by Karen Miller
“ Alasdair !” Rhian tried to touch him, but he knocked her hand aside. “Please. There's no time . We have to join Idson and the soldiers. We're going to be fighting in a handful of—”
A swirling breeze, tainted with smoke. A whisper of windchimes. And dozens of witch-men stepped out of the air.
She spun round, disbelieving. “ Han ?”
His smile was a travesty of the cool, self-contained calm she'd come to expect. “Sun-dao says Tzhung-tzhungchai must help. A wise man always listens to his brother.”
She stared at him, and he stared back.
“These are all the witch-men I have to give,” he added. “I have none left to defend your duchies.”
She nodded, drowned in sorrow. “It's all right. Han, thank you. You've been a better friend than I could hope for.”
“Little queen,” he said. His eyes were warm.
“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”
The incoming tide of fire was almost upon them. The smoke was thickening, choking, burning everyone's throat and eyes. Only minutes remained, surely, before the last of their desperate blockade was destroyed and the warships of Mijak reached the harbour piers.
Crimson bolts searing, the promise of death.
Han's witch-men were spreading along the harbour front. Turning, Rhian glimpsed more witch-men on Kingseat's streets and scattered rooftops. One by one they spread their arms wide, tilting their faces to the morning sky. A wind started rising, it whipped their unbound hair, whipped clouds out of thin air, whipped the debris-choked waters of the harbour to life.
“Helfred, return to the great chapel,” she told her prolate. “We need your prayers as never before, and you'll at least be a little protected there.”
“I don't want to leave you,” said Helfred white-faced with fright. “You've always been in my care, Rhian.”
Oh, Helfred . “I'm in God's care now. Help my people, prolate. Dexterity—”
“I promised Ursa I'd help her tend any wounded,” Dexterity said unsteadily. “Majesty – Rhian—”
“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”
The chanting was so loud she could feel it in her bones. The warships of Mijak were pouring into the harbour behind the ship carrying Dmitrak and his gauntlet. Even through the gusting smoke and dancing fire she could see them, each full-bellied sail painted with a black scorpion. She could hear the steady thud and splash of their oars.
Her eyes stung, her vision blurred, as she looked at Dexterity. In a moment he'd leave her…and they might never meet again.
“God keep you, my dear friend,” she whispered, holding him tight.
Dexterity's embrace threatened to crack her ribs. “You're a good girl, Rhian. You always were. God bless.”
“Rhian,” said Zandakar. The scorpion knife was in his hand now, blue fire flickering up and down its thin blade. His eyes were fierce. “We go now, zho ?”
Like his witch-men, Han was summoning the wind. It was too late to wish him luck, too late to—
A searing bolt of crimson soared high above her head. Rhian spun on her heels, watched it fly over Kingseat's huddled buildings and strike her castle's wall. Flame and stone gouted into the air.
“God's mercy!” cried Helfred.
Too late to do anything but take Alasdair's hand, and run.
Dmitrak laughed as he sailed into the harbour, sailed through the smoke and Ethrea's pitiful, shattered defences, sucking pleasure from the moment like it was a bitch's tit. He could have obliterated in heartbeats the choke of wooden boats meant to stop him, but aieee, the god see him, it was better done slowly.
The demons of Kingseat deserved to fear.
As he laughed, his godbells sang. The god was pleased with him, he had pleased the god. Its power surged in his blood, thicker and hotter than ever he had felt it, his bones were burning for the god. He stood in his warship's bow and poured the god through his hammer, watched the blood-red flame destroy everything it touched, watched the flimsy defence of wooden boats burn and sink in his path.
The warriors of his warhost – his warhost, his warhost – were chanting to shake the sun from the sky.
“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”
This township of Kingseat was as large as any he had thrown down before, larger than any dead Zandakar had destroyed when he was in the god's eye.
I serve the god now. Dmitrak warlord, hammer of the god.
Then Hekat behind him screamed in rage. “Demons! Demons! Dmitrak, there are demons!”
He turned on her, his gauntlet pulsing, the power in it barely contained. “You will not kill any more of my warriors! I will kill these demons, I am the god's hammer!”
Never in his life had he spoken to Hekat like that. Never in his life had she looked at him with fear. He could see the fear in her, he could see she was afraid.
“The warlord is right, Empress,” said Vortka. “Heed his words. Dead warriors cannot ride into this Kingseat, dead warriors cannot dance with their snakeblades for the god.”
Hekat was so afraid, she did not strike Vortka for speaking.
Dmitrak laughed again, his godbells were laughing. Hekat was silenced. He had silenced Mijak's empress.
Turning his back on her, he stared at Kingseat township, at the buildings crowded around the harbour, at the streets sloping up towards the craggy outcropping behind it, at the looming palace with its glittering windows and high walls. There were people on those walls, there were people in the streets. He could see the flash of sunshine on metal. Aieee, tcha, they were stupid. These breathing dead people of Ethrea thought their metal skins could save them.
A sharp wind rose in the harbour, power danced over his skin. He had felt that power before, it was not his or the god's. There were demons in this place.
“Dmitrak!” shouted Hekat. “The demons are waking!”
I know that, I can feel that. Do I need you to tell me? I think I do not.
Below the decks of his warship he could hear the horses stamping, they were eager to fight. His warriors were eager, they felt the demons and chanted.
“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”
He turned again to Hekat, her eyes were blazing. “Empress, I will give you the blood of Kingseat. I will kill all of Kingseat's people and the demons will die.”
“No!” shouted Vortka. “Mijak needs slaves!”
Stupid man, stupid godspeaker, old and worn out and blind in the god's eye.
Beneath his feet the warship lurched as its rowing warriors battled the rising wind and rising waves those demons woke against the god and the warhost.
It was time for those demons to die.
As the demons' wind howled, as black clouds boiled into the sky, as lightning stabbed them and the harbour whipped to white foam, as killing waterspouts writhed and lashed, Dmitrak summoned the god to its hammer, he poured the god from his blood into the world.
He smashed Kingseat's palace, and the people in it. There were demons in that palace, as they died he felt them scream.
“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”
Warship by warship his warhost filled the harbour. Warship by warship they plunged towards the docks.
The demons were desperate, they flung their power against him. He rode in his warship's bow and smashed them with his fist. His warship had almost reached the dock, he could see the demons around the harbour with their black hair and their black clothes whipping in the wind. He could see the bright metal skins of the Ethreans who served them, they milled in the streets like goats loosed from a pen. They would be dead soon. Their blood would serve the god.
He heard a great cry, a roaring of fury, he saw three of his warships plunge splintered beneath the harbour's waves. Then two more were ruined, huge stones flying through the air. They were flying from the palace, they had catapults, like the demon ships that had sailed against him.
He clung with one hand to the railing of his warship and aimed his gauntlet at that palace. He hammered it to rubble and the catapul
ts, too. He hammered the people in the palace and on the streets.
And then he saw the waterspouts collapsing, he felt the wind falter, he saw the black-cloud sky clear. He looked at the harbour docks and saw demons dying, he felt them die as their power bled away. They died, they dropped, they could not stand against Mijak.
Before he could kill the demons who were not dead, they stepped into the air and disappeared from sight. He was angry, he did not let his anger blind him.
They cannot hide forever. I will find them, they will die.
With no howling wind to hide voices, he heard Vortka shouting at Hekat.
“You are the empress! You cannot ride to war!”
She shoved her fist against his chest. “Vortka, you are stupid! Hekat always rides to war!”
“When she was young, yes,” said Vortka. “She is no longer young, the power that was in her from those ten thousand slaves, that power is gone. You are weary. You will die.” Vortka was weeping, he was a soft weeping man. “I do not want you to die, Hekat. You must stay here with me and live.”
Dmitrak watched Hekat. Will she soften? I think she will not .
“Vortka high godspeaker is right!” he said. “You are Hekat, you must give the god the world. Can you give it the world if you are dead in your blood? I think you cannot do that, I think you must stay here!”
She stepped forward and struck him, her hand struck his cheek. She was old, she was powerless, the blow still hurt. “I am Hekat of Mijak, I am empress for the god. Do you give me orders, Dmitrak? I think you do not. I will ride with my warhost, it is where I belong.”
He felt his blood simmer, he felt the rage in his fist. My warhost. My warhost. You belong on a pyre . “Empress, there are slaves here, the god needs their blood. I will take those slaves prisoner and send them to you. If you are not here for sacrifice who will give the god their blood? Vortka? How can he do that when he does not believe?”
Hekat looked at Vortka, there was doubt in her eyes.
Yes, Empress, doubt him. Do not trust him, trust me. I am the warlord, this war is my war. I am the god's hammer. What are you? An old woman. Your time is come and gone, Hekat, this time is mine.
“Tcha!” said Hekat. “The god see me. Tcha! ”
Dmitrak knelt before her, he knew how to make her feel strong. “You are Mijak's great empress, you are Hekat in the world. You are too precious for risking. Let the world come to you.”
She bared her teeth, she bent low. She fisted her fingers in his scarlet godbraids. His godbells protested, he did not say a word.
“I will kill the slaves you send me, warlord,” she whispered. “I will give the god its strongest blood. You will slaughter Kingseat and its outlying hamlets, I am the empress, I want this demons' nest dead.”
I am the god's hammer. I will smash Kingseat flat. Then I will smash you, Hekat. Mijak has Dmitrak, does it also need an empress? Aieee, the god see me. I think it does not.
He pressed his fist to his chest, he did not show her his heart. “Hekat.”
Kingseat harbour had grown fat with his warhost. With no demons to stop them, warship after warship reached Kingseat's docks. They lowered their ramps, their warriors rode from the ships' bellies, warriors on their horses crowded the docks. They shouted, they chanted, they were ready to kill.
Deserted by their demon masters, the people of Kingseat fired burning arrows and threw stones. Dmitrak laughed as his gauntlet destroyed them. Still laughing he leapt from his warship to the dock, he took his horse from the Ajilik shell-leader and vaulted onto its back. With the god's hammer raised high above his head, he sent its power streaming into the sky.
And then he led his warhost into the township, thousands of warriors to slay Kingseat for the god.
The first mad onslaught of Mijaki warriors into the township thrust Rhian into a nightmare beyond belief. With the witch-men of Tzhung-tzhungchai vanished, or vanquished, no sign of their emperor, no more help from the wind, the noble defence of Kingseat became a battle for survival, became desperate bloodshed and sheer brutal luck. Her army shattered into splinters, skeins and half-skeins, into wildeyed, bloodsoaked bands of soldiers and citizens, men and women, boys and girls. The fighting raged from street to street, roof to roof, door to door. It smashed into houses and out of them again, through bakeries and chandlers and grainstores and taverns, into attics and cellars, in sunlight and in shade.
There was only one gauntlet. The rest of it was knives.
She lost sight of Zandakar first, as the triple-skein of soldiers she led jointly with Alasdair was smashed and scattered by a wall of galloping warriors, chanting and shouting, their belled and braided black hair ringing echoes to the sky.
Not long after that she lost Alasdair as well.
She was dancing hotas with a girl who looked too young for bloodshed…but was old enough to die. As her shortsword sank into the girl's exposed belly, she caught sight of Ethrea's king running for his life down Dancer's Alley with three mounted warriors chanting in pursuit. But she couldn't help him, two more warriors leapt to kill her. She fought one, the soldiers with her fought the other. Both died, very messily.
By the time she could run after him, Alasdair was gone.
There was no time to look for him, dead or alive. She had a skein of surviving soldiers to pull together and lead. Man by man, as she encountered other swordsmen and archers, dazed and lost and too-often bleeding, Rhian gathered to herself a small, personal army. They followed her gratefully, their fierce, killing queen.
She danced her hotas and Mijak's warriors died. Cleaning her knife swiftly, with casual expertise, she thought: So much for staying safely out of harm's way .
Her royal castle was in ruins. Mijak's warriors roamed her streets. She might be a widow; she didn't know, and not a soldier she collected could tell her if Alasdair lived, or had died. And the man she'd championed as Ethrea's greatest ally against Mijak had simply…disappeared. Just like Han and his witch-men, Zandakar was gone.
He was gone. She was alone. All she had were her hotas …Ranald's dagger…a killing short-sword…and her furious, stubborn faith.
Kingseat township and its districts were home to some one hundred thousand souls. Not one of them had fled in the face of Mijak. All of them had stayed to fight, for her and for their kingdom. Terrified, mostly untrained, nothing in their history had readied them for this. But they were so brave, her beautiful people. From their windows and rooftops they dropped rocks on the heads of the warriors below. Dropped rocks, claypots of burning pitch, jars of stinking urine, plates and mugs and footstools and whatever they could find. Sprang the traps she and her council had carefully devised; weakened walls set to tumbling, glass windows loosened to fall in shards on Mijaki heads, alleys blocked with sudden barricades so Kingseat's soldiers could kill at will.
It wasn't enough.
Rhian knew, her heart weeping, that what happened here was happening all over her kingdom. In Hartshorn and Arbat, in Meercheq and Morvell and in the wider duchy of Kingseat where Ludo and Adric struggled to keep the kingdom safe, the warriors of Mijak plundered her people, and her gallant people fought to their deaths.
And she knew one other thing, in her weeping heart and in her bones.
If Ethrea must die…it would not die cheaply. She and her people would make Mijak pay in blood.
Hour after hour, the fighting raged on. Kingseat township echoed to the dreadful sounds of men and women and children screaming, fallen horses screaming, the crash of stone and timber as Dmitrak's gauntlet lashed out. Blood slicked the cobblestones. Smoke filled the air. The slain and mortally wounded lay in piles, like driftwood.
And Mijak's warriors chanted, chanted as they killed.
“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”
In the Duchy of Hartshorn, so betrayed by its stubborn duke, Kyrin, the warriors of Mijak turned fallow fields to lakes of blood. In duchy Morvell, Edward's cherished domain, his son and his daughter watched him die, and died soon after. Rud
i of Arbat, irascible and gruff, breathed his last in the arms of Damwin's son, Davin, who promised to tell Adric of his father's great love. But Adric, fighting for Kingseat, for the ducal crown he wore with too much pride, perished back-to-back with Ludo of Linfoi…whose last living words were of his cousin, the king. The great river Eth, lifeblood of Ethrea, turned scarlet with the lifeblood of the people it sustained. And the warriors of Mijak chanted as they rode: “ Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho! ”Dmitrak kept his promise only once he sent captured Ethreans to Hekat so she could slay them for the god. Vortka watched her slit their throats, he could not stop her, she would not listen. When she was finished killing she sheathed her snakeblade and prowled the harbour. She prowled it like a sandcat snatched from freedom, and caged.
She snarled at him if he tried to soothe her, so he waited in silence for her to speak. They were alone now on the harbour's docks, he had commanded his godspeakers to pray on the warships. He wanted them safely out of the way.
“Tcha!” spat Hekat, glaring up at smoke-wreathed Kingseat township. “I can still hear screaming, why is this nest of demons not dead? Is Dmitrak the god's hammer? Can he kill Ethrea for the god?”
Vortka did not answer, his heart was heavy in his chest. Somewhere in Ethrea, perhaps even in Kingseat, his beloved Zandakar must be fighting for his life.
“I was wrong to listen to him,” said Hekat. “I was wrong to listen to you. I am Empress of Mijak, I am godchosen and precious, I should have ridden with the warhost, let Dmitrak ride behind. How can this Kingseat not be fallen for the god? There are thousands in my warhost, thousands trained to kill!”
Vortka sighed. “Kingseat is a large city, Hekat, many thousands live here.”
“It is not so much larger than Jatharuj, Vortka. Jatharuj fell between newsun and highsun! We are past highsun. Kingseat still stands and Dmitrak sends me no more slaves!”