by Karen Miller
Hanochek warleader eased his rawboned brown horse to a halt. One eye was clouded, he had lost some teeth. Zandakar saw that because he was smiling, smiling, there was demonstruck laughter in the man’s ravaged face.
“Aieee, Hekat. Dirty barracks-bitch. I knew if I waited, you would come to me.”
Zandakar stared at the shriveled old man, he heard his heart beating, felt tears burn his eyes. Hano ? This was Hano ? The friend from his childhood that his sin sent away, whose death he’d wept for in secret for so long? Hano conspired with demons against them?
God, god, this is not fair. Living Hano fallen to demons? How much better if he were dead.
His mother pointed to Jokriel city, to the ragged warband behind him. “This is your doing, Hanochek? You have enticed these stupid slaves to sin, to their deaths? Aieee, a blessing that Raklion is ashes, you would kill him with your treachery, with your sin against his son!”
“ My sin?” said Hano, his face full of hate. “ You are the sinner, Raklion’s death is in your eye, bitch! Hold your tongue or I will cut it out.” He swung his horse sideways, he held out his hand. “Zandakar, Zandakar, have you no words for me? Your beloved father’s beloved friend? Your friend, too, if you can remember.”
He had never forgotten. “You call Raklion your friend yet you raise a warhost against his son?” Zandakar blinked hard, willed away the pain behind his eyes. “If you can do this, Hano, then I never knew you. I do not know you now. We were never friends.”
The Empress his mother laughed softly beside him. Hanochek ignored her, he nudged his tattered horse closer and pressed a scarred, scabby fist to his heart. “Zandakar, listen. I am not your enemy, I tell you, believe it. What I have done is done for you and your brother, to save you from this demon-bitch who destroyed your father.”
Pain turned to rage in a blink, in a heartbeat. He backed his stallion three paces, if Hanochek touched him he would vomit blood. “You corrupted a godhouse to save us? You slaughtered faithful godspeakers to save us? You consort with demons , Hano, to save us? May the god save us all from friends such as you!”
“I did not kill godspeakers, I killed demons in human flesh!” Hano shouted. “ Her creatures, summoned from hell to do her bidding, and the bidding of her tame high godspeaker Vortka!”
Zandakar felt his fingers tighten, felt the power surging in his blood. On his arm the god’s hammer heated. “Do not speak of the Empress like that. Do not speak of Vortka high godspeaker like that. They are godchosen and precious, they are in the god’s eye.”
“Aieee, Zandakar, listen to me!” Now there were tears on Hano’s old cheeks. “I loved Raklion warlord more than my life. When I heard he was dead I swore I would save you and your brother. I gave my life to you both from that moment on. Every breath since that day has been for you. This warhost behind me, I created it for you. I harvested the savage north and made warriors for you.”
“ Tcha !” said Hekat, she spat upon him. “How well do I know the savage north! Goat men, lizard men, men who are blinded to the god. If those men fight for you, Hano, you are dead in my eye!”
Hanochek ignored her, to him she did not breathe. “Zanda, little Zanda, not only warriors from the savage north fight for me in Raklion’s name. Others have joined me, from all over Mijak. Throughout this brown land there are men and women who do not worship your Empress, they remember their dead or thrown-down warlords and their slain high godspeakers. They chafe for release from their cruel Et-Raklion chains. For season after season I have worked, I have waited, I have drawn these people to me, I have promised them relief. They want their freedom, I will give them you ! In the god’s nameless name I beg you, Zandakar, do not cross the Sand River. It will be your undoing. Stay here, in Mijak. Save your people from hell.”
Shaking his head, Zandakar backed his stallion two more paces. “Your heart is eaten by demons, Hano. You are deaf to the god, you are blind in its eye.”
“I know this is difficult, I know my words hurt you,” said Hano, still weeping. “I am sorry for it, I hurt you for love. Turn your back on this Empress, Zanda, throw down your mother so Mijak might live. The god requires it, Mijak will die if you do not throw her down.”
Who was this man, this demoncrazed jabberer who wore the face of a loved, dead friend? “I will never do that, I will never turn against the Empress. Hano, this is madness.” Zandakar shook his head. “If you are truly a warleader do not spend your warriors’ lives for nothing . You cannot defeat us. Your rebellion is finished.”
Hano’s wet eyes opened wide. “Not if you join me! If you join me, Zanda, the victory will be ours. Mijak’s warhost will follow you, it will follow Raklion’s son.”
Helpless, Zandakar glanced at his mother. Her face was peaceful, Hano’s death was in her eyes. “Stupid Hanochek,” she said, her voice was a knife. “You think you can cajole Zandakar from my side? You think he will turn on me, his Empress, his mother? The savage north has rotted your brain. You knew Raklion all his life, he did not choose you over me. And now you think to steal my son ?”
“Zandakar!” cried Hano, and kicked his horse close. “You cannot follow her, she did not love your father, she cursed him with demons, Zanda, she ruined Raklion. Jokriel’s godspeakers tell me she fucked outside his bed, she—”
Before he could strike the man for his wicked lies, the Empress his mother screamed and threw herself on Hano. Her snakeblade was unsheathed, her godbraids were flying, she leapt from her mare’s back as though she were a lithe girl of twelve. Her knife flashed in the red newsun, it plunged into Hanochek, her arms were around him, they crashed to the ground.
As though it were a signal, Hanochek’s ragged warhost attacked. Howling, screaming, they galloped forward from a standstill, makeshift weapons above their heads. The god’s warhost responded, five thousand warriors on Et-Raklion’s best horses, surging on a roar of righteous fury towards Hano’s rebels. Arrows whistled through the air overhead, some struck the hard earth and stuck there, quivering. Others found living targets, four enemy horses cartwheeled to the ground, crushing their riders to death beneath them.
On the plain at Zandakar’s feet, demonstruck Hanochek and Mijak’s Empress tangled together in a desperate embrace, grunting, shouting, rolling over and over on the blood-slicked dry grass. Both of them were panting, both of them flailing, both of them striking with their blades.
Aieee, god, protect my mother! She will kill me if I interfere!
He wrenched his fretting stallion round on its haunches, his galloping warhost was almost upon them, Hanochek’s rebels were heartbeats away.
Forgive me, Yuma! I cannot see you killed !
He slid from his stallion, his gloved hammer hand holding fast to the reins, his other hand reaching— reaching—
As his fingers brushed his mother’s bloody shoulder she gave a shout of wild triumph and sank her knife hard between Hano’s ribs. Hanochek screamed, his eyes wide and staring. His mother rolled off him, she was covered in blood.
Zandakar hauled her barely conscious from the slick grass, he flung her facedown across his stallion, then vaulted behind her and looked down at Hanochek.
“You stupid man, you demonstruck sinner! The Empress has killed you. Hano, you are dead !”
“Zandakar—” Hano’s voice was a moan, almost lost in the thunder of oncoming hooves. “She is evil . . . evil . . . you must destroy her . . .”
His mother’s blood stained his stallion red. He wheeled away from Hanochek— Hano, I loved you, how could you, how could you —and galloped for Vortka as the opposing warhosts clashed in battle.
Behind him he heard Hano’s despairing, choked scream, as the first of the god’s warriors trampled him to pulp.
Hano . . . I loved you . . . I thought we were friends . . .
Blinded by tears he urged his stallion onwards, to the distant slow rise and the waiting, watching godspeakers. Vortka ran to meet him, helped Hekat from the horse. Her plain linen tunic glistened wet, bright red. Zan
dakar flung himself beside her, he caught up her hand.
“Yuma— Yuma —”
Her beautiful scarred face was masked with blood. She opened her eyes and frowned. “Wicked boy,” she whispered, her voice was a thread. “You have abandoned your warhost. What warlord does that, you must lead them, you must fight.”
On the plain below them shouts and knife-clashes, howls of men and horses, screaming. His beloved warriors were fighting, dying, his mother was right, he should be fighting beside them—
“ Go ,” said Vortka, looking up as he and his godspeakers worked furiously with their godstones to staunch her pumping blood. “The god sees the Empress, it will not let her die.”
Zandakar nodded, he released his mother’s hand. It fell to the grass like a dying bird. Fighting grief and weakness he stood and turned away from her, reaching for his stallion’s reins.
“ Zandakar . . .”
He turned back, she would scold him now for weeping. “Are you my son, Zandakar? I think that you are.” Her eyes were shining, with love and rage. “I think you will smite that sinning Jokriel city. I think you will smite its people to hell .”
She did not scold him . “I will,” he promised. “Empress, I will.”
She did not reply. Her voice had faded to silence, he could not see her ribcage lift, her hands were still, she did not see him.
“Empress! Yuma !”
“You heard her, Zandakar!” Vortka’s face was terrible. “You are the warlord, obey her command!”
He leapt on his stallion and galloped to the battle, unsheathing his snakeblade as he rode. He entered the bloodbath with his mouth wide, screaming. Hanochek’s warhost was no match for his. Hano had been demonstruck to pit them against him.
How long he fought for he never knew, after. He knew he was wounded, he knew he was bloody, he knew every rebel he met died by his hand. In every direction there were warriors dying, some were his own men, most were not. When nearly all of Hano’s warhost was defeated, slaughtered and sundered and strewn upon the ground, he signaled his warhost to fall back to safety. He confronted Hano’s survivors with their deaths in his eye.
The god’s hammer struck them, its power ignited them, beneath the high blue sky their flesh was consumed. When the last of Hanochek’s rebels were dead, were nothing, he rode with his warhost to sinning Jokriel city. He rode in dreadful silence, his mother, his Yuma, so wounded behind him. He had failed to protect her, he would not fail her now.
The sinning people of Jokriel city saw him coming. Some hid in the shadows, others hid behind doors. He saw their faces in windows, he saw them cowering behind pillars, he saw wicked men and their women, he saw their sinful sons.
At the entrance to the city, where its gates had once stood, he halted his stallion, he halted his warhost, he bent his cold gaze upon doomed Jokriel. In his leather-clad breast his heart was a hammer, it tolled like a godbell, it echoed his grief.
Yuma . . . Yuma . . .
Grief became rage, tears turned to flame, the god’s furious power built in his bones. His gold-and-crystal weapon shimmered into life. He raised his arm, he clenched his fist.
“Behold, you sinners of Jokriel! I am Zandakar warlord, son of the Empress! Warlord of Mijak in the god’s eye! This city is judged and condemned, it is given to demons, it must not stand beneath the sun!”
In the early cool stillness, his voice carried cleanly. Jokriel city’s people heard it, they cried out in alarm, they huddled together or else tried to flee. Zandakar watched them, he felt no pity. They had turned on the Empress. His mother, his Yuma. They had sinned with demons. They did not deserve to live. With his eyes wide open he summoned his power, he sent blue-white fire in streams against the city. As the god’s wrath burst from his body, his warhost cried out.
“ Zandakar! Zandakar! Zandakar warlord! Son of the Empress, in the god’s eye!”
The nearest buildings blew apart. The empty sky rained stone splinters and ragged chunks of rock. The air filled with smoke, with the stench of death. Screams of the godforsaken rang in his ears. Controlling his stallion, riding forward, he called upon the power again. More buildings shattered, more sinners perished. More blood ran like water in the streets.
He laughed to see it. He wanted more.
As he laid Jokriel city low with his smiting hand, as he reduced it to rubble, to a charnel house, to memory, he shouted and shouted and shouted out loud:
“ For the Empress! For Hekat! For the god in the world!”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The god was appeased by Jokriel city’s smiting. Hekat did not die of her many wounds, Vortka high godspeaker and his healers saved her. After Hanochek and his rebels’ destruction, warriors were sent to the nearest village, they returned with a cart that might carry her home to Et-Raklion. Zandakar drove it himself, Vortka rode in the back with the wounded Empress.
Hanochek’s demonstruck rebellion was thwarted, yet it was a slow and sorrowful journey home. Not one warrior among them had believed the Empress was mortal .
Et-Raklion city greeted them with sacrifice and amulets and coins of bronze and gold; by that time Hekat could sit on a horse. A warrior was sent ahead to warn Vortka’s godspeakers, the godtheater was filled, Et-Raklion’s people cheered their return. Hekat sat on her scorpion throne, only Zandakar beside her could see what that cost.
It broke his heart, he wept on the inside.
Afterwards Vortka took her to the godhouse, where she might receive more healing and regain her lost strength. Zandakar distracted himself with his warhost business, soon they would ride from Mijak across the Sand River. Into the unknown world, full of demons. It was a daunting thought, he tried not to think of it. He lived in the barracks, and hardly saw Dmitrak.
A godmoon after riding triumphant through the gates of Et-Raklion city, Vortka sent for him from the godhouse. He answered the summons at once, running hard up the Pinnacle Road. Despite the whisper in his heart, he prayed and prayed with every stride.
Do not let it be Yuma, god. Let it not be bad news.
“There is no use in softening the blow, Zandakar,” the high godspeaker said, standing before the altar in his private chamber. “The Empress is stricken. She lives, she will not die, but only if she remains in Et-Raklion. Hanochek’s wounding of her, together with the hurts she suffered when birthing Dmitrak, they have stolen her strength, Zandakar. I cannot reclaim it. She cannot ride with the warhost. She must stay behind, it is the god’s changed desire.”
Zandakar nodded. Hadn’t he known this? Hadn’t he felt this shadow on his skin? He looked away. A moment later, Vortka’s consoling hand came to rest on his shoulder.
“This is the god’s want. I have lived three highsuns in the Divination chamber, I have read more omens in that short time than in my previous seasons as Mijak’s high godspeaker. I am not mistaken, the god’s voice shouts.”
“I do not doubt you, Vortka,” he said. “The god is the god, it will have its way. Does the Empress know?”
Vortka nodded. “Yes. I have told her.”
A shiver of apprehension touched him. “How did she receive the news?”
“She attempted to smite me with it,” said Vortka dryly. “Your mother is a fighting woman.”
Despite his pain, Zandakar laughed. Vortka laughed with him, it was a kind moment. “The god knows she is.” He could not keep smiling. “Aieee, it is a cruel thing. Did the god tell you, Vortka, why its desire changed?”
“No. The god does not share with us all of its mysteries. Zandakar, she wishes to see you.”
“Then, high godspeaker, I must go.”
“Zandakar—”
He looked back, half a step from the chamber door. “High godspeaker?”
Vortka’s face was concerned, his dark eyes cautious. “We have not spoken of Jokriel city.”
No. They had not. Hekat had consumed them on the hard ride home, and besides, he was not ready.
I am not ready now.
“That cit
y’s destruction was the god’s desire, Zandakar,” said Vortka firmly. “It could not have fallen were it not the god’s will.”
It could not have fallen without me, Vortka. Without me, the god’s hammer, that city would still stand . He said, “Yes. I know that.”
Vortka came a little closer. “And yet you grieve, I think.”
Yes. With his rage burned away, and his mother still living, there was room for some grief in his heart. In his heart were the memories of all those dead people. Many charred to cinders, many more crushed beneath stone. Poor smitten city, reduced to rubble and ruin. He made himself look into Vortka’s eyes. “Am I stupid, high godspeaker? I am the god’s hammer. Hammers are bone and iron, they do not grieve.”
He had never before told Vortka a lie.
Vortka smiled. He said, “The wicked in that city are gone to hell where they belong. The innocents who died there, if there were innocents, they are with the god. Let that be your comfort, Zandakar, when your dreams are dark.”
Aieee, Vortka. How well you know me . “High godspeaker,” he said, and pressed his fist to his heart.
He left the high godspeaker and went to his mother, in the healing chamber that had become her home. She laughed to see him, her face was so thin, beneath her laughter he could see anger, and anguish.
He sat beside her on the healing couch, he kissed her fingers and held her hands. “Vortka has told me. Yuma, I am sorry.”
She was rarely moved to softness, she tossed her head and looked away. “Tcha! He is stupid, that Vortka, he fusses and fidgets. Much more of this nonsense I will ask the god for a new high godspeaker!”
“Yuma . . . you do not mean that.”
“No,” she sighed. “I do not.” Her water-sheened eyes looked around the chamber. “Raklion rested here, after Banotaj’s smiting of him in Mijak’s Heart. He never truly recovered.” Her face twisted. “But I am not Raklion, an old man of many seasons. I would not be here if I had been whole to begin with.”
Of course. She blamed Dmitrak. She always blamed Dmitrak. “Yuma, I know the god’s want disappoints you, but Dimmi—”