The Blackgod

by Greg Keyes

  “From the direction of the storm?”

  “Where else?”

  Perkar could make out a speck now. He pointed it out to Ngangata.

  “Yes, I see,” the half man said. “Your sword uses your eyes well.”

  It seemed a rather backhanded compliment to Perkar, but he knew it was the only sort he deserved. Ngangata would have seen the approaching stranger well before Perkar, all other things being equal.

  Harka, however, made things decidedly unequal, protecting Perkar from much harm and healing even the most terrible wounds in a few days at most. It was difficult, therefore, for Perkar to conjure up any fear of a lone figure in the distance, despite Harka’s concern. Harka, after all, would be concerned if a jay were diving at him, protecting its nest. Even such slight threats were considered worthy of the sword’s attention. Still, a menace to him was also probably a threat to Ngangata, who could be killed rather easily. Perkar did not want that; enough of his friends were already ghosts.

  It soon became apparent, however, that the rider—Ngangata said he could make that much out—was moving along the same course as they, rather than coming to meet them. This delayed any worries Perkar might have been tempted to invent, especially because he knew that they should be drawing near the stream where his goddess dwelt, and he was rehearsing what he would say to her. In fact, after some time, the rider ahead of them vanished, not over the horizon but presumably behind some nearer crease in the landscape, obscured by the white sameness of the plain. Perkar’s heart quickened, for such a crease might also hide a stream valley.

  Midway from noon to sundown, they breasted the lip of the valley. It was a gentle, gradual dale, nothing like the crevasse the Changeling had dug for himself. Indeed, the crest of the hill was scarcely noticeable as such. The stream was not directly visible, hidden by a stand of leafless cottonwoods and furry green juniper. But she was there; Perkar knew her instantly. He clapped T’esh’s flanks, bringing the horse to a canter, but Ngangata hailed him down. Almost irritated, Perkar turned to his comrade, who was gesturing at the clean snow of the valley—gesturing at a line of hoofprints not their own.

  “You make your peace with the goddess,” Ngangata suggested. “I think I will find out who our stranger is.”

  “No,” Perkar snapped. “No. Harka believes it to be dangerous. Leave it alone, whatever it is. Just keep your bow out and your eyes busy. I will not speak to her for long.”

  “Best not,” Ngangata muttered. “I don’t like not knowing where an enemy is.”

  “We don’t know that it is an enemy,” Perkar pointed out reasonably. Then, to Harka: “Do we?”

  “No. But strong and strange, certainly. And dangerous, like a sleeping snake.”

  Perkar nodded, so that Ngangata would know he had been answered.

  “But go cautiously,” Ngangata said. “We should dismount and walk down. Do no good for you to break your neck now—it could take days for you to heal.”

  “Fine,” Perkar said, though he would have rather galloped down, heedless.

  How old I look, Perkar thought, staring at his reflection in a still edge of the stream. His hood down, he could see the new lines on his face, the unkempt brown hair, gray eyes that seemed rather dull to him, though he had once been proud of their flash and sparkle. He was struck, suddenly, by how much more he looked like his father, and that thought brought an almost dizzying recurrence of his earlier homesickness. Up this stream, far up it, his father’s pasture lay. A leaf fallen there might pass now by his feet. The stream blurred, as tears rimmed his eyes.

  “Always so sad,” she said, rising from the water before him, “even from the first.”

  She looked older, too. Her skin still dazzled whiter than the snow on the hills around them, her eyes shone purest amber, and yet in the jet of her long hair lay wisps of silver, lines etched on a face that before had been smoothest ivory. She remained the loveliest woman Perkar had ever seen; the sight of her caught at his breath.

  “Goddess,” he said.

  “The same, but not the same,” she answered. “Farther downstream, more children. But I know you, Perkar, I remember your arms and kisses, your sweet silly promises.”

  She stepped up and out of the water, stretched a tapered finger out to stroke his chin. Her touch was warm, despite the chill wind. Her unclothed flesh was raised in goosebumps, but other than that she showed no discomfort.

  “What have they done to you, my sweet thing?” she asked, moving her hand down, to the thick scar on his throat where a lance had passed through his neck; across his coat, beneath which hidden scars bunched like a nest of white caterpillars.

  “I did it to myself,” he muttered.

  “You did it for me,” she corrected.

  “Yes, at least I thought I did.”

  She moved to embrace him, though his thick coat must have been rough against her. She pressed her cheek against his, and it was so warm it was nearly hot. “I tried to stop you,” she reminded him. She stepped back, and he stood there, not knowing at all what to do.

  “I tried to stop you,” she repeated.

  He shrugged uncomfortably. “I loved you. I did foolish things.”

  She nodded. “I have heard rumors, flying down from the mountain. He sang of you, where he eats me. Do you feel more a man now, Perkar? Do you feel more a match for a goddess?”

  “No,” he said, his voice small but firm. “No, you were always right.”

  “What do you want of me now?” she demanded, and her voice was a bit sharp. She had always been like that, hard and soft, comforting and angry, all at once.

  “I only want for you to forgive me.”

  “Forgive you?” she asked, as if she were repeating words in a foreign language.

  “Forgive me for killing in your name. Forgive me for…” He searched his brain, but despite his rehearsal, he could not find the words.

  “Forgive you,” she repeated. She shook her head slowly. “So many things men have done for me, over the years—so many stupid things. At first, you know, I did not try to stop them. They amused me. But the blood of this girl, this form you see, oh, it sleeps for long, but sometimes I am almost Human. I feel sorrow, feel ashamed, just as you might—though I hate it. And I feel love, Perkar. You can hurt me, I think. I was always afraid you would hurt yourself and add to my sorrow. And so you have.”

  “But I am alive,” he told her. “Here I am.”

  “But so terribly hurt,” she said, “so scarred. Can I forgive you for that, for scarring my sweet Perkar?” She shook her head, pursed her lips. “Take whatever you want,” she said at last. “If you want my forgiveness, take that.”

  “You have to give it to me, I think,” he replied.

  She spread her arms wide, gesturing up and down the river, spreading her naked body before him. “Here is all that I am,” she answered. “Upstream, downstream—anything in me is yours. If you can find forgiveness here, take it—I give it to you. But I cannot find it for you.”

  He nodded, unsure what to say next, and she gazed at him long and thoughtfully before she said anything else. Then, with a little sigh, she approached him again and took his hand. Together they gazed into the water. “There are some things I can find for you,” she confided. “Things that have come downstream to me.”

  “Yes?” he said hopefully.

  “From your father’s people. See, there—and there.” She gestured at the flowing water, but he saw nothing noteworthy.

  “What?”

  “Blood,” she said, gripping his hand tighter. “It is their blood.”

  Perkar did not believe that any news could stun him now, and yet as he walked back up to where Ngangata waited, he felt numb, and not from the cold. The goddess had talked for some time, explained as much as she knew, then left him with a faint kiss on the lips to remind him of his first lesson in passion, so long ago. But even the kiss of a goddess dimmed next to what she had told him.

  “Well?” Ngangata inquired, rising f
rom his haunches and shouldering his laminated bone bow.

  “War,” Perkar mumbled. “My people are at war with the Mang.”

  “Your people are always at war with the Mang,” Ngangata replied, though rather tentatively.

  “No. The Mang have always raided us, and we have always repelled them. But now my people have invaded the Ekasagata Valley and established damakutat to defend what they have taken.”

  “Why haven’t Brother Horse and his people heard of this?”

  “Perhaps they have,” Perkar said darkly.

  “No, I don’t believe that,” Ngangata disagreed.

  “Well, maybe they have heard rumors but assume it is the same sort of raiding that has always gone on. The border with my people is many hundreds of leagues away.”

  “True. And the Mang are not all one people. What troubles the Mang of the western plains need not have any effect on the Mang of the South.”

  “Except,” Perkar noted, “in times of war. Their confederacy exists for mutual protection and mutual raiding.”

  Ngangata shook his head unhappily. “This means trouble for us. Brother Horse may find it difficult to treat us with hospitality when the news arrives.”

  “Ngangata!” Perkar cried. “Hospitality! My people are dying, and it is my fault. You know that, you were there. The Forest Lord had agreed to give our king more land. Because of me, that offer was withdrawn and will never be made again. Now it seems, unable to expand west, my people have chosen to move into the Mang borderlands. My fault, all of it.”

  Ngangata regarded him for a moment. “Apad and Eruka—” he began.

  “Are dead,” Perkar finished. “I am the only one left to shoulder the blame. In any event, Apad and Eruka would have lacked the courage to do anything without me.”

  Ngangata’s face was grim. “I know that,” he replied. “I agree; much of the blame for this lies with you. But if I understand Piraku, you should be thinking of something to do about it, rather than blaming yourself over and over again—rather than telling me about your guilt yet again.”

  Perkar clenched his fist and shook it in Ngangata’s face. “And just what is it I can do?” he shouted. “How is it that I can set this right, resurrect those already dead, my father perhaps among them?”

  Ngangata watched the fist impassively. “If you don’t intend to hit me,” he growled, “unclench that.”

  For one awful, helpless moment, Perkar did want to hit the half man. But at last he let the fist drop, uncurling it. He was opening his mouth to apologize when his head yanked around of its own volition—or rather, Harka’s.

  “In the trees,” he suddenly whispered, just as an arrow struck him in the shoulder. He gasped at the impact, surprised that there was no more pain. He had a confused glimpse of Ngangata in motion, heard the dull flat whine of his bow.

  “Watch out!” Harka warned, as Perkar fumbled him out. The blade trailed out into the light, a sliver of aquamarine ice.

  As he stumbled back to his feet, his gaze was again drawn to the trees; another shaft whirred from them, though not in his direction. Ngangata—the likely target—was nowhere to be seen. Of more immediate concern were the two horsemen churning through the snow toward him, both mounted on striped Mang horses. The men were Mang, too, multiple braids indicating that they were warriors of some rank, the red-dyed horsehair plumes on their leather helmets a sign that they were at war. Perkar had never seen Mang at war until now. They looked like wolves.

  They bore down on him, one with a lance, the second with a short, curved sword. Perkar whooped at them, his father’s battle cry, and waited, Harka held steady with both hands. The arrow, he now guessed, had not penetrated more deeply than his outer flesh, halted by the thick coat of elk hide and the light lacquered armor beneath.

  He waited until they were nearly on him, and then suddenly darted to his right; both horsemen swerved, still hoping to catch him between them, but Perkar sank to one knee and cut through both front legs of the nearest horse. The animal shrieked piteously and pitched past him, into the snow, the rider sprawling over his mount’s neck.

  An absolute master of his steed, the second Mang pulled in tight, but had to strike awkwardly to reach Perkar. Perkar avoided the blow entirely, stepped up, and slashed deeply into the warrior’s leg. The man uttered no sound, but his face registered a vast surprise as the blade sliced through the heavy lacquered layers of wood, bone, and leather that protected his thigh.

  Perkar turned back to his first opponent, who was rising to his feet, murder on his face. Unfortunately for him, his lance was too long to bring around effectively, and though he managed to graze Perkar’s shoulder, he soon held only a wooden pole, the steel blade severed from it by a quick blow from Harka. The Mang shot one glance at his mutilated steed, snarled, and hurled himself weaponless at Perkar, though a knife flapped against his hip. Harka took him in the heart, yet the man remained on his feet for a few instants, the purest look of hatred Perkar had ever seen only reluctantly replaced by death’s cold gaze.

  The second man was lying on his horse’s neck, teeth clenched; as Perkar watched, the blade dropped from his hand into the blood-spattered snow. The horse itself pranced nervously, as if unused to having no direction.

  Another shaft sped past Perkar, but almost at the same moment, he heard a sharp cry from the direction of the trees. He crouched behind the quivering body of the downed horse, waiting for more attacks, but none came, and Harka remained still and quiet.

  After a moment, Ngangata emerged, cautiously, from a clump of trees. “Are there more?” he asked, eyes nervously picking through the valley.

  “I don’t think so. Harka?”

  “No more. But there is someone else.”

  “What?” Perkar turned to Ngangata. “Harka says no more Mang, but there is someone else.”

  Ngangata nodded. “Someone killed the archer.”

  “Ah. I thought you did that.”

  “No,” Ngangata denied.

  Perkar drew a deep breath. “Come out, if you are a friend. If not, ride on.”

  There was a pause, and then a stirring in the trees. The figure of a man emerged and began walking leisurely toward them.

  “That,” Harka informed him, “is not Human.”

  IV

  The Godsight

  She stood beneath a leaden sky, the vastness of the River stretched before her. Those waters seemed a perfect reflection of the obscure heavens—his substance seemed dense, as if it were really polished slate or beveled steel—and it radiated a cold strength that numbed and quickened her simultaneously.

  She bent closer, touched her finger to the dark water, then gasped when she saw impressions upon the surface, as if invisible objects lay pressed upon the skin of the River God. Nearest was a hollow shaped like a water scorpion, so clear that she could even make out the delicate patterning of its plated underbelly. There, a trumpet-cuttlefish, long tapering horn of its shell smooth, the tentacles and a single large eye pressed in relief. And there—she gasped and looked away from the detailed mold of her cousin D’en’s face, as she had last seen it, with his eyes on stalks, like those of a crab.

  Trembling, she turned from the River, but looking away, she felt less comfort than ever. Four masked priests strode toward her, grim-faced, swinging their water cans and spirit-brooms. In front of them came Yen, the young engineer who had playfully courted her, only to reveal himself as a coldhearted assassin named Ghe. Behind those five figures were a hundred others, obscured by a veil of mist, but all threatening her, all intent on locking her away. As panic whetted keen in her breast, however, she felt something cross her toes; she looked down to see what it might be.

  It was a tiny snake, no bigger than a worm. It shimmered in iridescent colors, and something about it made her happy, promised to protect her from her enemies. She stooped and picked up the small reptile, and, on impulse, she swallowed it.

  I have just swallowed a snake. She wondered, Now, why did I do that?


  At that moment, the snake stirred in her belly. Then lightning seemed to course out into her arms. The gray waters rushed into her toes, and as she watched, the River began to drop in level, even as the worm in her grew and grew, as the greedy serpent heads that her toes had become drank and drank. The River was drying up, but it was entering her, and with a cold horror she felt the weight of his vast sentience crushing her own, squeezing her like a giant’s fist. But part of her was delighted to at last have the power to destroy any who threatened her, who wished her harm…

  The revulsion was stronger than the joy. Shrieking, she spit the snake out, and with it went her power, as the water flowed back into the River and returned it to its former level. But then she saw something else, a thing by a small stony cairn, and the horror began again…

  Until she awoke, fingers balled into fists, wondering where she was. She sat thus for long, terrible moments as it all came back to her. A dream, a dream, a dream, she repeated to herself, but she knew it for more than that. It was really a distorted memory of what had actually happened scant months ago, when the River tried to manifest in her frail body and had very nearly succeeded. But she had escaped that, hadn’t she? Escaped her curse?

  She gradually understood that she was in a ben’, one of the horsehide tents the Mang used for camping. She was cold, except on her left side, where the dog, Heen, lay curled against her, snoring raspily. Nearby, Brother Horse snuffled out a harmony to the canine’s tuneless song. Earlier, Hezhi had found these noises distracting; now they comforted her, for they were Human, mundane.

  But she was in danger again, as certainly as Heen was a dog. And Brother Horse knew it. He had forced camp before they had gone half a league beyond the cairn where she saw…

  Tomorrow he would explain. Tomorrow.