhouse and beat you on the scorpion wheel!”

  Above his silencing hand, Dimmi’s eyes were stark with horror. He shook his head, his fingers tugged. “No! No!” he begged, his desperate voice muffled. “Zandakar, no!”

  He removed his hand. “Say you are sorry, Dimmi. Say you did not mean it.”

  Now there were fresh tears, now there was weeping. “I am sorry. I did not mean it. I want to ride with you, Zandakar! I do not want you to go away !”

  Echoes of his own voice, begging for Hanochek. “I know,” he said helplessly. “But what can I do? I am born the god’s hammer, Dmitrak. That is what I am.”

  With a despairing wail, Dimmi threw thin arms around him, weeping as he had never wept in his life. All Zandakar could do was hold him until the worst of his grief had passed.

  “Here is my promise, little brother,” he said, when Dimmi was calmer. “Even though I ride far away, the Empress and Vortka are planning our war so we can always send and receive news to and from Mijak. You will write me a clay tablet every highsun, and I will write one to you. It may take some time for us to read each other’s letters but we will read them, I promise. And as soon as you are old enough I will send for you, Dmitrak. You will join me in the warhost, you will ride in my shell.”

  Dimmi sniffed, suspicious. “Even if the Empress does not want me there?”

  “Dimmi, she will want you. But not as much as I will.”

  Another sniff. “Very well. We will write letters. But when you address me do not call me Dimmi .”

  Four godmoons after Zandakar blooded the god’s hammer in the godtheater, Hekat thought she was close, at last close , to taking the god into the world. She would be far happier if she knew even a little of what people lived beyond the Sand River, but she could learn nothing of them. Not a single tablet in Et-Raklion’s godhouse library or in any other library in Mijak could tell her the name of one sinning, demonstruck land. She was certain of that, she had sent for them all. Not even Vortka’s secret high godspeaker tablets made mention of who lived with demons beyond Mijak’s borders.

  They would only learn that by going there.

  It does not matter. I will defeat them, whoever they are. They are not in the god’s eye, they do not have its hammer.

  She was so proud of Zandakar, so proud of his power. He was a fierce warlord, she had raised him well, he would never disappoint her. She was his Empress, he was her beautiful son.

  Mijak’s warhost numbered fifty thousand. It was a vast hungry horde, the plains around Et-Raklion groaned beneath its weight. Ten thousand warriors would remain in Mijak, she would choose the man to lead them closer to the time. The rest would follow her across the Sand River, they would ride with her and Zandakar into the world. A mighty warhost, they would cut down the sinners as a scythe cut wheat, she would pluck them from their lands as a thorn from her flesh. Those who survived her smiting would live to serve the god and Mijak, their lands would become Mijak, the god’s people of Mijak would live in those places after. Five thousand godspeakers would ride with the warhost, Vortka was choosing them even now. They would ride to build godhouses in the conquered lands and cast down the demons who thwarted the god. One by one those unknown lands would fall.

  Mijak would become the world, and she would give it to the god.

  After every lowsun sacrifice she stayed in the godhouse to talk with Vortka in his private chamber. They talked of her plans, they talked of the god, they took omens together, they made many lists.

  “I wish you would travel with us,” she said, not for the first time. “The god dwells in you, Vortka. You live in its eye.”

  “Hekat, I cannot,” he refused, not for the first time. “My place is in Mijak, working for the god. You will have Zandakar, he is all you will need.”

  Aieee, he was right. But the god see her, she would miss her high godspeaker, she was used to his company. He was a man, that was not his fault. He was a better man than any other, save her son. “You will come to the warhost sometimes ,” she commanded. “You must see the new lands we have cleansed of demons for the god.”

  He smiled, looking older, though in truth he was not old. “Yes. Sometimes. But not very often.”

  “Tcha!” she said, and looked down her nose. “I am the Empress, you will come when I call!”

  Before he could chide her, there came a knock on his door. “The god see you, godspeaker,” he called.

  The godspeaker entered, crossed to Vortka. Bent low to his ear and whispered, whispered. She saw Vortka straighten, she saw his face. “What?” she demanded. “Vortka, what is it? Not Zandakar—not Zandakar —”

  He shook his head, he could barely speak. “No. It is worse. Hekat—Empress—the god is thwarted. A warhost is raised against you in the north.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Jokriel city slept sweetly in the sunshine, with no outward sign it was infested by demons. No outward sign, either, of the warhost raised against her. That warhost was a mystery, its demon warleader faceless, nameless.

  Hekat sat her black mare on a rise a safe distance from the rebel stronghold, and stared at its roofs with hate in her heart. Let that sinner remain faceless, do I care what his name is? I will smite him to pieces, he can die with no name .

  On either side of her sat Zandakar and Vortka. Her son wore his hammer, since they rode from Et-Raklion he had not taken it off. Vortka wore a sour frown, he did not think she should be here.

  “This is godspeaker business, Hekat. Jokriel city’s godhouse is overthrown, some godspeakers are murdered, others have joined in this rebellion! I must smite these sinners, I must lay them in the dirt!”

  So he had told her, after giving her the news. She had turned on him, her rage was incandescent.

  “How did this happen, Vortka? Why did you not see it in an omen? You say your eyes are open to the god! You say you hear its whisper in your heart! When did you shut your eyes, when did you go deaf?”

  He struck her face. “I am not blind, I am not deaf, you dishonor the god to say such things! This bloodshed is
the omen, Hekat! You plan to lead a warhost into the world, and as you plan demons strike at home? Did I not say the god spoke against the empire, did I not tell you what the secret tablets said?”

  “You told me you agreed with me, that the god desired its new empire!”

  “I never agreed. I let you convince me, I must pay for that sin. I tell you, Hekat, Jokriel city’s fall is a warning. Ignore the god and be cast into hell!”

  She had almost snatched her snakeblade, then, almost shed his blood in her fury. “You are right this much, Vortka. It is a warning. It warns me demons grow stronger in the world, it tells me I have waited too long in the god’s eye. I must give the god my empire now, I must kill every demon and every man who worships them, everywhere I find them under the sun. I will start with Jokriel, in defiance against me.”

  Nothing more he could say made a difference to her, she was godtouched as he was, he did not know better than she. He said he would ride with her, she did not forbid it. She wanted him to see her smite for the god. She gathered a small warhost, five thousand strong warriors, she did not wish to tire more than that before she crossed the Sand River into the world. Five thousand of her warriors could deal with this rebel warhost, the one godspeaker escaped from Jokriel thought it only three thousand strong.

  Three thousand, three thousand . How had three thousand rebels gathered in secret against her? How had Vortka and his godspeakers not seen this? How could her high godspeaker have failed?

  As the seasons passed peacefully he grew soft in his heart. I planned for conquest, he built schools for the poor. He let slaves earn their freedom, if they were old and could not breed. He said the god desired it, why would I disbelieve him? We are both godtouched, we both hear the god.

  She shifted uncomfortably in her saddle, the long hard ride from Et-Raklion had tasked her severely. It was her punishment, demons had risen and she did not see them, her body’s pain was her sorrow to the god.

  It is a small failure, I will soon make it right. When these rebels are cast down, when their sinning blood waters the ground, when their heads are cut off and carried home on our spears, the god will see me again in its eye. Then will I lead my warhost from Mijak, then will the god be seen in the world.

  “Yuma?” said Zandakar, and touched her arm.

  He was worried for her, there was no need. “Lowsun approaches, Zandakar, we will camp behind this rise and smite Jokriel city after newsun sacrifice,” she told him. “Walk among the warhost once it is settled. Show them your hammer, let them see the god in you. Drink their praises, eat their love. That will sustain you in any battle.” She had learned that from Raklion, knowing him had not been a complete waste of her life.

  Zandakar nodded. “Empress, I will.”

  They returned to the warhost, Zandakar saw to their camping and their comfort, Hekat withdrew with Vortka for a private sacrifice. As he cut their flesh and caught the blood in his gold cup, Vortka said quietly, “We are alone now, I will say it once more. You should not do this, Hekat. You have misread the god’s desire.”

  She watched the blood drip from her sliced arm, watched it mingle with his. When the cup was a finger full she took off her scorpion amulet and poured that mingled blood upon the stone. Then she held the amulet high in the air and watched the drips fall on the bare ground, watched them splash and splatter. “There is an omen, Vortka, I will read it to you . I will give the god victory, Jokriel city will weep for its sin. This faceless warhost will weep out its blood, I will send those thwarting demons back to hell. Zandakar will stand beside me, I tell you this is his blooding. This will see him smite with his hammer, he will be the god’s hammer, as the god decreed.”

  Vortka said nothing, he healed her with his godstone, he healed himself and stared at the bloody ground. After a moment, she realized he was weeping.

  “I have failed you, Hekat. I have failed the god.” Water trickled down his thin, lined cheeks. In the fading light she saw silver in his godbraids. “You always heard its voice more clearly, you always stood tallest in its hidden eye. I am at fault here, that I did not see these rebels rising. My sin has placed you in danger, placed Zandakar in danger. Aieee, sweet Hekat, if he should fall . . .”

  “ Zandakar fall ?” she said, and slapped him lightly. “ Tcha , stupid Vortka, what nonsense is this? Zandakar is the hammer, how can he fall? He is the god’s child, he lives in its favor. Raklion knew this, the god told him in a vision. My son is the future. The whole world will know him. His name will be legend. So said the god, the god does not lie.”

  Vortka looked at her, such fear in his eyes. “You promise, Hekat? Zandakar will not fall?”

  She was always the strong one. She cupped her palm to his cheek. “I promise, Vortka. It is my word.”

  The godmoon and his wife had walked almost to mid-sky by the time Zandakar finished wandering among his warriors. When the last words of praise were drunk, when his belly was full of his warhost’s love, he joined his mother by her small, smokeless fire and dropped to the grass with a sigh of relief.

  “Have you let Vortka heal you, Empress?” he asked, reaching for the pouch of dried corn left near the heat. “You say you are strong, I know you are, but I am not blind. Our pace was relentless. You are tired, you are hurting. Tomorrow will be battle. If I am to see the great Hekat knife-dance, if I am to have a story to tell my son, you must be rested, you must be well.”

  She threw a clod of dirt at him. “First you must have a son to tell. To have a son you must have a wife, do you have a wife, Zandakar? I think you do not.”

  Aieee, god. This again. “I will have a wife when the god sends her to me,” he said, brushing bits of soil from his linen tunic. “The god has not sent her, what can I do?”

  “You can agree to see the girls I find for you,” his mother retorted. “I have found you seven, you refused them all unseen.”

  He smiled at her frowning, he shook his head. “Within a godmoon we ride out of Mijak, Empress. Can I take a wife with me? I think I cannot. You say I am godchosen, I believe you. I say a wife will come in the god’s time. I wish, precious Yuma, you would believe me.”

  “Tcha,” she said. “Stupid boy.”

  For once she used those words without anger, her eyes were smiling, they were full of love. Though she was often harsh, he knew she loved him. She wanted his excellence, it made her strict.

  He said, “Dimmi is sorry that he misses this battle.”

  Her lips thinned, and her eyes went cold. “He is a child, Zandakar, he has no place here.”

  Aieee, if only he knew why she would not love his little brother. It was more than her damaged body, instinct told him that, but he could not ask her, it would be his ruin. “He is growing fast, Yuma. He will be a mighty warrior. The other warriors admire him, they see his proud heart.”

  “You should sleep, my hammer,” she said, gaze fixed on the fire’s glowing coals. “Newsun will bring us a busy task for the god.”

  He looked down at his gold-and-crystal weapon, so comfortable against his skin. He had used the long journey here to let its presence seep through him, to ride in silence and commune with the god. Its power slept sweetly now, he controlled it like breathing. It did not wake unless he woke it, did not rise without his summons.

  A day from now I will be blooded in battle, blooded for the god, a true warlord at last. A day from now I will be different. I will be a man, no longer a boy.

  He kissed the Empress his mother on the hand, then he kissed the scars on her cheek. It did not make her godbells ring, for she wore no godbells and neither did he, or the warhost, or even Vortka high godspeaker. This would be a war without singing.

  His mother smiled. “The god see you sleeping, Zandakar warlord. The god see you sleeping, and when you are awake.”

  “The god see you, Yuma,” he replied, and left her to seek his rest beneath the stars.

  Newsun broke, the godspeakers sacrificed, and the warhost rode upon Jokriel city. Vortka and his three high go
dspeakers stayed behind upon the rise, they sacrificed their last doves that the god might see them and their victory.

  His mother rode grim-faced and silent beside him, her eyes were full of shadowed pain. She was angry at this smiting of her, as well as pain there was blood in her eyes. He was angry too, that she was subjected to this.

  Give me the strength to avenge her, god. Give me the strength to smite her enemies.

  As the warhost swept down on sinning Jokriel city, the rebel warhost rode out to meet them. It was a small band of warriors, he thought it less than three thousand, they rode skinny horses and camels, their tunics were torn. Compared to his warhost they were pitiful, pathetic, they were defeated before the first blow was struck.

  What are they thinking, god? Why would they do this? They must know we will slaughter them, they are demonstruck, they must be.

  Then he saw the rebel’s leader raise his clenched fist. The rebel warriors slowed towards halting, their leader rode forward without them. Zandakar was startled.

  “Do you think he surrenders, Empress?” he shouted above the thunder of galloping hooves.

  “He wishes council,” she shouted back. “I am willing to talk. If this unknown demonfucker throws his knife at my feet I will kill him quickly, that much will I do for the sinning sinner. If he does not I will kill him slowly, the god will grow fat on his cries of woe.” She held up her clenched fist, signaling their own warhost to slow. “Come,” she added, glancing at him. “Let us meet this dead man, let us show him the god.”

  They kicked their horses, they galloped to meet him. The plain before Jokriel city was flat and dry, dust kicked up around them and stuck to their skin. Dust covered his hammer, that did not matter. The hammer would strike when he called on its power.

  The riding rebel came closer, closer. He was old, he was work-shrunk, his godbraids were thin. Closer, closer, his face was revealed to them—

  “ Hanochek!” said the Empress. Her voice crawled with loathing, there was also surprise.