The Dread Hammer

by Linda Nagata

  He hunted Nedgalvin through the threads, which were straightening, unwinding before him, untangling at Otani’s command. He found the Lutawan already three miles down the river.

  Smoke burst into existence in front of Nedgalvin’s horse. Stepping to one side, he heaved up with his sword, and sliced halfway through the horse’s neck. Blood fountained against the drizzling rain. Smoke was showered in it.

  “God curse you!” Nedgalvin swore as his horse went down. He kicked free of the stirrups and, abandoning Thellan, he jumped clear.

  Smoke tossed his sword aside, leaving him two free hands. He caught Thellan and dragged her away before she was crushed beneath the horse. She was barely conscious, but her fist was raised against him. He ignored her feeble blows and, using his knife, he sliced through the cloth tied around her palm. Her hand was a bloody, purpling mess, but he had no mercy. He yanked the steel arrowhead all the way through. She screamed at the sudden pain. “Are you awake now, little Lutawan slave? Then go away.”

  She did, dissolving in his hands, just as Nedgalvin tried to take off his head with a great, swinging stroke of his sword. Smoke ducked, so that the blade screamed past the knot of his long hair and then he lunged, tackling Nedgalvin, hitting his legs with his shoulder and riding him to the ground, his arms wrapped around his thighs. Nedgalvin fought back, cracking Smoke in the head with the hilt of his sword. Smoke ran the threads.

  He materialized beside his sword, but Nedgalvin was already there, waiting for him. Smoke dove to one side to avoid a thrust. Nedgalvin used the moment to lift Smoke’s sword with his boot. He caught it in his left hand and hurled it into the river.

  Smoke pulled the two knives from his belt, and ran the threads.

  The vapor of his reflection circled Nedgalvin, then settled behind him. Nedgalvin wasn’t fooled. He slammed an elbow back, but Smoke dodged the blow and drove a knife into his back.

  Nedgalvin lurched away. He had his own knife. He turned suddenly and hurled it at Smoke in an underhand throw. Smoke jumped back and used the blade of his second knife to fend it off.

  Nedgalvin still had his sword. He lunged forward, thrusting at Smoke’s chest, but again Smoke dropped low to the ground. Then he launched himself up, and the blade of his knife disappeared into Nedgalvin’s ribcage, on a path that carried it into his heart. He yanked the knife out again and Nedgalvin crumpled to the ground.

  Smoke stared at him, his shoulders heaving. Takis was going to be furious, but really, she had nothing to complain about. She’d gotten a child out of the Lutawan. That was what she wanted most. “Sorry sister,” he growled. “I guess it’s not for you to be a kingmaker.”

  Above his head the wet leaves whispered in pleasure. Smoke listened a moment to their murmuring, but it wasn’t given to him to understand their words.

  It didn’t matter. Ketty was gone. Britta was gone. He cried for a time. Maybe it was a long time. He stirred again only when something large and strong and stinking snorted its hot breath against his neck. He looked up to see a horse—the last survivor of the three they had ridden from Samerhen. It still wore its saddle, bridle, and bags.

  He despised horses.

  But he would have a better vantage from its back and maybe he would find . . . well. It didn’t bear thinking on, what there might be to find.

  He collected his knives and took Nedgalvin’s sword to replace his own. Then he started to mount—but to his surprise the stirrups were set too short. That’s when he realized the surviving horse was not his, but Ketty’s. She must have taken the wrong animal when she was trying to escape Nedgalvin.

  Smoke’s gaze fell on the saddle bags. He might have been staring at a snake. He knew what he’d find there, but he opened the bags anyway. One was full of clothing and dried food. The other held the satchel with the midwife’s books. They were a curse! He did not doubt it. The midwife had cursed him for her murder and he hated her for it! In that moment he would have killed her again, and this time he would have enjoyed it.

  But Ketty was gone. And Britta was gone. And he knew it was retribution for his crime.

  He lengthened the stirrups, then he mounted and set off down the river to find the bodies, if he could.

  The river curved to the southwest, and as it rolled farther from the dark heart the chaotic tangle of threads in the world-beneath eased, but the fine threads that bound Smoke to Ketty were not revealed.

  Very late in the afternoon, the horse pricked its ears. Its stride slowed, then it stopped altogether and Smoke felt a trembling in its withers. He held his breath and listened. After a few seconds he heard faint over the roar of the river a wolf’s long howl.

  The horse snorted and sidestepped.

  “Get on!” Smoke growled at it, setting his heels firmly against its ribs. It moved on, displaying a trust in its rider that struck Smoke as quite unwise.

  He saw the wolves a few minutes later, at a bend in the river. They were at the water’s edge, feeding on the body of a horse that had lodged against the muddy bank. He tied his own animal securely, then he ran the threads, materializing in the middle of the pack. The animals fell back in shock, growling and snapping at him, but he answered them in their own language, and they didn’t dare attack him.

  He studied the dead horse. It was certainly his. He recognized the saddle and bridle, and the markings on its legs. Next he walked up and down the shore to see what else the current had brought, but there was no sign of Ketty or Britta. So he returned to the surviving horse and, giving the wolves a wide berth, he rode on.

  Twilight was on him when he saw ahead the first sign of a human presence since leaving the forest road: a rope bridge with a plank floor, making a way across the river. He pulled back on the reins, bringing the horse to a sudden stop as a shiver of terror swept through him.

  He hadn’t expected to come here.

  Why had fate brought him here?

  He raised his gaze, peering into the gathering dusk on the far side of the bridge, knowing already what he would see: the cottage of the midwife of Nefión, huddled in its forest clearing.

  What more retribution did she require?

  He set the horse walking again until he came to the bridge. The river ran only a few inches below it. He got down and led the horse, its hooves clomping softly against the planks as it crossed. A dim glimmering of firelight leaked from under the cottage door. He stared at it for a few seconds, but then he rallied himself and, securing the horse, he took the satchel that held the midwife’s books and walked to the cottage door.

  Once there, he listened for a moment, but he could hear no sound of movement from inside.

  He opened the door.

  Of course there would be no corpse on the floor. He knew that. Still, it was a relief to see that she was gone. To his surprise though, the cottage was empty, and the air was cold and musty despite the gleam of firelight from the hearth. He stepped inside. A candle on the table flickered in the draft from the door, so he closed it. He looked at the hearth. It was clean of ash and coals, with a newly laid fire that hadn’t yet licked the ends of the wood.

  Smoke took the three books out of the satchel and set them in their old place on the table.

  Something hit the back door with a loud thump and Smoke jumped so hard he almost knocked the books over again.

  Another thump, and the back door bumped open. But it moved only a few inches. The wood was swollen so the bottom of the door scraped against the floor. A third thump forced it open enough that a woman was able to squeeze in sideways through the gap. She was wet, her dark hair encrusted with mud, and on her face there was a scowl of bad temper.

  Smoke knew that scowl.

  Ketty!

  Nestled in the crook of her left arm was a blanket-wrapped bundle. In her right hand she hauled a basket of firewood. She dropped the basket on the floor, then turned to close the door with a hard kick. She’d been so fixed on getting past the stuck door with her burdens that she hadn’t even noticed him standing there. But when
she looked up again her beautiful eyes went wide. Her luscious mouth opened in the astonished, delightful “O” of surprise he loved so much.

  He was too stunned to move.

  Ketty though, was in a temper. She stomped her foot, pursed her lips, and demanded in a fierce wolf snarl, “Where in the name of the Dread Hammer have you been?”

  From the blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms there came a soft, bleating cry.

  Smoke reached deep down and found his voice. “Ketty, is it you? I couldn’t sense you. The threads are broken. You’ve been changed.”

  Her dirty face scrunched up as if she was about to cry. “Of course it’s me!” Then suddenly she was a cold, wet bundle in his arms, with Britta sandwiched between them, her little hands squeezing at her blanket and a confused pout on her face.

  “How can you be alive?” Smoke whispered even as new threads coiled around them. “How did you escape the river? How did you keep Britta from being swept away?”

  Her free hand made a fist. She glared up at him with a fiery gaze and thumped him hard against the shoulder. “I didn’t come all this way to let Britta drown! Did you think I would let that happen? Did you?”

  Smoke swallowed hard. “I thought there was no hope and you were dead.”

  The fire went out of Ketty’s eyes. She laid her head against his chest. “It was all mad, pummeling water. Mud in my mouth and my eyes. All I could think was I had to keep Britta’s face out of the water. We were rolled and plunged under, I don’t know how many times, and logs struck against me. I’m bruised all over. Then I saw the bridge. The current swept me into it, so I grabbed the rope. I almost lost Britta!”

  “But here she is,” Smoke said, watching his daughter as she studied her blanket. “You saved her.”

  Ketty pushed him away. “I am so angry with you! Why didn’t you come to find us?”

  Was this the midwife’s retribution? That Ketty should hate him? “The threads were broken, Ketty. I thought you were dead.”

  “I’m not dead! Can’t you see that? Now put some wood on the fire. I’m so cold!”

  He did as he was told.

  Next he went outside to fetch her clothes from the horse. When he came back, she’d discovered the books on the table. She turned to him in astonishment. “Did you put these here?”

  He nodded warily. “It’s where they came from, Ketty.” She gave him a sideways, suspicious look and he suddenly regretted saying anything. Before she could ask more questions he reached for the baby. “I’ll hold Britta, while you change into dry clothes.”

  Afterward they sat on a rug by the fire while Ketty nursed the baby. Her milk was almost dry, but Britta took what she could, and slept. Ketty put her in the bed, then returned to the fire. “Tell me what happened,” she said.

  Smoke nodded. “Well, Nedgalvin took the Hauntén woman captive—”

  “Not that. You can tell me that later—I know you must have killed him—I want to know about the books. I thought you brought them back from Nefión. So what do they have to do with this cottage?”

  Smoke smiled, determined to distract her. “Nefión’s only a mile or so along a little path. So you’ve come here at last. I’ll take you to visit tomorrow if you like. There’s no danger in it now.”

  Her gaze was cold. She knew him too well. “Tell me about the books.”

  His chin rose. Given a choice he would have said nothing, but she had bidden him to speak the truth. What an infernal fate! To be commanded by the prayers of his own wife. But there was no choice in it. So he told her what he’d done.

  She looked at him in horror. Perhaps she regretted asking? He hoped so.

  She looked at the floor where they were sitting. He could guess her thoughts. Here, this floor, this is where he left the body.

  “I had no choice!” Smoke insisted. “I couldn’t let Dehan find out about us.”

  But that wasn’t reason enough . . . was it?

  “You murdered her,” Ketty whispered. “She was innocent, and you killed her.”

  “And I’ve been cursed ever since!”

  She stared at the fire.

  “Don’t Ketty,” he whispered. “Don’t break the threads that bind us.”

  “Go tend the horse,” she said coldly. “You may sleep here by the fire tonight, but do not come into my bed.”

  “Ketty—”

  “Go.”

  He started hearing the prayers again when he was outside. He stood for a time, his eyes half-closed, listening to the compelling voices calling him by the name they had gifted him: Dismay, Dismay. He smiled in anticipation. It was a bitter thing to spill innocent blood, he had learned that all too well, but he would never regret the blood of the guilty.

  The cottage door opened, releasing a little light into the night. In a flat voice Ketty said, “I know they’re calling you. Are you going?”

  Smoke let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding. “No. No, I’m coming inside.”

  She’d left food on the table for him—crackers, cheese, and dried apples from the saddlebag—but instead of sitting down with him to eat, she crawled into bed with Britta.

  “I’ll hunt tomorrow,” he told her.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Ketty, you know I—”

  “I don’t want to talk.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t talk to me, Smoke.”

  So he was commanded to silence. It was so unfair.

  He blew out the candle and lay down by the fire, but he didn’t sleep. The voices didn’t let him.

  Come Dismay, they pleaded with him. Avenge me.

  Avenge me.

  ~

  He is a murderer, my Smoke, a bloody-handed demon. Dehan the Trenchant believed Smoke was his to command and died for the error. It’s clear to me now my beloved brother belongs to the Dread Hammer. He is a weapon made to serve Her ruthless purpose and Her purpose alone. I offer up my thanks that She’s taken him away from the Puzzle Lands—and I’ve tangled the threads to ensure he cannot return. Smoke has never kept count of the dead. Let the Dread Hammer keep count for him. It’s not my task anymore.

  Aftermath

  Ketty still had nothing to say to him in the morning, not even a thank you for the breakfast he cooked for her. She nursed Britta again, and this time she had more milk, though not nearly enough, and Britta was left hungry and fussy. When she started wailing, Smoke remembered he needed to go outside to check on the horse. Britta was still crying, so he passed the time walking around, looking at the well and the garden overgrown with weeds. He glimpsed a grave beyond the garden, but he didn’t go there.

  When Britta finally gave up complaining, he went back inside. His heart almost stopped when he saw the Hauntén Otani in a chair by the hearth, holding Britta in her arms. Ketty was sitting on the rug at her feet, watching Otani with a half-smile, but her sweet expression turned into a cold glare when she noticed Smoke.

  He took off his boots to avoid tracking in mud.

  “Will you forgive him?” Otani asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re a cruel wife, Ketty of the Red Moon.”

  If it had been in Ketty’s power to slay with a look, those would likely have been the last words he ever uttered.

  “I’m going to stay here,” she announced, standing up to face him. “Otani says that no one has dared to live in this cottage since you— Well, no one has. I have the books, and Otani will teach me what she can, and I’ll learn to be a wise woman—a healer and a midwife—and maybe it will make up somewhat for what you did here.”

  Smoke remembered how she’d loved the books from the moment she saw them. Even the terrifying drawings of wounds and birth had fascinated her. “I think it was decided long since,” he conceded.

  “Otani will help me raise Britta,” she went on. “She’ll learn about the Hauntén from her grandmother, and she’ll learn about human people from me.”

  Smoke waited to be told his role in this new family . . .
if he had one?

  Ketty gazed for a moment at Britta, asleep in Otani’s arms. Then she turned again to Smoke and, crossing her arms over her chest, she said, “You were restless last night. I know you were hearing the prayers again.”

  “I like to hear them.”

  “You like to answer them.”

  “Why not? I am Dehan’s demon son.”

  Otani lifted the sleeping baby to her lips and kissed her. “Everything has a cost,” she said. “Every transgression requires atonement.” She looked up. Smoke met her gaze, but no longer did he feel his soul tearing in two. She said, “Dehan wasn’t the only one involved in your making. It’s my fault too, I think, that you are what you are. I was bereft when my son was taken from me and for many moons I prayed to the Dread Hammer for vengeance. I think She granted my prayer by shaping you into Dismay, the bloody hand of a woman’s retribution.”

  “So go!” Ketty shouted at him as her simmering anger boiled over. She waved her hands at him as if to shoo him out the door. “If you’re bidden to serve the women of the south, then do it! Do that service the Dread Hammer has made you for!”

  “I will. I have to.”

  He went back to the door and put his boots on again and then his coat while Ketty watched him, so pretty in her blue dress and so very angry, with a wolf’s snarl on her face. He’d left his bow and his sword leaning against the wall. He took them up. There was nothing else he needed except to know the truth. “Ketty . . . do you still love me?”

  She stomped her foot and clenched her fists. “Don’t ask me that, you idiot!” Her beautiful eyes were suddenly sloppy with tears. “That’s what makes it all so hard—of course I do!”

  He ducked his chin and dared a half-smile. “I’m going now. But pray to me, Ketty, when you want me to come home.”

  She tried to bite down on a smile, but she couldn’t do it. Tears were running freely down her cheeks. “Go,” she whispered, waving him off again. “Go—but listen for me.”