by Karen Miller
“I will not. I promise.”
Her gaze flicked sideways, it touched on Dmitrak. “ No hand, Zandakar. I charge you, in the god’s eye.”
He would never risk his brother’s life with the hammer. “You have my word, Empress. The hammer is safe.”
She believed him, her eyes were full of tears. They did not fall, she did not falter. “Go with the god, Zandakar. Smite the world in its eye. Destroy every demon beyond the Sand River. Remember your mother, the Empress of Mijak. Know she rides with you, in your heart.”
Aieee, Yuma . He wanted to hold her, kiss her, weep into her godbraids. If he did, she would never forgive him. He nodded. “I know it always. I will not forget her. She will hear of our victories, she will laugh with the god.”
She gave him a small smile. She said nothing to Dimmi.
The farewell was ended. It was time to ride.
Vortka turned to face the multitude, his strong, clear voice cried to the god. The people heard him, they chanted with him. “ Zandakar warlord, Zandakar godhammer, Zandakar precious in the god’s great eye !”
Their voices beat on him, his skin was a drum. He turned to his mother, the Empress, Hekat, he saluted her with a fist to his heart. He saluted Vortka, Mijak’s high godspeaker, then he mounted his stallion. Dmitrak, on his own horse, rode at his side.
Zandakar led his mighty warhost away from Et-Raklion, towards the Sand River and the unsuspecting world. He left his mother behind him.
He did not look back.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Aieee!” said Dmitrak, and jabbed his elbow into Zandakar’s ribs. “There is a woman ripe for fucking. Pity she is piebald. The godspeakers say piebald women will make your cock rot and drop off, do you think they are right? Or are they just jealous and itchy, they are not vessels, they cannot fuck.”
Zandakar sighed, and looked at the hole his stylus had torn through his damp clay message tablet. Swallowing annoyance, he handed it to his scribe-slave, snapped his fingers for a fresh one, and began again the laborious task of composing a letter to the Empress, their mother.
“Do not bother to send her my love,” Dimmi added, watching. “She has never asked after me in six seasons of warring, why should I care if she lives or dies?”
Zandakar glanced up. “You talk like a barracks slave,” he said curtly. “And watch your tongue. To disrespect the Empress is to disrespect the god.”
“Tcha,” said Dimmi, but nothing else. He held out his ale mug for a slave to refill.
They sat side by side in the open-fronted warlord’s tent, protected from the highsun glare. Beyond it lay the Harjha village called Yanowe , the largest they had found since crossing a river into this land. The houses were built of saplings and mud, their roofs were thatched reeds. Harjha was poor, even though it was green.
Godspeakers glided among the awe-struck villagers, performing sacrifices, chastising sinners, selecting the animal stock that would form the basis of godhouse breeding farms which would, in time, supply sacrifices to the new godhouses in this land. The only woman he could think might catch his brother’s attention sat beneath a tree, a stone’s throw away, with three young men and two boys, also piebald. They received instruction from solemn-faced Valik godspeaker.
Dimmi said, staring into his mug, “Do I dream, Zanda, or have I seen piebald slaves at home?” He sat up sharply, liquid sloshed into his lap. “Aieee! I remember! That godforsaken slave you killed in the godtheater, the first woman you smote with the hammer. It was piebald, I am certain. Or do I misremember? It was so long ago, and you have killed thousands since then.”
Zandakar felt his heart constrict. Yes, Dimmi. Thousands. Thousands of godsparks slaughtered in the god’s eye. Scores of cities like Jokriel, smashed to the ground . “You do not misremember,” he said. He had never forgotten the day his hair turned blue. “What is your meaning?”
“I have none,” said Dimmi, shrugging, and drained his mug. “Except to say that once, in the dark past, these people of Harjha belonged to Mijak. Now they are conquered, they belong to us again. As do the peoples of Drohne, of Targa, of Bryzin and of Zree. Aieee, the god see us! I did not think it could take so long to conquer so little. How big is the world, Zandakar? Will we be old men before we see it fall?”
He sighed. Dimmi was in a talking mood, there was no use trying to write a letter till his words had run out. His little brother was grown strong and tall, he had hundreds more fingerbones than he could wear round his neck, tokens from the wicked sinners he had killed for the god. With a sharp nod Zandakar dismissed the slaves. Dimmi with ale in him was not always discreet, his brother said unwise things, often about the Empress. He did not want a godspeaker to hear.
“ Look , Zanda,” said Dimmi, nudging and pointing to the girl beneath the tree. “Is she not a fuckable woman? Hellspawn demons, why does she have to be piebald?”
Zandakar put down his stylus, covered the clay tablet with a damp square of cloth and pushed his rough work table a little to one side. “I cannot say. Who knows the god’s purpose?”
“Tcha,” said Dimmi, and leaned forward appreciatively. “If I rolled her in mud she would not be piebald. Do you think my cock would drop off if I fucked her then?”
Sometimes it was hard to like his brother. The older he got, the cruder he became. “Dimmi . . .”
“Do not call me that,” Dimmi growled, a warning. Once he could only wave his small fists, now he was a warrior with a snakeblade in his belt. “You play with fire, you know that you do.”
What does it matter, if I can distract you from that woman ? In the last three seasons, since his manhood came fully on him, Dimmi had been tasked over thirty times by the godspeakers, for lewd behavior that offended the god. Dimmi seemed not to care for their smitings, he laughed at their whipping, he told them whip harder, do you wish to tickle me to death ?
“What do you think of this land, this Harjha?” Zandakar asked. “We have been here a godmoon, it seems a green place.”
Dimmi snorted. “Greener than Drohne, at least, and Zree. Targa was green, but too full of demons. The same with Bryzin. I think this is the first place we have found where I will happily sit for a while.”
“On that point I will not argue. It is green, it is peaceful, it seems there are no cities or large villages to be smitten with the hammer. Its people have welcomed us for saving them from the demonstruck men of Targa. They speak our tongue, in a fashion. They may be piebald, Dmitrak, and dangerous to cocks, but I can see no demons here. I can see no offense against the god.”
The words earned him a sharp look. “Their existence is offensive, Zanda. There are no godhouses, no godposts, the sign of the scorpion is nowhere to be found. They are not Mijaki, that is their sin.”
It was the answer their mother would have given, had she been there to hear them. In many ways Dimmi was very like her, though to say so would earn him a blow, or worse. Dimmi was a man now, tears were beneath him, but Zandakar knew the pain in his heart. How could he not know, he had grown to manhood watching it fester.
“Even so, they offer us no warfare, unlike those other nations. They are misguided only, not rotten with demons. As you say, Dmitrak. Harjha is a good place to rest.”
And I am pleased, so pleased. I am weary of smiting, I dream of dead faces, I dream of blue-white fires and cities blown apart. I hear the dead thousands screaming in my sleep.
He held his breath—such thoughts, so sinful. A wonder the god did not strike him dead. The god did nothing, said nothing, it was silent.
It has been silent since we crossed the Sand River. Silent to me, at least. The godspeakers hear it. They say they hear it, I must believe them. Their godgiven smitings have not grown faint.
He turned on his leather camp-seat, aware of Dimmi, staring. “Are you all right, Zanda? Have you taken a sickness?”
“No.”
“Are you certain? You are not yourself. You have been different, distant, for godmoons now. Even the warhost has noticed
, Zandakar. They wonder if you weary of conquest.”
Zandakar felt his face go still, heard his heart in his chest thud against his ribs. “To weary of conquest is to weary of the god. I attend sacrifice. I am given the omens. Every fivesun the godspeakers task me, to ensure my godspark is pure for the god. If they whipped any harder they would break their canes. I tell you I am the warlord, Dmitrak. Or do you say I am not?”
Taken aback, Dimmi raised his hands. “Aieee! Do not bite me! I thought you looked sad. Are you sad, big brother? Perhaps I should roll that piebald in mud for you . Five virgins has the Empress attempted to send you, five times you have told her to leave them at home. Will you die unwedded, unbedded, alone?”
“I am not unbedded,” he muttered. “I was fucking vessels before you knew what they were.”
“But not since we left Et-Raklion.” Dimmi grinned. “Unless of course there is something you have not told me.”
“Tcha!” he said, and made a fist at his brother. “You are the one who takes conquered women in the shadows. Enough talk of fucking. It is not the god’s business, it is not why we are here.”
“I know,” said Dimmi, and rolled his eyes. “Zanda, how many more godmoons do you plan to stay in this land?”
“As many as the god needs for it to be conquered. Besides,” he added, and glanced sideways, “six seasons of fighting, the warhost is weary. There is plentiful game and water here. We would be wise to take our ease awhile. Send some warriors home to Mijak, replace them with younger, fresher knives.”
“The Empress will not like that,” said Dimmi, considering. “She will say the god has no need of rest.”
“The god is not a man, Dmitrak. The Empress is not with us. Conquest has a price, she does not see it.”
“And I for one am glad that is so,” said Dimmi. “I am happy here, where I am valued. Do not tell her I said so, in that letter you write. If she thinks I am happy she will call me home.”
Zandakar groaned. “Dmitrak . . .”
“You always defend her,” his brother said, resentful. “Why do you not see that your truth is not the only truth?”
“I defend you, too!” he protested. “I will always defend you. You are my brother, you are half of my heart.”
Dimmi ignored that, he could not be sensible where the Empress was concerned. “You have not properly answered my question. How long do we stay here? How many godmoons?”
“How can I tell you what the god has not told me?” he said. “The godspeakers say we have time yet, before we must move on. I will take that time, all the time that they give me. I am not sad, Dmitrak, but I admit I am weary. I have lost count of the cities I have killed, do you think it is easy , to wield the hammer?”
“I know it isn’t,” said Dimmi, quietly. “Don’t I sit with you after, and look in your face? You never speak of it, though I wish you would. I am your brother, I could share the burden.”
Their mother’s words inscribed in clay, sent to him when the first supply line to Mijak was secured: Remember the god’s will, my son. The hammer is yours, let no-one else touch it. It is your purpose, to keep in your heart . She meant, exclude Dmitrak. Keep him at arm’s length . And he did, but not for lack of trust. He did it to protect his brother, to save him from the hammer’s fury.
The longer I wield it, the harder it becomes. Sometimes I fear it is killing me, slowly. I will not let that happen to him.
“One hundred and seventy four,” said Dimmi, breaking the silence. “That is how many cities you have killed for the god. Before the world is conquered, I think it must become thousands.”
Aieee, god. Thousands . Which meant tens of thousands of slaughtered godsparks, if the people of those sinning cities did not fall on their faces before the god. He had seen twenty-five seasons, he felt twice as old.
“There is only one hammer, Dmitrak, you cannot help me. But . . .” With an effort, he smiled. “Your company cheers me, and that is no small thing.”
Dimmi brightened, it was important to him to know his big brother needed him. Even though he helped lead the warhost, even though he was feared and respected for himself, and not because his brother was the god’s hammer . . .
None of that means anything, if he thinks I do not need him.
“Dmitrak,” he said. “I would ask you a question. What do you hear, when you hear the god?”
Surprised, Dimmi stared at him. “I do not think of it. If I hear the god, it speaks to me in dreams and they vanish like mist when I open my eyes. Why? What do you hear?”
He had never spoken of that voice in the godpool. The feeling of warmth and love he had not felt since. He did not want to speak of it now, not openly. It was . . . private. Not even to be shared with his flesh and blood.
“If you do not hear words, do you at least sense its presence?”
Dimmi shrugged. “Of course. All warriors feel the god’s presence, Zanda, the god fills us in battle, it guides our snakeblades.”
“Tell me what it feels like,” he persisted. “What you feel, when it is in you.”
“I think I was right, Zanda, I think you are sickening!” said Dimmi, but then he sighed. “Heat. Hate. Cold. Rage. Those are the things I feel when I am filled with the god.”
I think I did too, once. I can barely remember. Now I only feel sorrow. When I smite with the hammer, when I raze those sinning cities, sorrow and sorrow. All I want to do is weep.
He could never tell Dimmi that. Even to Dimmi, he would sound demonstruck. Perhaps I am. Perhaps I am eaten by a demon from Targa, the godspeakers say we did not kill them all, there are steep hills in Targa, mountains filled with deep caves. Vortka could tell me. I wish he was here. I miss his kindness, and his wisdom .
He said, “Yes. Yes, Dmitrak. That is what the god’s warriors feel.”
And if I no longer feel that, what have I become?
A slave came to the tent-front then, bowed its head and said, “Warlord, Akida shell-leader and her warband have returned.”
Akida, Arakun’s fearsome daughter. Better with a snakeblade than even her sire. Another woman Dimmi had eyes for, but not even Dimmi risked fucking a warrior on conquest. If he was caught between her legs, the godspeakers really would tickle him to death, or close enough as would make little difference.
Dimmi said, “You have letters to write, Zanda. I will deal with the warband. After two tensuns of scouting I hope they bring fighting news. My snakeblade is bored with sun and gentle smiles.”
Mine is not, Dimmi. Mine sighs with relief . He nodded. “Give them my greetings and my praise. When you have heard their news, bring it to me. I will be here, as you say. Writing letters.”
Dimmi grinned and departed, pushing the slave ahead of him with a careless shove. Zandakar tugged the work-table back into position, and reached for his mother’s letter to read again before replying.
Looking at her stylus-work, nobody would guess she had not learned to write until she was thirteen. Her symbols were neat and confident, closely spaced, an echoing reflection of her impatient spoken voice. It brought her into the tent with him, if he closed his eyes he could hear her godbells.
It was the first letter he had received for nearly three godmoons. As soon as Drohne was smitten and obedient, the first land they encountered on the other side of the Sand River, he had sent warriors back to Et-Raklion with the news. They had returned to his warhost with more godspeakers, warriors, and citizens of Mijak selected to repopulate the conquered land. The desolate, dangerous Sand River was also tamed, it was as safe to traverse now as they could make it.
With every nation his warhost conquered, the same pattern was followed. It meant warrior-messengers could ride swiftly and securely back to Et-Raklion, and the Empress. Of course, the further away from Mijak they pushed the longer it took for godspeakers, warriors and chosen settlers to arrive and impose the god upon the godless in these lands. That was another reason to wait here, in Harjha. He dreaded the idea they might ride too far, too soon, overstre
tch their resources, exhaust the warhost. Mijak was so far behind them now, they had the god, but the god did not feed them, clothe them, replace their injured horses, their ruined tunics and breastplates, their damaged weapons, their lives , when they were lost.
I am the warlord. That is my task.
His fingertips stroked the hard dry clay, stroked his mother’s words as, when a child, he had stroked her scars. She told him of her Mijak warhost, growing to fill the barracks emptied at his leaving. She wrote of the chastened savage north and all the slaves it had brought her, of the chastised cities still weeping for smitten Jokriel, let them weep, let them tremble, let them not forget its fate. Zandakar , she admonished him, do not think I have forgotten you need a wife. You must sire a son, a warlord to follow you. I have found another virgin, she is beautiful and obedient. If I do not hear you are willing to meet her I tell you in the god’s eye, I will shut Vortka in a cupboard and ride across the Sand River to drag you home .
Aieee, the god see her, she made him laugh. She would do it, he knew her, he must find a way to soothe and placate. He did not want her docile virgin. He did not want the burden of a son, not until his conquering days were done with. If that meant never, then so be it.
Let Dmitrak follow me, he is also a man, a warrior, the son of an Empress, he is in the god’s eye.
She had not written one word about Dimmi.
The second new letter he had received was written by Vortka, a short note. As Mijak’s high godspeaker, and with Mijak expanding, very little time was his own. Almost completely, he wrote of Hekat. Your mother keeps busy, she is the god’s Empress. Her health is not perfect, I do what I can. Mijak remains peaceful, I trust now every last sprouted seed of Hanochek’s wicked rebellion is plucked out and poisoned, it will not grow again . Of himself he said only, I keep in the god’s eye, as I know you do also. I see you in the omens, you do the god’s work. The god see you in its conquering eye, warlord. I hope your brother Dmitrak is thriving.