by Karen Miller
Zandakar shrugged, and loosened his brother’s hand. “Do not call Lilit a piebald bitch.”
The hand was withdrawn. “You are the warlord,” said Dimmi, no longer smiling. “Your word is your word.” With a sharp nod, he disappeared into his tent.
Zandakar sighed, and withdrew to his own.
A tensun later, after newsun sacrifice at the village godpost, Radeet godspeaker pulled him aside and said, “Warlord, the god has spoken. There are omens and the godbones agree. The warhost has rested long enough in Harjha. It is time to ride upon Na’ha’leima.”
Zandakar felt his heart thud. The other godspeakers were cleaning up the blood and carcasses, the villagers were gone about their business, Lilit sat with her dying father, and the warriors in camp walked to the cleared training field for knife-dance practice with Dimmi.
He wished with his whole heart he could be with Lilit, but he was the warlord. It would not be wise.
He said, “If that is the god’s desire, godspeaker, then it must be mine also. But do not forget I am the warlord and the hammer, the warhost is my business. It will ride when I say it is ready to ride. When you say now, that means within a godmoon. You know what must be done for the warhost to ride.”
Radeet nodded. “Warlord, I do.”
“Very well, then.” He turned back for the warcamp, but the godspeaker took his arm, restraining him. “ Radeet ?” he demanded, his voice a whip.
There was no apology in the godspeaker’s face. It was cold and unflinching. They were nearly the same age. “Warlord, I am given a private omen, I received it in the last quiet time when the god moved me to pray. The woman you fuck with has conceived a son.”
A son? “What woman?” Zandakar said, after a shuddering moment. “Who says I have—”
“Tcha,” said Radeet. “You thought it secret, you were wrong, Zandakar.” He frowned. “I should have stopped you, I should have tasked you for lewdness and forbade you her flesh.”
“Why did you not?”
“I have eyes, warlord. I see your burden,” Radeet said simply. “I asked the god should I task you for fucking her, the god did not answer. I took that as an answer in itself. In six warring seasons you have not looked at a woman. You looked at this one, it must be the god’s plan. You do not shun your taskings, you are not a sinful man. You are its hammer, its chosen in the world.”
He hardly heard the godspeaker’s reply. Lilit, Lilit, she carries my son . He said, “Your wisdom is appreciated, Radeet godspeaker. If this matter remains between us do not speak of it further, not even to your fellow godspeakers. I will ask the god in solitude for its guidance in this business.”
Radeet nodded. “And you will also prepare the warhost for war. That answer I did receive, warlord, there was no room for dispute.”
Aieee, more blood and smiting, it was his purpose. “No dispute, godspeaker. The warhost will ride.”
Of course, he told Dimmi.
“ Pregnant ?” his brother echoed. “Aieee, Zandakar, that is disaster. How could you not make sure she was sealed against your seed? The warlord of Mijak cannot breed with a piebald . Fucking is one thing, but her blood is not pure. The dregs of her people are slaves in Mijak, would you raise a slave and call it your equal ?”
“Do not speak like that!” he commanded his brother. “This is the god’s will, Dmitrak. You speak against the god.”
“Oh, so the god told you to plant your son in her belly? Zanda, what if he’s piebald ? You think Hekat will accept a piebald grandson? You think Mijak will follow a piebald warlord? If you do, you are mad ! You were mad to fuck her!”
Zandakar stared. Dimmi was his little brother, little shadow at his heels, he did not raise his voice like this, he did not disrespect his warlord brother. They were alone in a woodland some distance from the village, he had invited Dimmi to ride with him as he looked at a possible site for a new Mijaki city. Their horses’ reins were hitched to a sapling, the horses tossed their heads at the sound of raised voices.
“How can you say that? You encouraged me to fuck her!”
“Yes, I did, but I never said get her pregnant!”
Zandakar felt his fists clench. “I am the god’s hammer, Dmitrak. I live in its eye. Do you think this could happen without its will?”
“You are so certain,” spat Dimmi. “ I say this is the work of demons. I say the piebald is demon-touched, she has poisoned your heart. She has stopped your ears so you’re deaf to the god, and me.”
Zandakar struck him, he knocked his brother to the ground. “That is a lie ! You lie with your tongue! She is gentle and precious, there is no demon in her!”
Speechless, Dimmi sprawled on the grass.
Zandakar cursed and fell to his knees. Never in his life had he struck his brother. “Aieee, Dimmi, forgive me. I am not myself. I am turned about with this news of a son. I want you to be pleased for me, I want you to understand—”
Dimmi struck his outstretched hand aside. “I understand, Zanda.” With a grunt, he bounced to his feet. “What is a brother, compared to a son? Even a son who looks like a slave.”
“ Dmitrak !” he shouted, but it was no use, Dimmi would not listen, he vaulted into his saddle and rode his stallion away.
Disconsolate, Zandakar mounted his own horse and followed his brother back to the village.
Speak to him, god. Tell him the truth, that I still love him, I will always love him, he is my brother. No son can change that.
In the village he found Lilit in her mud-and-sapling home, weeping beside her dead father’s body.
“He is gone, Zandakar, his spirit is fled,” she sobbed, falling against him.
“Not his spirit, his godspark,” he said, and kissed her brow. “Lilit, dry your tears. Weeping will not bring him back, do I not know it, who also watched a father die?”
She rubbed her hands across her face. “Yes. You are right. And he was ready to go. His eyes told me he was ready, I could not keep him.”
He gazed at her belly, still flat beneath her shift. “I have something to tell you, Lilit. Two things I must tell you, both from the god.”
“Then tell me, Zandakar. I learn from the godspeakers, I know the god’s will is first in all things.”
He framed her face with his hands. “You carry my son. The god has seen you quicken with my seed, you will be the mother of the god’s warlord in the world.”
She gasped. “The god has told you? It has told me too!”
“When? How?”
“In a dream, three nights ago.”
“And you did not tell me?”
“I am sorry, Zandakar,” she whispered. “I was not certain. I thought it might be only a wanting dream.” Tears welled in her beautiful eyes. “I was not keeping secrets, I swear to you, I swear! Please don’t be angry.”
He kissed her lips. “I am not angry.”
“And you are pleased, about the baby?”
“Pleased?” He pulled her to him. “Aieee, god. I am pleased. This son is the god’s gift, I will ride my smiting way through the world undefeated because of the son sleeping under your heart.”
“Oh, Zandakar,” she breathed, and slid her arms around him. “I am glad too. What else does the god tell you, that I must know?”
He rested his cheek upon her head. “It is time for the warhost to ride out of Harjha. Between here and the Great Desert there are lands yet unconquered. I must reclaim them for the god. I must make them part of Mijak’s empire. That is my purpose, and the Empress’s desire. Once those lands are conquered, we will divine our way across that desert, the god will guide us and see us through safely, its godposts will spread over the face of the world.”
“A fearsome thing, Zandakar,” she said softly. “I do not know what lies beyond the desert. Perhaps many countries, many people, many cities. Will you smite them all, warlord? Must they all kneel, or die?”
He kissed her. “You know they must.” He kissed her again. “And you must leave Harjha and ride to Et-Raklio
n. To the Empress, my mother, where you will be safe.”
“Leave Harjha?” she said, and pulled away. “Leave you ? No, Zandakar, I do not want to!”
“What you want cannot matter to me, Lilit,” he said. “All that can matter is our son. Will I see him born here, in the godless wilderness? I think I will not. He must be born in Et-Raklion, the place of my birth. Vortka high godspeaker must sacrifice for him with his own hands. My son will be the warlord of Mijak, he will one day wield the god’s gold-and-crystal hammer. You and he must go to Et-Raklion, Lilit.”
She wept, her tears burned him. “Aieee, Zandakar, how will I live in that faraway city? I want to be with you, I want—”
“Even if you stayed here we would not be together,” he said, his voice harsh. “Have I not told you? I ride for the god. I ride to smite first Na’ha’leima.”
“Not Na’ha’leima!” she cried in protest. “It is a quiet land, not like Targa, demons do not possess it, those people are good .”
He shook his head. “They are not good if they do not know the god, Lilit. They must be smitten, it is the god’s will.”
Now her eyes were angry. “Will you smite the children, warlord? Will you smite the women with babies in their bellies? Zandakar—”
He flung her from him and turned away. Was Dmitrak right, did a demon live in her tongue? “ No more, Lilit ! Do not tempt me from my purpose! That is a sin and the godspeakers will know!”
She moaned, and pressed her hands against his back. “If you do this you will suffer, Zandakar. Do I not hear the weeping in your heart? Do I not know your sorrow, I—”
“ I have no sorrow! The god’s hammer does not weep !” He turned on her, desperate, and caught her hands in his. “I was weary when I came here, Lilit. Six long seasons of constant war, what man would not be tired? But I am rested now, I am strong in the god’s eye. The god has given me you and a son, will I thank it with a sinning heart? Will I thwart its desire in the world? I will not do that, and you will not ask me.”
Tears and tears washed down her face. “I am afraid, Zandakar. I am afraid to leave you. I fear what will happen in Et-Raklion city.”
“Nothing will happen, Lilit,” he soothed her. “The god will protect you, and so will my mother. I promise. I promise . You will be safe.”
He wrote a letter to his mother and one to Vortka. He dried the damp clay tablets overnight in his hot tent and after newsun sacrifice gave them to Akida, wrapped in thick protecting cloths.
“Here are important messages for the Empress and her high godspeaker. Here is a woman, Lilit, she lives in my eye. You and your shell must deliver her and the messages unharmed to Mijak, to Et-Raklion’s palace. If you fail in this the god will strike you down.”
Akida looked disappointed. “We do not ride with you to smite Na’ha’leima?”
He shook his head. “I have a warhost full of warriors, but here is something precious. Only Akida is trusted to guard it.”
She banged her fist above her heart, pleased by his praise and trust. “Warlord.”
He put Lilit on her horse. “Do not forget me, beloved. I will come home to see our son born. That is my promise, my word is my word.”
“Warlord,” she whispered. Her eyes were full of tears and love. “Remember me, and think of this. If it is possible, do not be cruel to Na’ha’leima.”
He watched her ride away, surrounded by his warriors. He thought he felt his heart tear, and bleed. When she was gone from his eye he turned to Dimmi, silent and unsympathetic by his side. They had hardly spoken since their fight in the woodland.
“It is time for the warhost to ride for the god, brother. We must smite Na’ha’leima in its conquering eye.”
“Tcha,” said Dimmi. He did not smile. “It is past time we did this. You are come to your senses, warlord. Let us pray it is not too late.”
Aieee, Dimmi. Dimmi. He was still angry.
He will forgive me. We are brothers. He must.
Two warbands rode out of Harjha, one led by Zandakar, the other by his brother. They swept into Na’ha’leima like the fiery breath of god. Its people were peaceful, as the Harjhans were peaceful, but they said they had a god already, they had no need of Mijak’s god.
The villages of Na’ha’leima were smitten for their sins.
As his warriors took their ease amid the death and ruins of another village, Zandakar stared at the body of the village’s elder, sprawled at his feet and dead by his hand. Her tattooed face was smeared with blood and brains, her nose-ring dulled with slime. Planting a foot on her smashed chest, he grasped the long single braid of her orange hair and deftly severed her head from her neck. His snakeblade snagged on gristle. A practiced flick of his wrist, a small grunt of effort, and the spinal cord surrendered. A little blood pooled sluggishly, thickened now, with no beating heart to pump it freely.
I am sorry, Lilit. She had to die.
His stallion was too well trained to pull away, flattened black ears were its only protest as he tied the head to his saddle and prepared to remount. A small noise stopped him, breathy, shocked. He looked around. He and the horse stood at the entrance to the elder’s dwelling. Behind them, six dead dogs and four hacked bodies, two men, two women. They’d perished trying to protect the elder. One severed hand still clutched a kitchen knife, scant protection against the god’s warlord. No more sound from those slashed throats, no cries of pleasure or pain, no laughter, no tears, no jokes, complaints, railings, compliments or accusations. They had died in sin, abandoned by the god.
The noise came again. Louder, this time. A baby. Crying.
Zandakar wiped his snakeblade clean, he sheathed it and ducked into the dwelling. They were a short people, these Na’ha’leimans. Short and peaceful and unprepared. Inside the small house oil-lamps burned, stinking the air, dispelling gloom. Woven rush mats on the floor deadened his footfalls. Fresh flowers spilled red and orange and blue from an earthenware vase. A loved house, this. Poor by palace standards, no bright jeweled columns, no intricate mosaics beneath his boots, no hand-seamed silken curtains to flutter in slave-made breezes . . . but it had a rough charm, all the same.
The baby wailed again. More demanding this time, the fear ebbing, crossness growing in its stead. He ducked through a threadbare curtain into an adjoining room. The kitchen. Eggs in a bowl, brown and cream and speckled. A knob of butter. Kneaded bread on a windowsill, rising for no-one now. High in one corner a small cage, and in it a blue and green bird that cocked a suspicious eye and fluttered its striped wings in warning.
He set it free, balancing the cage at the open window and rattling the bars until it darted through the unlatched door into the freedom beyond. Eight determined strokes of the air and it was vanished from sight.
“Won’t last till newsun, most like,” said a respectfully disparaging voice. “Perish of cold, or get eaten by crows.”
He turned. Vanikil shell-leader, reeking of blood.
“Sun’s fast sinking, warlord. We need to ride.”
“Yes. I know.” He turned back to the window, stared into the sky, hoping for a glimpse of the bird. It might not die. It might survive. Not all things ended in death. Not so swiftly, at least.
The baby wailed again, resentment echoing through the still cottage. “A brat?” said Vanikil, and scowled. “I’ll see to it, warlord.” He ducked out of the kitchen.
Zandakar opened his mouth to stop him, but there was no point. It had no mother, its people were dead. In the next room the baby screeched on an upward sliding scale that ended abruptly with a sharp crack as the thin wall beside him vibrated. Then Vanikil was standing in the doorway, dead dripping flesh dangling from one large fist, limp as a neck-wrung chicken.
“There was only this one, warlord,” he said.
Zandakar stared at the baby. It was dressed in soft brown wool. The side of its head was flattened, scarlet slowly soaking scant orange hair. An echo of the elder’s flaming braid. Daughter? Son? At this age they were sexless. Its eyes
were open. Staring.
I am sorry, Lilit. It had to die.
Vanikil stepped back. “Warlord?” He tossed the dead child away, it struck the edge of the kitchen bench and fell to the floor. “It was your place to kill it.” He dropped to his knees, and waited for smiting.
Zandakar heard himself say, “Stand, warrior. The brat is dead, the god is served. We must ride before it is dark.”
He and his warriors released the village animals before leaving, so they might survive and service the settlers from Mijak when at last they arrived. The only sound as they rode away from the village was the excited cawing and pecking of carrion birds, who lined the branches of the surrounding trees and eagerly eyed the feast spread below.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Zandakar and his warriors reached their camp site two fingers later on horses stumbling with weariness. Cook-fires were already smoking, godspeakers prepared the lowsun sacrifice. One of Dimmi’s warriors came to take his horse. There was blood on her face, she had not cleaned herself since returning with his brother and their warband. Fresh fingerbones dangled round her neck, fleshed and gristled still.
“The god sees you, warlord. How was its business, in the wild?”
A cry, a screech, a crack. Silence. Soft brown wool. Dead, open eyes.
“Its business was its business,” he said, and tossed her the reins. “See to my horse, it will be sacrifice soon. Give the head to the godspeakers.” To discourage demons they would bind it with charms and burn it in a sacred fire. No settlers could come here until the land was cleansed of evil and the memory of its former inhabitants. One head taken from every cleansed city and village. How many heads since leaving Et-Raklion? He had lost count of that, too. He did not want to know.
The warrior—his mind was empty, he could not recall her name—nodded. A shadow of hurt touched her eyes, he was not usually curt with his warhost. “Yes, warlord.”
“Where is my brother?”
“At his ease,” she said, pointing to a break in the trees, where smoke was rising.