The Blackgod

by Greg Keyes

  Though that seemed insane, the longer Ghan watched, the more apparent it became that it was true. Deftly avoiding the lunges of the beasts, the massive white tusks that slashed at them and their mounts, the Mang were leaning in to spank the gigantic creatures. The Mang who were still in ranks cheered and shrieked, and for the first time in several days the whole troop clopped to a halt for something other than water or to graze the horses.

  It was a short break; apparently satisfied, the seven men came hurtling back through the grass, waving their weapons. Another group detached and seemed ready to go, but someone ahead barked a string of orders, and, after some brief argument, the seven fell back into line, grumbling. Ghan was watching them, rather than the returning riders, when the yelling and screaming of the Mang redoubled and took on another, more frantic pitch.

  Ghan jerked his face back around toward the approaching horsemen, wondering what had happened. Six of them were wheeling about in confusion and one could not be seen, apparently down in the chest-high growth. His horse’s head bobbed up, however, shrilling a sound that Ghan was unaware horses could make, a chilling scream that grated along the bones of his back. The horse disappeared again, hidden by the grass.

  Two of the six riders had lost control of their mounts; one, a handsome beast that was nearly solid black, pawed wildly at the air. Something rose from the grass swiftly, implacably. It disemboweled the horse with a single blow of its huge, blood-soaked paw and lunged for the next rider.

  From the corner of his eye, Ghan saw someone converging on the bloody scene. It was Ghe.

  Ghe sensed the beast in the grass before the riders were attacked by it, and with a snarl he urged his mount forward. The mare was used to a more practiced rider, but it responded to his inexpert touch promptly, and he left Qwen Shen and the Mang headman, Chuk, behind him, with only a bemused chuckle from the headman, probably at his poor riding form.

  Ghe cared not for the men who were about to die, but he was hungry, and it was inconvenient to take soldiers during the day. Since noon, he had been able to think about little but feeding, and to be surrounded by the Mang and their horses was like sitting starving in a banquet hall. A smaller part of him also knew that it could not hurt to earn the respect of these wild men. Riding over to the huge nunetuk would have only seemed silly, and it would have been suspicious beyond belief if one of the giant beasts folded up with death as he approached. The Nholish soldiers would certainly guess what had become of their dead comrades then.

  But this thing in the grass, he could pretend to kill.

  By the time he reached it, three men and two horses were already dead or dying. He snatched what he could of their essences, but it wasn’t much. The demon he had swallowed gave him great power, but it took much energy to control her, as well. Since taking her, he was always hungry.

  His horse panicked, reared, and threw him, but it seemed to happen incredibly slowly, his senses racing far ahead of motion, and so he easily turned in the air, landed cat-deft on the prairie, and like a cat, he leapt low and fast. Knife in hand, Ghe met the thing in its element, beneath the waving tufts of the grass.

  In that surreal quickening of his senses, he had leisure to inspect the creature in detail. It seemed low and thick, but that was an illusion of its proportions; it would actually stand well clear of the grass if it were not crouching. More than anything else, it resembled a mastiff, a savage dog with an almost square skull and very little snout. Its gore-covered paws, however, were short and thicker than his leg, supporting at least as much mass as a horse, if not more. It was tawny with coffee-brown stripes. Muscles bunched in an ugly hump behind its head.

  Its open maw could easily receive Ghe’s head, and that was clearly the intention to be read in the monster’s beady black eyes. Were it not for his own power, the thing would be blindingly swift, much faster than a horse, at least in short spurts.

  Ghe hardened himself, sank roots of power into the prairie, pulled density and substance to himself the way the demon had from her river.

  Beast and ghoul cracked together. Despite all of his strength, the impact was staggering, but the monster was more surprised than he. Having just batted a horse from its path like a flea, it had not expected this slight man-creature to withstand. Still, he toppled beneath the claws, at the same time thrusting his knife up through the beast’s lower jaw. With the maw open before his face, Ghe saw his bloody steel erupt through the tongue, pass into the upper skull, and emerge in the center of the head. That didn’t kill it, he knew; if he were an ordinary warrior, the dog-thing would certainly have enough life and anger to finish him before succumbing to a cloven brain; but in the same instant Ghe took its ghost, drank it down in great, satisfying gulps. For good measure he kept the remnants of its spirit, as well, joined it to the others in his heart.

  So now I am five, he thought as the stinking body collapsed upon him. He let it, smiling at the impacts that shook the great body thereafter as the warriors, belatedly, attacked its corpse.

  He let them pull him from beneath the thing, drenched in its blood, and the cheer that went up then was more than gratifying. He waved his bloody knife in the air, and the cheer redoubled. Walking back to the column of horses, he let one of the warriors chase down his mount, knowing he would appear more dignified on foot than in the saddle.

  The headman rode out and dismounted, which Ghe knew to be an honor, and clapped his bloody hand savagely.

  “I have never seen such a feat,” he said, clearly trying to restrain his admiration a bit and failing. “The gaan was right about you. He said you would be a lion, and only a lion could have hoped to match a shezhnes.”

  “Shezhnes?” Ghe repeated, inquiring.

  “A grass bear. He must have been stalking the nunetuk when our warriors had the bad fortune to ride upon him.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Is that a godblade?” he asked, indicating his poignard.

  Ghe frowned in puzzlement. “A what?”

  The Mang slapped him on the back. “That answers my question, I think.”

  “But it doesn’t answer mine,” Ghe said. “What is a godblade?”

  The headman looked bemused. “A weapon with a god in it. I’ve heard of them but know little enough about them. I’ll be happy to tell you what I do know, though.”

  “I would appreciate that,” he said. In his mind he traced the bitter image of Perkar’s sword arcing toward his, how his own River-blessed blade had shivered and nearly shattered when the strange green metal met it. Godblade.

  “The gaan can tell you more.”

  “When will I meet him?” Ghe asked a bit distractedly, waving to the still-shouting crowd.

  “He meets us tomorrow, at White Rock,” the headman said. Ghe nodded, turned to wink at Qwen Shen, whose own eyes held an interesting mixture of fear and relief. He felt renewed affection for her; she was an amazing woman and had given him much. When he was at last rejoined with Hezhi, his true love, he would be as gentle as possible in ending her life.

  Tseba, Ghan discovered, meant “White Rock,” and the place seemed aptly named, a low-walled canyon of chalky stone that led more or less north into a range of high country. In the last day of the journey, they had been joined by more and more riders; over a hundred sets of hooves clattered into Tseba.

  A single rider awaited them there.

  Ghan wasn’t sure what he expected of a Mang chief, but he certainly thought the man would have at least a few retainers, perhaps musicians to herald his coming. The rider was some distance away, but from what Ghan could make out, he wore no regalia—indeed, he seemed worn and bedraggled, as if he had ridden harder and longer than they. He would have doubted this man’s identity, save that every Mang present dismounted before him, as did he and most of the Nholish soldiers when they realized what was going on.

  Ghe, Qwen Shen, and Bone Eel were led before the chief by the headman, and the group of them began speaking. Voices carried far in the canyon, but so did the whickering of horses and the stamp
ing of restless hooves, and even though Ghan could hear them speaking, he could make out none of what they said.

  But after a moment, Ghe left and strode back into the army of men and horses. He came like a titan, men moving deferentially from his path, and it was clear he came for Ghan. Ghan gathered his strength and awaited him.

  “Hello, Ghan,” Ghe said when he arrived. “I see that you fared well enough on our journey.”

  “Well enough.”

  “Would you come with me?”

  Ghan quirked a faint half smile. “Do I have a choice?”

  “No.”

  “Why, then, I will be more than happy to come.” He dusted the horse hair from his legs, and when he took his first steps they nearly wobbled from under him.

  “Let me help you, there,” Ghe said, and took a firm—even painful—grip beneath his arm and began escorting him toward the fore of the party.

  “I must admit, Ghan, I’ve been angry with you,” Ghe confided as they walked along. “Though that isn’t precisely why I have avoided you these past days.”

  “Oh? Have you avoided me?”

  Ghe tsked. “You betrayed me, Ghan, and betrayed Hezhi, too, though I’m sure you pigheadedly thought you were helping her. I have avoided you to save your life, however. Every time I look at you, I desire to empty your withered shell of its spirit. And yet I thought some use might still exist for you. And, as it proves out, there is.”

  They were almost to the other leaders now, and Ghe slowed a bit—perhaps so that he would not appear to be dragging him. Ghan opened his mouth to ask Ghe what use he might have, but then they were there, the Mang chieftain watching him with bright eyes.

  He was weary-looking, clad in the same manner as any of the Mang around him: long black coat, breeks. The only marked difference was that he wore no helmet. The most astonishing thing was his age; he couldn’t be more than sixteen.

  “You are the one named Ghan,” he said in heavily accented but comprehensible Nholish.

  “That is what I am called.”

  “You and I have much to talk about, along with these others,” he said, indicating Ghe and the rest. “You may be happy to know that Hezhi is still alive and well.”

  Ghan blinked as the words sorted into sense, and with comprehension came a flood of sudden emotion, cracking the levees which had so long held it in place.

  “How do you know?” Ghan asked.

  The chieftain tapped his chest. “I see her, in here. Not long ago I rode with her.” He placed his hand on Ghan’s shoulder. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am shaman and war prophet of the Four Spruces Clan, and also by the will of the River and heaven, the chieftain of the three northwestern bands.” He swept his hands to encompass all of the men and horses who stood dismounted in the valley, awaiting his command.

  “But you, my friend, may call me Moss.”

  XXX

  The Roadmark

  Perkar drew a sharp breath and stiffened when Harka suddenly hailed.

  “What?”

  “Fifteen men at least in the rocks ahead,” the weapon replied.

  “Within earshot?” he whispered.

  “Shouting, I would think.”

  “Mang?”

  “How should I know? I only know they haven’t certainly decided to attack you. They are waiting for someone or perhaps guarding something.”

  Perkar noticed Hezhi staring at him. He flashed her a little smile.

  “Just pretend we’re talking about something innocuous,” he said softly.

  “I thought we were,” Hezhi answered, recalling the conversation Harka had interrupted, about the merits of red cattle as opposed to brown ones.

  “There are warriors up ahead of us.”

  “They weren’t there last night,” she assured him.

  “Well, now they are. Ngangata, do you hear all of this?”

  “Yes. I say we go back the way we came.”

  “Too late for that,” Perkar said. “They surely know we’re here. When I give the word, all of you bolt for the cover of those trees. I don’t think we’re in line-of-sight for bows yet, anyway—”

  “You aren’t going to fight them all by yourself,” Hezhi hissed.

  Perkar smiled weakly and reached over to touch her hand. “I don’t intend to fight them at all, unless I have no choice. These are most likely my people, considering where we are. But in times of war, rash, unplanned things can happen. If they shoot too hastily at one of you, it might kill you. If they make the same mistake with me…”

  He said this with confidence he certainly did not feel. They rode in a gorge so narrow that only the merest sliver of sky lay above them. Would he heal if a boulder were pushed onto him? What if his legs were broken by some snare and they simply hacked him to pieces?

  “If they make the same mistake with me,” he went on, “the results won’t be as dire. If they attack me, you can all feel free to come to my aid, though some of you should stay back to protect Hezhi.”

  “I’m not helpless,” she reminded him, not quite sharply but with considerable insistence.

  Since their time alone on the peak five days before, the two of them had gotten along well. Very well, in fact. And so he answered that with a little smile, leaning close, so that only she could easily hear him. “Is that the only stupid thing I’ve said lately?”

  “More or less,” she replied. “In the last few days, at least.”

  “Then you should be proud of me.”

  “Oh, I am. And be careful.”

  He nodded assurance of that, then looked over his shoulder at the others in time to catch Ngangata rolling his eyes.

  “What?” he called back at the half man.

  “They could decide to come this way at any moment. You two had better save your courting for some other time.”

  Perkar clamped his mouth on an indignant protest and dismounted. Trying not to think about what he was doing, he strode forward. The others clopped quickly into the trees.

  Despite his efforts, he felt as if he were walking through quicksand. Only the gentle pressure of his friends’ surely watchful gazes kept the appearance of confidence and spring in his step.

  Fifty paces he went before a rock clattered nearby. He slowed up.

  “I’ve come to talk, not to fight,” he shouted.

  A pause then, and he heard some whispering in the rocks above and to his right.

  “Name yourself,” someone shouted—in his own language.

  “I am Perkar of the Clan Barku,” he returned.

  More scrambling then, and suddenly a stocky, auburn-haired man emerged from the fallen pile of rubble that leaned against the cliff face.

  “Well, then, you’ve got some explaining to do, for you ought to be a ghost, from what I hear.” He shook his nearly round head, and it opened into a broad grin. “Instead you’ve turned Mang, it seems.”

  “You have the advantage on me,” Perkar answered. “Do I know you?”

  “No, but I’ve heard tell of you. My name is Morama, of the Clan Kwereshkan.”

  Perkar lifted his brows in amazement. “My mother’s clan.”

  “Indeed, if you are who you say you are. And even if you aren’t—” He shrugged. “—you are certainly a Cattle Person, despite those clothes, so we will welcome you.”

  “I have companions,” Perkar said.

  “Them, too, then.”

  “Two of them are Mang; the others are from farther off still.”

  To his surprise, the man nodded easily. “If you are Perkar—and I believe you to be—then we were told to expect that. You have my word and Piraku that they will not be harmed unless they attack us first.”

  “I’ll bring your promise back to them, then.” He started to go but suddenly understood the full import of the man’s remarks. “What do you mean, you were ‘told to expect that’? Who told you?”

  “My lord. He said to tell you, ‘I am a roadmark.’”

  Perkar did turn back then, a faint chill troubling his
spine.

  Karak.

  Hezhi lifted her small shoulders in a helpless shrug. “I’m not sure what I pictured,” she told Perkar. “Something like this. It looks very nice.”

  Perkar chewed his lip. She knew he was probably trying to suppress a scowl with a show of good humor. “I know it isn’t your palace in Nhol. But it has to be better than a Mang yekt.” He said this last low enough that Brother Horse and Yuu’han wouldn’t hear; the two warriors were nervously walking about the bare dirt of the compound.

  “That is certainly true,” Hezhi said. “I’m anxious to see the inside.”

  “That will be soon enough,” Perkar told her, dismounting. “Here comes the lord.”

  The “lord” was a rough-seeming man, tall almost to the point of being gangly, dark-haired, and as fair-skinned as Perkar. Nothing in the way he dressed signified his station to Hezhi, but she reminded herself that these were strange people with strange ways.

  Perkar’s people. It was the weirdest thing to see so many men—and women—who looked like him. Though she had always understood that somewhere there were whole villages and towns full of his tribe, she had always imagined that Perkar himself was somehow extreme, the strangest of even his kind. The Mang, after all, were the only other foreign people she had met, and aside from their odd dress, they much resembled the people she had grown up among. Unconsciously, she had thought of Perkar as she thought of Tsem and Ngangata—as another singular aberration.

  These implicit notions of hers now vanished. Amongst the people of this damakuta she saw hair the light brown of Perkar’s and some as black as her own. But two people had hair the same shocking white color as Ngangata’s, and another had strands of what looked to be spun copper growing from his scalp. Eyes could be blue, green, or even amber in the case of the “lord” and two others she noted.

  The damakuta—well, Perkar was right; she was disappointed. When he spoke of it in Nholish, he called it a “hall.” And so she had imagined something like a hall, or a court, like the ones in the palace. But this damakuta—first of all, it was wooden. For a wooden structure it was undoubtedly grand, and it certainly had a primitive charm with its peaked roof, hand-hewn shingles, and weirdly carved posts. To be fair, she realized that Perkar had described all of this—her mind had merely translated it into her own conceptions.