The Blackgod cotc-2

by Gregory Keyes

  Instead she would go to his head and stab a spike into his brain. But how? Only Karak knew.

  And as they descended, the air sank past them in a faint breeze, as if the hole were eternally inhaling. The breeze grew cooler as the light dimmed, as eventually the hole above them shrank and dimmed as night fell over it as well, at which point Karak's men—the ten who accompanied them down—lit torches. The god's breath fattened the flames and caused them to lick downward now and then. Before it was entirely dark, she heard water, a sort of shushing that increased in volume. Soon it filled everything, hummed gently both inside and outside of her skull Water.

  And then, with no ceremony whatsoever, the shaft opened into a vaster place on all sides save the one the path continued on. That descended to a shingle of a black beach, and the yellow flowers of the torches were caught and reflected by a vast, restless sea that stretched out into the darkness. A roof of stone hung over it, vaulting up but always low, and the feeling was an eerie combination of claustrophobia and infinity. The last of them—some of Karak's men—stepped onto the shingle, where the underground sea lapped up and down against the rounded black pebbles that stretched out from the mounds of talus fallen from above. Hezhi gazed up, hoping to see a star, but there was nothing—save for perhaps a vague clattering, high above.

  “Now, come here, child,” Karak breathed. He still wore Human shape, but his nose was thin and beaklike, and in the torchlight his eyes gleamed with fierce triumph and anticipation.

  “Come here, and we shall slay him.”

  Trembling, Hezhi moved to comply.

  XXXVII Changeling Blood

  WATER again, his comfort and womb. Life again, too, but this time he did not emerge into light and air. The River took Ghe and dragged him through the cold and dark.

  He was different. The parts of him charred and torn by the Huntress had grown back, but not as Human flesh. Bony plates compassed him, and he propelled himself with limbs more like flippers or fins than arms, kicked something—not legs—that he feared even to think about.

  His eyes saw the River bottom and the rippling mirror of the surface, and the bare, sterile stone over which he flowed. But another eye—a deeper one—saw something far, far ahead of him.

  He searched through his servants and found a few still there. The stream demon, the stalker, and the ghosts of Ghan and the blind boy. The old lord—Lengnata—was there, too, though he was weakened or perhaps terrified into an almost unthinking state. Others—the many that he had bound on the journey across the plain with Moss—were part of him no longer, destroyed or released in his battle with the Huntress. As for that one—the Beast Goddess—the River had eaten her. She was gone, utterly and without a trace.

  And now he was no longer Ghe the ghoul, but Ghe the fish, the serpent, the thing. Not Ghe at all, though he knew he had never been that, not since Perkar took his head. If only he had, at least, the satisfaction of knowing for certain that the pale man was dead, too…

  You are Ghe, Ghan disagreed, a disembodied voice sharing his prison of plates, stings, and spines. Despite all that the River has done, part of you is Ghe. I know that now.

  Shut up, old man, Ghe thought. He did not need the scholar's lies and advice anymore. His only reason for existence was to serve the River's will.

  If he could enforce his will himself he would, Ghan insisted. You saw what he did to the Huntress, how invincible he is in his own domain. If he resorts to making ghouls of dead men, it is to go places where he cannot go himself But that means that in those places, he does not control you. You can do what is right rather than what he wills.

  “What he wills is what is right,” Ghe answered angrily. ”I am not capable of doubting that. You should understand by now. If you cut up a tree, and make it from a tree into a boat, it is a boat, whether you are there to sail it or not. The River made me to find Hezhi. It is the only thing I am capable of!”

  If a ghost could vent an exasperated, impatient sigh, Ghan's did. VII give you a different metaphor, my friend. If a smith makes a sword, he has no assurance that the weapon he has forged cannot be turned back upon him. You have my memories and knowledge, but I can see yours, as well. I believe you can be turned, Ghan pressed. Not by me, but by yourself. I know what I know.

  “You know that the Blackgod and the Ebon Priest are the same. I never saw that.” It was too hard to think the way Ghan was asking him to think.

  I was going to tell you. Qwen Shen and Bone Eel took me before I could.

  “I know that, too,” Ghe replied. Overhead, the light filtering through the water abruptly darkened. We are underground now, he suddenly understood.

  I think Bone Eel may be the dangerous one, Ghan persisted.

  “I agree,” Ghe returned. “And I think I know who he may be. But what will they do with Hezhi? What is their plan? How can the River be killed?”

  I don't know, Ghan answered. But I believe Hezhi is in great danger, or I would never willingly aid you.

  I know that, too.

  It grew even darker, and as it did so, his other sight began to fade. It was like being beneath the Water Temple, his senses fading as his potence grew. His surety and his direction vanished, and to his enormous frustration, he felt himself becoming confused. Again.

  He finally stopped swimming; the water about him was barely moving.

  What do I do now? But neither Ghan nor any other part of him knew the answer to that.

  And then, in the darkness, a beacon flared, one that seared him with pain, one that struck like a bolt into the River himself. Ghe turned and strained his body to swim as fast as he could, gathering his strength as he went.

  THE Blackgod took her gently by the hand and led her to the edge of the water. Her trembling worsened, for suddenly she could feel the power there, latent in the pool. It lay quietly, stupidly, unlike the River she knew, but it was he, without doubt. If she wanted the power she need only reach for it, but it would not enter her against her will, not like before. She would become a goddess only by choice and if she had not chosen it before, she would certainly not choose it now.

  “What do I do?” she whispered. They had moved far from the torches, though Tsem and Ngangata kept edging after them.

  “What are you doing, Karak?” Ngangata snarled.

  “What I told you,” he answered. “What we came here for.”

  “What—” Hezhi began again, but then something cold slid through the flesh of her ribs, and though she tried to shout with pain, her breath sucked in and closed on itself. She gazed down in shocked astonishment and saw Karak's hand gripping the hilt of a knife. As she watched, he twisted it.

  Then several things happened at once. Tsem repeated Ngan-gata's question, stepping even closer. Ngangata suddenly exploded into action, whipping an arrow from the sheath on his back and setting it to his bow in a single motion. As the pain from the twisting knife hazed her vision, Brother Horse and Yu-u'han drew swords and swung at Bone Eel, who was in the act of pointing a white tube of some sort at Ngangata. Hezhi saw all of this in an incredible blaze of light and lucidity as a single drop of her blood squirted from off Karak's blade and struck the surface of the water; a column of white flame leapt up and ignited the very air.

  Then the pain truly caught her, and she realized that there was steel in her, and without a single thought she lashed at Karak.

  What happened then wasn't clear to her, save that the knife wrenched out and she was shoving her fist into the hole in her side. Karak stumbled away from her, sheeted in blue flame—while she was hurled back onto the shingle. She hit and slid, able to think only about the blood that soaked her dress with preposterous speed. She had done something to Karak; he was clutching his eyes—

  Her heart reached hummingbird pitch, and the motion around her seemed to slow, so that she could almost leisurely pick out the details of the strange dance being performed for her benefit, there in a Stygian courtyard that only a god could imagine. But she could do nothing, say nothing, because he
r thoughts were all gushing from her side with the waters of her life.

  Tsem hit the Blackgod with his club, and the god pitched back, an arrow appearing in him at almost the same moment. Qwen Shen shrieked as Yuu'han hewed into her, the sorcerous flowers of energy gathering on her fingertips suddenly withering. Brother Horse struck his sword through Bone Eel, but Hezhi could see a coiled serpent of power in the nobleman, revealed as it was unleashed. All of his strands surged into the pointed bone tube he held. As Brother Horse stepped back to gather for a second swing, Bone Eel turned faster than a snake, and the tube he was holding suddenly telescoped, shot out like an improbably fast-growing stalk of grass; it passed all the way through Brother Horse, who stood transfixed for a moment before dropping his sword. Heen, worrying at Bone Eel's leg, went flying, yelping, through the air.

  Hezhi choked on a scream, kicking away from it all, crawling back over the black stones, life leaking out of the hole in her.

  The light from the burning blood was fading, but she could see perfectly well as Tsem hit the Blackgod again, and again, and again, until his club broke. Ngangata rushed toward her, but Bone Eel turned and the weird thing he held suddenly lanced out again, passed through the halfling's shoulder. He gasped and collapsed, bow clattering to the ground.

  He's killing my friends, she realized. Why?

  Hukwosha answered her. Does it matter? Release me. I shall deal with him.

  “Release you?” Hezhi muttered. The scene was wavering. She felt very weak. “Very well.”

  And she did.

  HUKWOSHA sprang into the frail and wounded body with a terrible shout of triumph, a bellow to shake the heavens. Too long had he been bound by first this godling and then that, and finally, humihation upon humiliation, by mortal Man and Woman! But wounded and half out of her mind, this one had released him, and he did not intend to pass the opportunity by. Before him lay an entire world, as it had in the beginning, in the darkling plain even before Karak brought the sun. What cared he for these scheming gods and their demented brother?

  But it nagged him to run. Hezhi wanted him to stop the man with the tube—he had killed Brother Horse and Ngangata! No, he saw that that wasn't true; the old man was fumbling with his drum, albeit feebly. Yet what did he, Hukwosha, care for the old man, for Hezhi's desires? He bunched his muscles and prepared to go—as an attack struck him, the point of Bone Eel's jumping spear-bone turning on his hide. His fierceness overwhelmed his reason then. He turned on the man—ahí not a man, but a Lemeyi, one of those silly half-god sorcerers. He lowered his horns. Little creature, Hukwosha thought, you've made a singular mistake.

  His first charge lifted the puny thing from its feet, rammed him into the stone wall. Fierce energies rained upon him, attacks gnawed at his heart, and given time they might have succeeded; but he twisted the immortal heartstrands on his horns and snapped them, sent all of Bone Eel's potence out into the air to fade. Then he shook the impudent, broken thing from him.

  When he turned, there was Karak, rising up over the body of Tsem like the shadow of the carrion bird he was. Karak appeared unhappy.

  “Hezhi,” he snarled. “You fool. You are wasting your blood, don't you know that? It is the only thing that can slay him!”

  “My blood?” Hukwosha snarled.

  “You will slay him and take Misplace, Hezhi. You will not die, you will become a goddess. But you must stop fighting me.” Then his face hardened further. ”Or fight me, it matters not.”

  Hukwosha lowered his horns to charge again, but sudden weakness jolted through him. He became aware of the gash in his side, shifted his hand in it in the vague hope that the blood would stop pouring out, wondering where his horns and hooves and might had all run off to.

  “Hukwosha—” Hezhi began, but Karak reached out with an impossibly long talon and ripped Hukwosha from her, tore the great bull into shards of light, scattered them on the water. He fixed what remained—her—with the suddenly argent orb of one eye.

  “Now, child, your blood. It is for the best. There must be a River, you know. It just need not be him.”

  Hezhi stumbled back, but all of the bull's strength was gone. “I don't want to be a goddess,” she murmured, as if trying to explain something simple to a child.

  “You have no choice. Only his blood can slay him—and you we can control. We will not make the same mistake we made with him. Perhaps Balati need never know at all, once you wear the Changeling's clothing.”

  He stepped forward.

  “Not just yet,” shouted something as it arose from the water.

  PERKAR'S fingers tingled as he loosened his death grip on Sharp Tiger's mane. That wasn't easy to do, for the Mang stallion continued down the narrow spiral trail, if not at a fall gallop, well beyond a canter. No horse could be so surefooted, but Sharp Tiger seemed either unaware of or unconcerned about that simple fact. Still, Perkar knew he would need feeling in his hands soon, feeling enough to wield Harka one last time, and so he unknotted his fingers from the thick black hair and let his legs hold him on, allowed himself a moment of reluctant humor at the memory of the expressions on the faces of Karak's men as he and the stallion crashed from the woods, through their ranks, and into the pit.

  He wondered how much farther down he had to travel; night had fallen, and he could no longer make out the opening to the sky, nor tell how fast and far he had already descended.

  He remembered the last time he had entered Balat, what seemed like centuries ago. Could he really have been so proud, so arrogant, so absolutely sure of himself? It didn't seem possible. When he entered the mountain, he had been a boy, full of dreams and ideals and hopes higher than the stars. When he left he had felt old, used, and worn. Scores of days had passed before the first glimmer of light had entered back into his soul. One such glimmer had been Brother Horse, when he met the old man, hiding on an island in the Changeling. Another had been Ghaj, the widow near Nhol who taught him that he could find pleasure with other than a goddess. But in the end, in the aftermath, it had been Hezhi who brought real joy back to him.

  Why hadn't he ever admitted that? Because he would rather force her to share blame for his crimes than enjoy her company? Because he feared she could never care for a killer and a fool?

  His scalp prickled and he urged Sharp Tiger on for the first time since mounting him. Incredibly, the stallion did increase his speed in response, though Perkar would not have believed that possible. He recalled, with a sudden chill wonder, part of a song Raincaster once sang—tried to sing, anyway, in Perkar's own tongue, so that he would understand it. In Mang it had flowed glissando, one syllable to the next. In Perkar's language it had rung stilted but still powerful—wounded but not crippled.

  And whosoever should kill you Bright steed, blood-girded brother Let him beware, let him fear My life, become a weapon Such that vengeance itself will Appear a small, whimpering thing. This I swear to you as I live And when buzzards pick my bones And when my bones are dust Four-hooved brother.

  A man would avenge his steed as he would a relative, according to the ancient word and blood of the Horse Mother. Would a horse do the same for its rider? Would the Horse Goddess aid such a purpose?

  He would find out soon enough, he was sure—if he wasn't too late. Had the Blackgod already slain Hezhi? Had her blood already destroyed the Changeling and replaced him? The sick feeling in his gut told him that deep down, he must have always known that Karak's solution would be this. What had he pictured, some sort of battle royal, them flailing at the water with their swords? A jar of the god's essence that they could simply crack? No, this was the only way that made sense. Human blood had such a powerful effect on gods, and Hezhi's blood was both Human and Changeling. It would flow down him like hemlock, numbing him as it went so that he wouldn't even know he was dead until the last drop of him reached the sea. And in his place would be Hezhi, or whatever it was that Hezhi had become—a goddess, but perhaps one that Karak and his kin could exert more influence over. A weaker River God
dess with less ambitious aims.

  But Hezhi would be dead. The woman just waking in her child's face would never come fully alive; she would never read another book or see another herd of wild cattle. And she would be lost to him.

  It always comes back to me, he thought angrily.

  If only he weren't too late.

  GHE rose from the water, trembling with power and rage at what he saw. Hezhi lay before him, her blood and life leaking out of her like a flower cut off at the stalk. Others lay about, dead or dying, and a clump of soldiers who emanated only confusion but were now turning toward him. Qwen Shen was among the dead—he regretted that bitterly, for he would have preferred to dispense her punishment himself—and Bone Eel was among the mortally wounded. Bone Eel's Human guise had been stripped bare, however, and the fading life Ghe saw was that of the guardian of the Water Temple, the foul creature who had made pets of emperors. Another regret; but Bone Eel—or whatever the thing was really named—was still fading, so perhaps there would be time to punish him.

  Presiding over the massacre was what could only be the Blackgod, a maelstrom of power, standing above Hezhi like her executioner. He turned angrily at Ghe's challenge, his aura sharpening into a threat of power greater than even that of the Huntress. But he had defeated the Huntress, had he not? And the cold expanse of water below him would absorb any amount of energy he cared to take. Still, before attacking, he reached out and ate the approaching warriors as a first course.