Chosen of the Changeling

by Greg Keyes

  Through the woods she could hear Sheldu and the others approaching.

  After a tense moment, the task became simple butchery. The unholy creatures summoned by the Tiskawa were all dispatched, and the Mang, though indeed brave and fierce, were no match for the host of the Huntress, as Perkar well knew. The horsemen fell to lion and wolf, to the gods who were sometimes bears, to eagles and hawks that swooped upon them—and to Harka, of course.

  Before it was over, Perkar wept for them.

  Among the dead he found Moss, who was not dead, though his gut was torn open. The young shaman’s eyes followed him, pleading.

  “Listen to me, swordsman,” he bubbled through a mouthful of blood. Perkar approached cautiously, mindful of what Chuuzek had managed in such a state.

  “Listen,” Moss repeated. “I have no way of knowing whether you are the Blackgod’s dupe or willing ally. But I am slain now, and I saw Ghe carried off by the Huntress. You may be Hezhi’s only hope.”

  “What nonsense is this?” Perkar growled.

  Moss closed his eyes. “The lake comes to swallow me,” he muttered. “I can’t—” He opened his eyes again, and they held a peculiar blankness. “Perkar, are you still there?”

  Perkar crouched down beside his foe. “I’m here,” he said.

  “I think I know what the Blackgod intends,” the dying man whispered. “I think I understand now.”

  He whispered another sentence, and Perkar felt a profound chill. It was a sensation that gathered strength.

  “Oh, no,” he muttered, because he knew it was true. There could be no doubt.

  “Karak must have conspired with the Huntress to separate me from her,” he snarled. Moss nodded faintly.

  “Does it hurt?” Perkar asked. “Are you in pain?”

  “No. It’s a sort of fading. Let me fade, if you will—it will prepare me. Many vengeful things await the ghosts of shamans, and we must have what advantages we can.”

  “Can I help?”

  But Moss didn’t answer. He was not yet dead, but it was clear that he had spoken for the last time. With Harka’s vision Perkar could see the last thread of life unraveling.

  Trembling, he stood, Moss’ revelation repeating itself in his brain, and grimly he began to run back the way he had come. T’esh was dead, and the last of the Mang horses either fled or devoured. He had no chance of reaching his destination in time, but he also had no choice but to try; once again, it was all his fault.

  XXXVI

  Erikwer

  Ghe tumbled through space, the treetops a nightmare blur that they sometimes hurtled over and sometimes crashed among. They fought with claws and teeth and with the energies burning within them, and almost as soon as they began, Ghe understood that he would lose. The Huntress was the most powerful being he had ever faced save the River himself. Her existence seemed to extend all about him, into the earth and the trees—this form he fought was only a finger of her. His sole satisfaction was knowing she was not toying with him; he was giving her a good fight, drawing power from her to hold himself together—but he was losing, for she was both more powerful and more experienced than he. For the first time, Ghe truly understood the sheer desperation of the River in creating him, the minusculity of his chances of success.

  Nevertheless, he clung to her as she disemboweled him again and again.

  “You hurt me,” she admitted in a feral, growling voice. “Few have done that, so feel proud.”

  He didn’t answer, for at that moment one of his arms tore free of his body. Again he was surprised at the lack of pain, and he wondered if there would be pain when she finally bit his head off. Shuddering, he called up all of the gods he had swallowed; he began to burn them for strength. The stream demon was strongest, would burn longest. He did not bother with the feeble fuel of his Human ghosts, though they shouted at him.

  One shouted at him more loudly than the others.

  River! he shouted. Ghan shouted.

  Ghe understood in a blaze, but there was no triumph in that comprehension, for it came too late. He could scent him, his Maker, and he realized that their aerial battle had brought them very near his waters. So it was worth a try.

  Using what strength he could, he tore himself from the Huntress and flew. For an instant he was free of her, and sprawling below him he could see trees, the rising flanks of mountains—and a gorge that pulsed with salvation. How could he have forgotten that his lord lay so near?

  “No, you don’t,” the Huntress shrieked as sharp talons dug into what remained of his spine. “Oh, no, my sweet.”

  For an instant he went limp with despair, but then Ghan spoke again within him, a single word.

  Hezhi.

  Ghe snarled and struck his talons into the Huntress, reached for the beating heart of her power. He touched it and it surged through, burning him, tearing at him, far too much energy for him to absorb; his extremities charred and his vision blazed away with his eyes, and then they were falling, the Huntress shrieking and beating about him, but they were still falling. She had not recovered.

  “No,” she snarled, and then they hit something that broke them both.

  “I’m fine,” Hezhi said, stumbling toward Dark. But she wasn’t fine. She had killed Moss, and though the man had been her enemy—or had he? She barely knew that anymore. The effort of fighting Hukwosha back into her heart had sapped her of strength, and she could barely stand.

  “I’ve never seen anything like that,” Sheldu muttered. “Not in a Human shaman. Surely—” He bit off his remark, seemed almost ready to chortle. “Come. Our success is certain now. In ridding us of that menace yourself, you have removed the last chance that we might be stopped.”

  “You mean because you wouldn’t have to reveal yourself, Blackgod?” Hezhi muttered.

  The man smiled grimly. “Well. I thought that Perkar might soften, eventually. But it matters not. I would have revealed myself to you—it is to this forest that I dare not show my power—not yet. The actions of a Human shaman such as yourself—”

  “I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” Hezhi groaned. “But shouldn’t we get going?”

  “Indeed.”

  As they continued their ride up the valley, Ngangata flanked her on one side and Tsem on the other.

  “So you know,” Ngangata said, his voice low.

  She nodded. “Perkar told me.”

  “Give the word and we flee,” the halfling said. “With your familiars and Tsem and me to stand for you, chances are good you can escape.”

  “Why? Why should I want to do that?” Hezhi asked. “This is what I want. I want to be rid of this malevolent thing our people call Lord. The thing that brought Ghan here to his death—that—that—” She stuttered off, realizing that she was dangerously near crying. She must not weaken now; the end of all of this, one way or the other, was nigh, she could feel that. She took a deep breath and continued. “I care not what designs your Crow God has, what hidden agenda his scheming covers. The truth is that compared to the River he is but a flea.”

  “A flea who believes he can slay the dog,” Tsem muttered.

  “And I believe he can, with my help,” Hezhi said. “But he is still a flea.”

  “Do you imagine yourself more, Princess?” Tsem asked softly.

  She looked at him, shocked, but then reflected on her words and smiled.

  “It sounds like I do, doesn’t it? It’s just that I know what it feels like, the power in the River. Just now, when I was the bull, I felt I could do anything, and that takes more than a moment to forget.”

  Tsem bridled. “I wish I could forget it in a moment, Princess. If you could have seen yourself—”

  “Hush, Tsem. I’m fine: I don’t want to be a goddess. That is exactly what I want to be free of. Only the River can poison me with such might—the Blackgod and his kin cannot, will not do it. They have the same desire I do, to end the threat I pose.”

  “They could do that simply by killing you,” Ngangata argued
.

  “True, which is why I do not fear the Blackgod. He has had ample opportunity to slay me and he has not. Why? In another generation the River can produce another like me, perhaps one more receptive to his will. As long as he exists, the threat I represent exists.”

  Ngangata shrugged. “Still, it is never wise to trust the Blackgod completely.”

  “Or any god. Or any person!” Hezhi answered. As she did so, Yuu’han drew abreast.

  “An instant of your time, please,” he asked of Hezhi.

  “Of course.” Hezhi was taken aback by the man’s tight, formal tone.

  “I have tried to dissuade Brother Horse from this trip many times,” Yuu’han admitted. “He is an old man, and I fear for him.”

  “I have tried to turn him back, as well,” Hezhi told him.

  “I know. I thank you for that.”

  Hezhi regarded the young man. Since Raincaster’s death, Yuu’han—always somewhat dour—had withdrawn from almost everyone but Brother Horse. “If you wish to try again …”

  “I have done that, thank you. He will stay with you, and because he does, I do, as well.”

  “Your uncle means much to you.”

  Yuu’han raised his enigmatic gaze to lock fully on her own, something the Mang were reluctant to do unless angry—or very, very sincere. “I call him uncle,” Yuu’han said, quite softly. “I call him that because he was never married to my mother, and thus I have no right to call him ‘father.’ Nevertheless, he is the one who begat me. And when my mother died and her clan refused her orphan, Brother Horse drew me into his clan. Few would have done that; most would have let the mother’s clan dispose of the child.”

  “Dispose?”

  “The custom is to leave an unwanted child in the desert for the gods to take their mercy on.” He glanced away at last, having impressed upon her what he wanted to.

  Hezhi looked to Tsem and Ngangata for support; the halfling nodded to himself, but Tsem appeared confused, perhaps not following the entire conversation. Neither of them gave her any clue as to how she should respond to Yuu’han. “Why do you tell me this now?” she finally asked.

  “So that if my unc—” Yuu’han paused and began again. “So that if Brother Horse and I are both slain, you will know how to sing to our ghosts. In death I may be spoken of as his son.” He smiled wryly. “Understand me, this is no demand. My sword is yours, because Brother Horse is with you. I merely request this of you.”

  “I would rather promise that you will not be slain,” Hezhi remarked.

  “Do not promise me what is not in your power,” Yuu’han warned. “Do not insult me.”

  “I will not insult you, cousin,” Hezhi assured him. “If you are both slain, I shall do as you ask—provided I survive.”

  “I say the same,” Ngangata assured him.

  “Thank you. It is good.” Seemingly content, Yuu’han dropped back to where Brother Horse rode.

  Shortly they began climbing again, but it was to be a brief ascent. They mounted up out of the valley, and Hezhi realized then just how high they were; She’leng walled off most of the sky—they had scarcely begun ascending it—but even the valley they rode in was lofty, overlooking the folded layers of forest marching off from them.

  Karak stood in his saddle. “Follow now,” he said. “I grow impatient, and one more obstacle remains.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Some fifty Mang warriors await at the entrance to Erikwer, the place we seek.”

  “Fifty Mang?” Ngangata said, taking in the remaining warriors. “That is no small threat.”

  “For you, perhaps. For me, if I try to maintain my disguise. But my Lord Balat is slow to waken, and I am certain now that he sleeps.” He turned to them, and his eyes were blazing now.

  Many of the men who followed him seemed taken a bit aback, uncertain.

  “Know all of you who did not that I am Karak, the Raven, who made the earth and stole the sun to light it. This and many other things have I done for Humankind, for you are my adopted children. Many malign my intentions—” He paused and looked significantly at Ngangata. “—but you will find no tale of me that does not ultimately speak of my love and service to your kind, even in defiance of my Lord. You have all ridden with me, some knowing me, some not, to this place. You have fought and died so that I might preserve my identity until the time came to strike; that time is now, but we must hurry. I fly ahead to dispose of the brave but misguided warriors who yet stand before us; no more of you need die. But when I uncloak, when my power stands revealed, my Lord Balati will begin to wake from slumber. We must slay his Brother before that happens. Slaying him we free the land from a terrible burden and an even more terrible threat.”

  “And you from a great guilt!” Brother Horse bellowed.

  Karak leveled his yellow gaze at the Mang. “I freely admit my fault in the matter. Even such as I can make a mistake.”

  “It was no mistake,” Brother Horse shouted heatedly. “It was caprice, like most of what you do.”

  Karak regarded the old man silently for a long moment.

  “Were you there?” he asked softly. “Were any of you there, when the Changeling was unleashed, or do you just repeat the rumors my enemies have circulated for five millennia?” He glared around at them. “Well?”

  “Enough!” Hezhi shouted. “Do what you must, Blackgod, and I will follow. Do you need any of the rest of them?”

  Karak was still glaring angrily. “No,” he answered.

  “Then go.”

  For an instant longer, he remained Sheldu; and then, like a cloak turned inside out, he was suddenly a bird. At that instant, the wind rose. He beat his black wings up to a heaven now thick with gray clouds. When he was a speck, the trees began to shudder with the force of the wind.

  Some hesitated, but when Hezhi kneed Dark forward, Ngangata and Tsem came after. Qwen Shen and Bone Eel followed closely, and after a moment’s hesitation, all the rest.

  In the middle distance, lightning began to strike and thunder to sound, a noise like the air itself shearing in halves. First one strike, then another, and then a crashing and flickering of blue light that raged continuously.

  When they broke from the forest into the vast meadow, the thunder had ceased. They found the great black bird standing on a blackened corpse, pecking at its eyes. The meadow was littered with burnt and broken men. A few horses raced about aimlessly, eyes rolling.

  As horrific as the sight was, Hezhi had become numb to death; what drew her attention and held it was not the corpses but the hole. It gaped in the center of the meadow like the very mouth of the earth itself, a nearly perfectly round pit that even a powerful bowshot might not cross the diameter of.

  The Raven became a man, a black-cloaked man with pale skin.

  “That is Erikwer,” he said. “That is the source of the Changeling, his birth—and his death.” His birdlike eyes sparkled with unconcealed glee.

  “What do we do?” Hezhi asked, her heart suddenly thumping despite all of her earlier bluster and confidence.

  “Why, we must descend, of course,” Karak said.

  Perkar ran desperately, Harka flapping in a sheath on his back. Without the Huntress to direct them, the host was slowly dispersing, returning to whatever haunts or fell places they issued from. They didn’t bother him; she must have set some sign upon him they recognized.

  But he would never reach Hezhi and the others in time, and that drove him madder each moment, each heartbeat he had to understand what Moss told him.

  “Can you give me more strength, help me run faster?” he asked Harka.

  “No. That is not the nature of my glamour, as you should know by now.”

  “Yes, you only keep me alive so that I can properly appreciate my mistakes.”

  “What you run toward now could very well end that little problem of yours.”

  “So be it.”

  “I thought you had learned fear.”

  “I have. Learned it and relea
rned it. It makes no difference now.”

  “The Blackgod will do you no harm unless you attack him.”

  “It’s moot, Harka, if we don’t get there in time.”

  A movement caught his attention in the wood, something large and four-legged coming toward him. He whirled, blade bared in an instant.

  “Not an enemy,” Harka said.

  Perkar saw that it was not. It was a stallion, and more precisely, it was Sharp Tiger.

  The stallion paced up to him and stopped, an arm’s length away.

  “Hello, brother,” Perkar said softly. “Let me make you a deal. You let me ride you, and I will slay he who killed your cousin.”

  The horse stared at him impassively. Perkar approached, sheathed Harka, and took a deep breath. The beast was unsaddled; Perkar had long ago given up trying to ride him. Neither, in fact, did he have a bridle, but if the animal would accept him on its back, he could find a bridle and saddle from one of the dead beasts being devoured by the Hunt.

  He blew out the breath and leapt upon Sharp Tiger’s back, knotted his fist into the thick hair of the stallion’s mane.

  Nothing happened. Sharp Tiger didn’t react.

  “Good, my cousin,” Perkar said, after a few instants went by. “You understand. Then let me find a bridle—”

  Sharp Tiger reared and pawed the air, and Perkar hung on with his legs and fists with all of the strength in him, preparing for the inevitable, bracing for being thrown. But when the fore-hooves drove to earth, the Mang horse plunged straight into a gallop so swift that the wind sang in Perkar’s ears, racing in amongst the trees and cornering so tightly that Perkar lay on the stallion’s neck and wrapped his arms to keep from falling.

  As the horse hurtled down a steep grade, leaping and stamping hooves, slipping but almost never slowing, Perkar gasped. “I hope you know where you are going, Sharp Tiger!”