The Dread Hammer

by Linda Nagata

  Slowly, very slowly, some of his tension seeped away.

  He was adrift, on the edge of sleep, when he heard, from out of nowhere, a faint and faraway whisper of voices.

  Women’s voices.

  None that he knew.

  His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. He didn’t try to stop up his ears. He knew he couldn’t block the voices of women who knew his name and called to him in prayer and in truth he didn’t want to.

  “Dismay,” they whispered. “Avenge me.”

  Their prayers were seductive, compelling. He longed to answer them. It was a bitter thing to spill innocent blood, but the blood of the guilty was warm and comforting against his skin. So compelling was the summons that he would have gone in that moment—dissolved his reflection and run the threads—except that Tayval laid her hand against his arm and whispered in his mind, Stay.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. What was he doing? What had he almost done? The Trenchant had forbidden him to run the threads except at his command. If he had gone just now the punishment would not be visited on him.

  He shuddered. Tayval felt it, and turned on her side to stroke his chest, just as she had when he was a baby.

  He resolved to do always just what was required of him. He must never again forget himself. Not ever again.

  On the next day Dehan sent him south to Chieftain Rennish, who had recently re-joined her company of irregulars deep inside the borderlands. Smoke ran the threads, seeking out her familiar presence. His reflection took shape alongside a trail that wound around one of the forested hills dotting a landscape that was otherwise a flat sea of wheat and barley fields. He waited for the line of riders to find him.

  Rennish’s company had no idea he was coming. The lead soldier came around a bend in the trail, riding with a bow in her hands, the arrow nocked. She called out a warning the moment she saw him, drawing the bowstring back to her ear.

  “Stop,” someone behind her called. “It’s Smoke.”

  Rennish must have heard his name because she came cantering up the line. “Smoke!” She trotted her horse up to him. Then she dismounted, studying him with wary eyes. “I didn’t think you would ever come back.”

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out a letter from the Trenchant, and handed it to her. She unfolded the thick paper; read it quickly. Smoke felt her anger humming in the threads. She turned back to the line. “Bring up a spare horse!”

  She turned again to Smoke. “Ride with us until the evening. Then I’ll explain where you need to go. You already know what you’re expected to do there?”

  He nodded.

  “Right, then.”

  A soldier rode up with a riderless horse in tow. Smoke tightened the cinch on the saddle before he mounted. Then the line set off again.

  The Trenchant would never have an army large enough to directly attack the Lutawan Kingdom, so he’d focused instead on a campaign of harassment and terror. The land immediately south of the Séferi Mountains had been uninhabited for as long as anyone could remember. It was a theater where rival militias hunted each other among the groves and chaparral.

  But twenty miles farther south the land was so fertile that, despite the hostilities, villages and farms were common. Tribal peoples lived there. They observed the religion and customs dictated by the Lutawan king, but for decades they had traded their wheat, barley, beef, and mutton north as well as south, and while battles were fought in their fields, the villagers were mostly left alone.

  No longer.

  Three years ago the Lutawan king had doubled the number of his troops in the borderlands. The Trenchant had responded by attacking the villagers. He decreed that any village offering shelter to Lutawan soldiers would be burned and its residents slaughtered. Scouts spread news of his decree. The nomadic merchants who roved among the villages carried word of it too, though some were murdered for their trouble by villagers who thought they could avoid their fate by silencing the messenger.

  For every village destroyed, another was abandoned, but the farmers who dared to remain were rewarded with a high price for their harvest, making them defiant in their resolve to stay. Meanwhile, merchants coming up from the south reported riots as grain prices in the cities doubled.

  Chaos and strife within the Lutawan Kingdom was much to the Trenchant’s liking, so with his demon son again at hand, he had resolved to expand his war of terror against the villagers. Dismay was to strike at night, without warning, without reason, a merciless and uncaring death spirit that never left witnesses or survivors.

  That evening, as the irregulars set up camp, Smoke crouched with Rennish over a map drawn on heavy paper. She showed him where they were, the layout of the surrounding hills, and the farm holdings that were in the area. She pointed out seven, all within fifteen miles. The only thing that distinguished these farms was that they had neighbors close by, who would notice when the buildings went up in flames and who would come to investigate. Some would be so terrified by what they saw that they would flee—and their terror would infect others.

  Only Smoke could move with ghostlike stealth between the farms, so he went alone.

  He arrived first at a prosperous holding, with a large farmhouse, a barn, a threshing floor and sturdy stock pens all in good repair. He began his work inside the farmhouse. There he found three men, five women, and children of many ages. He slaughtered most of them as they slept and the rest as they fled outside. Then he killed the dogs and set the buildings on fire.

  It went much the same at the next farm holding, and the next, until only one of the seven remained. There he discovered the farmers were already dead, laid out in the yard alongside the dogs while a contingent of Lutawan troops made use of the house and the women. The soldiers made a good effort to defend themselves and Smoke was cut twice before he’d killed the last of them. The women knew his name but he ignored their pleas and murdered them anyway because it was Britta who would suffer if he did not fulfill the Trenchant’s orders.

  Smoke returned to Samerhen, a plume of gray vapor that sifted through the walls of a back hallway before forming up into what he did not want to be: a filthy, exhausted killer, blood-soaked, stinking of burning houses and burning flesh, with oozing wounds in his back and shoulder that needed to be stitched. A manservant rounded a corner, took one look at him, and turned about and fled.

  Smoke fought the urge to pursue him and cut him down.

  He was infected with fury. So tight with it his bones might snap, his teeth might break under the tension. It wasn’t that he cared about the men he had slaughtered—he didn’t—whether they were soldiers or farmers made no difference to him. But the women and the children . . . The Trenchant had made it very clear that no one should survive, no one escape, so Smoke killed the women too, but their blood sickened him and their deaths fueled the incandescent fury that burned inside his heart, burned so hot he feared his self-control—never much to begin with—would melt away and then anything at all might happen.

  He still heard the voices, though only faintly, as if his ears were poured full of blood.

  It was foolish for anyone to call on him. It was dangerous.

  A woman’s low-throated laugh sounded, followed by the splash of water.

  Takis.

  Smoke stood outside the closed door of the bathing hall. He’d come directly to the hall on purpose, the sooner to wash away the horror that clung to him. It didn’t matter to him that Takis was already using the hall, no doubt in the company of a lover. He grabbed the door latch and shoved it down. That’s when he heard Takis’ lover speak. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He froze, his hand on the latch. He knew that voice. It was one he would never forget.

  Nedgalvin.

  The hour was very late when Ketty was awakened by a soft tap on her apartment door. Who would call at such a time? Her heartbeat quickened. She arose and pulled on a night shift, leaving Britta sleeping in the bed.

  An elderly manservant was at the door. Ketty caught her bre
ath. She’d asked him to watch for Smoke, though she hadn’t really expected that he would. “Smoke has returned, ma’am.”

  “Where is he?”

  “At the bathing hall . . . but you shouldn’t go. There’s a madness on him.”

  Ketty nodded, whispered her thanks, and closed the door.

  Her heart was thundering. Of course she would go! She had to know.

  Scurrying across the room, she threw off her shift, and then hastily grabbed some of the clothes she’d been given—fine breeches, an embroidered blouse. She piled a few pillows around Britta to ensure the baby couldn’t possibly roll out of bed. Then, not bothering with shoes, she slipped out the door and went sprinting down the hall.

  Takis felt drunk on sex and joy.

  It was very, very late, and the household was asleep, so she’d taken a chance and brought Nedgalvin to the bathing hall where they played games in the luscious hot water of the deep, brass soaking tub. The tub was round, its four quarters set off by six-foot candlesticks, each holding up a fat candle whose flame wore a halo of steam.

  Takis lay back against Nedgalvin’s chest, dreamily watching one of the flames as his fingers gently explored her sacred gate.

  That was when the door was kicked open with a sharp bang. The startled flames bobbed and nearly guttered. Takis sent a wave of water sloshing over the tub’s rim as she spun around—to see Smoke pulling a chipped sword from his back scabbard as he strode into the steamy hall.

  Takis had always hated to hear Dehan call Smoke his “demon son,” but in that moment Smoke looked like a demon with murder in his glittering green eyes.

  Takis vaulted naked out of the water.

  She had no fear of Smoke—he belonged to her, he was her brother, her child—he would never hurt her. Nedgalvin was another matter—a Lutawan soldier, in the family home.

  “Smoke, stop!” she commanded him, in her best general’s voice, while behind her a great rush and roar of water told her Nedgalvin had left the tub.

  Smoke ignored her and cut to the right in a move so swift he eluded her. One of the candles fell hissing into the bath as she turned to leap after him. She threw her arms around him, catching him from behind. “Stop it!” she screamed in his ear, but he escaped her without a struggle by dissolving into intangible smoke.

  Suddenly deprived of anything to lean against, she fell, hitting the floor hard on her knees while the vapor of her brother’s shifting reflection spun in place around her.

  “Run, Takis!” Nedgalvin warned. He was crouched only a few feet away, his wet skin shining as he held one of the tall brass candlesticks like a staff in his hands. His gaze was fixed on the vapor, waiting for it to become solid again. “This is Dismay, and he’ll be back. Run, before he kills you.”

  She was up again, plunging through the column of vapor. “He doesn’t want to hurt me. He’s after you.” She put herself between Nedgalvin and Smoke. “Go! Back up! Get in the corner. I’ll stop him.”

  Nedgalvin grasped the general idea, but he got the details wrong. He tried to shove her into the corner, as if she needed protection. “Takis, that’s Dismay! I can’t let you—”

  “Yes you can and you will!” She threw her nude body against him, but he was half-again her weight. As Smoke returned solid to the room, he just lifted her aside.

  Smoke glared at them. The candlestick in Nedgalvin’s hands was a formidable weapon. The demon spirit in Smoke’s eyes glittered even brighter as he gauged an angle of attack. Takis stepped out between them. “Smoke, I said no. I don’t want you to kill him!”

  His scowl was ferocious. “Why not? This is the Lutawan canker who nearly killed me. How could you take him for a lover?”

  Takis threw a startled look at Nedgalvin, but then she shook her head. Puzzle it out later! “You’re alive,” she insisted. “And look at yourself—covered in blood. Haven’t you killed enough people for one day, Dismay?”

  Surprise dimmed the murderous rage in his eyes. Takis shook her head in disgust. “Of course I’ve heard the stories. Just tell me, how did you become him? How did you become Dismay? I didn’t raise you to be a murderer!”

  “I was born to it,” Smoke said as he edged around her, his sword held at the ready. “Didn’t I murder our mother on my way out of the womb?”

  She couldn’t stand to hear him speak so. Her temper snapped, and she threw herself at him, grabbing the front of his blood-soaked tunic. “How many times have I told you that wasn’t your fault? How many times? But you will only ever listen to Dehan! Why? He’s a bitter old man who does not love you. I love you, Smoke. You are my son, not his.”

  During this tirade, Smoke had lowered his sword to avoid hurting her. She no longer saw the demon in his eyes. Their green glow spoke only of confusion. But whatever he might have said was lost as a commotion broke out in the hall. They heard the sound of running footsteps, and a manservant shouting, “Where is Smoke? Where is Smoke? Dehan says he must come with greatest urgency!”

  Smoke’s eyes flickered wide, washed by a sudden, terrible awareness. Shoving Takis away, he turned and bolted for the door.

  Bounding out of the bathing hall, Smoke cursed himself for a fool. He had run the threads just for the convenience of breaking Takis’ grip on him, forgetting that Dehan had forbidden him to do so, except on the Trenchant’s own order.

  And the punishment for disobedience was not visited on him.

  He darted out the door, grabbing the doorframe to help him make the turn up the hallway. He came so fast he ran right into Ketty, knocking her back against the wall.

  For several seconds he only stared at her in shock. Where had she come from? He’d been so caught up in his own anger he hadn’t even sensed her there—

  He groaned. The Trenchant had commanded him not to look at her.

  And the punishment for disobedience was not visited on him.

  “Damn you, stay away from me!”

  If he had hit her, she could not have looked more shocked. He didn’t care. He sprinted with all speed for the stairs. After the first flight, he heard Britta screaming. He reached the third story, to find the Trenchant standing in the hallway, holding little Britta in his arms. Smoke went to his knees at Dehan’s feet, head bowed. “It was a mistake!”

  “What have you done?”

  Smoke gestured helplessly. “It was she. I didn’t know she was there. I looked at her.”

  The Trenchant cooed to Britta and patted her back. “Twice?”

  “No. Before that I forgot myself and ran the threads here in Samerhen, though you’ve commanded me not to.”

  Britta was beginning to calm.

  “And what made you so forgetful?” the Trenchant asked.

  “I came upon Takis with a lover who is not worthy of her.”

  Dehan laughed. “You are a fool. Takis is wise enough to judge her own lovers. Now get out of my sight. You reek of blood and burning.”

  Britta was whimpering only faintly as Smoke stood and walked back down the hall. His blood had cooled enough that he sensed Ketty on the stairs. So he was prepared, and descended with his gaze downcast. But as he passed her she whispered to him, “Do you love me?”

  He descended two more steps, then stopped. Without turning, he nodded his head. Then he drew in a shuddering breath and went on.

  Ketty hurried the rest of the way up the stairs, and when she reached the top she saw Dehan in the hallway, waiting for her, with Britta fussing against his chest. Ketty ran to him. “Why was she crying so? What happened to her?” She tried to take the baby back, but Dehan refused her. His expression was severe. “Please. Give her to me.”

  “This is not a game, Ketty. Britta is a child of the Bidden, perhaps the only one that will be born to us in this generation. She is of supreme importance to me. If you neglect her again, I will give her into the care of another woman.”

  “But she was asleep, safe, and I only went to see if—” Ketty caught herself. She could not meet his eye.

  “I know where yo
u went and why. Was he pleased to see you?”

  Ketty shook her head.

  Britta was nuzzling Dehan’s shoulder, making sounds of hunger. “It’s this child he truly loves. He can’t help but love her. It’s in his blood.”

  He loves me too, Ketty thought, but she did not dare to speak.

  “You may think he loves you,” Dehan went on as if he’d read her mind. “But he’s a dangerous creature. It means nothing to him to kill a man. He’d kill you to save this child from hurt.”

  “I would never hurt Britta!”

  “You already have. Hurt is visited on Britta whenever Smoke disobeys me.” He let her think about this a few moments before he added, “The screaming you heard—”

  “Oh Dread Hammer!” Her hand went to her mouth. She turned away in horror. Did Smoke know? Of course he knew! But he wasn’t allowed to speak to her. If he had told her the reason for his silence, then Britta—

  “You’ll stay away from him, won’t you?” Dehan asked. “You won’t try to speak to him.”

  Ketty nodded. She reached again for Britta, and this time Dehan let her take the baby.

  Smoke dumped his weapons and his ruined clothes on the floor of the bathing hall, then scrubbed himself clean before slipping into the soaking tub. Someone had fished the fallen candle out of the bath and set it back on the tall candlestick. The flames flickered as the door opened.

  Smoke knew it was Tayval; he felt her presence in the threads. He turned to look at her. She was wearing loose-fitting trousers and a long night shirt. Her black hair was free around her shoulders. She cocked her head and showed him a curved needle and thread. He sighed and sat up straighter in the tub. She brought a stool and sat behind him, and sutured the wound in his back, and then the one on his shoulder. He tried not to flinch. When she was finished she embraced him from behind, her cheek pressed against his. Together they watched veils of steam rise from the water’s surface.