by Greg Keyes
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 Goddess 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.
He sprang with the speed and force of a javelin, and the Blackgod fell back. Desperately he plunged stinger and claw—both physical and arcane—through the weird flesh of the being, hoping to quickly find the artery of his strength. If the discharge burnt him, so be it.
Lightning speared him, seared a hole in the tough plates of his belly large enough for a cat to crawl through. Every muscle in his body clenched into knots so tight that some pulled loose of the bone. Another bolt flashed, lit the underground lake with violet light, and he was torn loose from the Bird God, thrown roughly to the shingle, twitching.
The Blackgod laughed as Ghe struggled to regain control of his inhuman limbs, his strength ebbing with each instant. The water was near, but it was as if a wall had been erected between him and that source of life. Feebly he tried to crawl.
“So this is the best Brother can send against me,” the Blackgod mocked, shaking his head and clucking. “Let me introduce myself, Ghe of Nhol. I am Karak, sun-bringer, storm lord, master of rain and thunder, the Raven, the Crow.”
“You are a corrupt demon,” Ghe snarled, “and you must die.”
“Oh, indeed?” Karak asked, and lightning lit the cavern once again in a hideous similitude of twilight.
Perkar beheld the tableau below, long before the lightning; Harka gave him vision in the darkness. And so it was with a sense of unbelievable helplessness that he watched the tiny figures meet and fall, not certain who any of them were. A monster rose from the water and attacked one of the shapes, and then came the lightning, and from that he knew which participant was Karak.
He and Sharp Tiger were a single turn of the spiral path from the cavern floor—perhaps the height of fifteen men from the stones—when a third peal of thunder roared up through the pit; Perkar saw, almost precisely below him, the shadowy form of the Blackgod and the blasted carcass of some fishlike monster. To his horror, he also saw Hezhi crumpled nearby, an unmistakable pool of blood spreading beneath her. Brother Horse, Yuu’han, Ngangata, and Tsem all lay immobile on the black stones. All of the warriors who came with Karak lay still. He knew he should be angry, but all he could summon was a vague denial and a rising wind of fear. Too far, too long to complete the last turn as Karak, the clear victor, turned to Hezhi’s body.
Perkar suddenly stiffened as the air rang like an iron bell, and through flesh and bone Perkar suddenly saw Sharp Tiger’s heart glow like a red-hot anvil, heard the stallion scream, felt him leap into space. It was no slip, no mistake; the horse laid back his ears and jumped. Perkar’s mind—already staggered—simply refused to accept what had happened for an instant, but as the fall took his weight and filled his stomach with feathers, a sudden wild elation stifled a nascent yelp. “Brave boy, Tiger,” he had time to say instead, before he and the vengeful mount of Good Thief crashed into the black-cloaked figure.
The impact robbed him briefly of his senses, but Harka would not let him plunge into true unconsciousness, shrieking alarm in his ears. It was a good thing; he regained his feet at the same moment as Karak. Sharp Tiger, unbelievably, was still alive, struggling to rise on four broken legs. With a snarl, Karak reached and slapped the stallion’s skull; it split open, and the beast died. Perkar hoped—in the brief instant he had to hope—that Mang legend was true, that Sharp Tiger and Good Thief would be reunited as one on some far-off steppe. Then he had no time for thoughts of that sort or otherwise as he fell upon Karak with Harka.
The first five or so blows landed, and Karak tripped back, golden blood glistening from several wounds. Perkar howled, swinging the blade savagely, not so much like a sword as like an axe, as if he were hewing deadwood. Karak’s daunting yellow eyes stayed steady on him, but he knew that he must just keep his attack going, not give the god a single pause, keep the fear from gathering tight in his chest to slow his arms.
A black fist leapt past his guard and smote him with such force that he felt bones crack in his jaw. He slapped into the ground, rolled, and came back up with his blade ready.
Karak loomed over him, still with Human form and face but glossy black save for the orbs of his eyes. He shook his head no. “Pretty thing, is this how you repay me? I am only doing what I said I would do. Stand aside and let me finish what we began together.”
“I won’t let you kill her,” Perkar shouted. “Not even to slay the Changeling.”
“She won’t die,” Karak returned.
“Only her flesh will die. She will become mightier than she ever dreamed. Otherwise, she is dead already. Her body is beyond saving.”
Perkar glanced again at Hezhi’s feebly moving form, heart sinking at the sight of her pale face and the huge pool of blood. Could such a tiny creature contain so much blood? It didn’t seem possible.
“Her death will be meaningless unless she bleeds her last into the Changeling,” Karak hissed urgently. “She will have died for nothing, when she needn’t die at all. But we must hurry!”
Perkar turned slowly back to the Crow God, knowing that he had already done his best and failed. But the storm of dread in his belly, instead of rising to a cyclone, began to break, diminish. “Between the two of us, Karak, we have brought about the deaths of everyone I hold dear,” he said measuredly, wishing he had something more profound to offer as last words. “I have lost my Piraku and betrayed my people, and you were behind it all. So let one or both of us die today—and I hope for the sake of the world it is both. And if it is me, you may do as you will.” He raised Harka.
Karak sighed and reached to a sheath at his own side. “Very kind of you, to give me your leave. I could deal with you as I did him,” he said, indicating the fish-thing. With a horrible start, Perkar saw that it had a man’s face—the face of the Tiskawa, in fact. “But you I will give a chance to die with Piraku, for you have served me well, Perkar Kar Barku.” He drew his blade. “Do you recognize this sword?”
Perkar stared, his mouth suddenly dry. “Yes,” he admitted unwillingly, haltingly. “It is my sword. The one my father gave me.”
“Is it? I found it in a pool of red blood, here in this very mountain. I had it retempered to suit me. But I must correct you in one particular; since you threw it away, it is my sword now.”
“Something very strange about that blade,” Harka warned him, but Perkar was beyond reason. The sudden fury that filled him was greater than any he had ever known, a tenebrous joy that could not distinguish between killing and dying. He flung himself at the Blackgod, Harka curving out and down.
“Hezhi,” a voice muttered from very near. She turned to see Brother Horse, clutching a drum in one hand.
“Grandfather,” she whispered back.
“Can you see it? Can you see what you need?”
“Brother Horse, I’m dying.”
“Listen to me,” he snarled angrily. “I told you I wouldn’t let you do that. Won’t let you die! Listen to me …” But his eyes fluttered and he spat blood.
“What?” she asked, though she hardly felt concerned anymore—instead she felt strangely serene, light-headed.
“There.” He pointed at the thing that might have once been Ghe. “See, beneath the lake. Look beneath the lake.”
She looked. It was easy, for death was dragging her beneath anyway. She first saw Brother Horse, a fading warmth, his ghost already coming unmoored.
I can take him in, she thought. Like a god, keep him in my breast. She reached to do so.
But above the lake, his hand clutched hers. “No,” he barely whispered. “You don’t have the strength for that. You need me like this.” His eyes gleamed with laughter, love, and comfort as he gripped her hand more tightly. “Tell Heen I said farewell,” he murmured. “Heen tells me he loves you …” Then his eyes lost their light as a flame surged into her, filled her with new strength.
And Brother Horse was gone, his hand already cooling, no trace of his heartstrands remaining.
Look beneath the lake, he had said, and, trembling, she did so, afraid to waste his last gift on anguish.
The “waters” closed over her. I am dying, she realized again. The Blackgod stabbed me. And, finally, she understood Karak’s words, saw the use her blood would be put to, the results it would bring. She had to stop that somehow—and Brother Horse had seen how she could do it, seen some weapon she might use. He had pointed at Ghe.
She saw Karak still—a black thing of feathers and blue fire in the otherworld. She saw Ghe, too, knew him instantly. He still resembled some sort of inky net, with the scintillating bulbs of stolen souls bound to him like jeweled weights. But the net was rent, the pattern of his body in disarray. A few souls still glimmered there, however, and she reached, featherlight, to touch them.
Her swan and mare were still with her, though injured as she was. The swan guided her and the mare held her up, and together they brushed her fingers through the shattered remains of Ghe. One of the souls responded to her tentative inquiry, produced a voice that floated thinly to her.
“Hezhi?” it said. “Hezhi?”
She paused. She knew that voice. “Ghan?”
“Indeed,” he answered, gathering a bit of strength.
“Ghan, how did you—”
“I died. He captured my ghost—a fairly simple matter for him.”
“Ghan, I have so much to tell you,” she began. An image of him formed in her mind, his parchmentlike face, the knowing twinkle in his black eyes that could so often glare with irritation. She had lost Brother Horse, but here Ghan was back.
He laughed. “No time for that. No time for that at all.”
“No time for anything, I think,” she said.
“No, you are wrong. Ghe is stronger than the Blackgod knows, and I think if we can win his help, there is yet something we can do. But Hezhi, we must hurry.”
“Tell me what to do then.”
He told her.
Harka slashed down as Karak’s blade rose to meet it, and the two came together in a shower of sparks. In Perkar’s ear, Harka shrieked piteously. He had never known the weapon could feel pain or fear, but now both shuddered through him, as if the blade had become his own arm, skin removed and nerves laid bare.
Karak hammered down a second blow, and Perkar raised his blade to meet it.
“No!” Harka screamed; then steel clashed and the godblade burst into a thousand bits. The hilt leapt from his hand, and in his ear, Harka’s dying cry faded into nothing. Perkar swayed, weaponless, in the following silence.
“Now,” Karak said, “that silliness is over with.” He bent toward Hezhi’s body.
An arrow shaft appeared in his eye. Karak shrilled and straightened, seeking his new attacker. Ngangata stood less than a score of paces away. Half of his body was soaked in red Human blood, but he raised his bow for a second shot. Karak darted forward, faster than a mortal eye could follow, and in that eyeblink his sword plunged into the halfling’s chest. Ngangata snarled and yet tried to raise his weapon, but Karak twisted the blade, and Ngangata’s eyes turned to Perkar. They brimmed with tears of agony, but his gaze held no self-pity or even fear—it conveyed apology. Apology—for having failed him. Perkar leapt once again, shrieking inarticulately, still unarmed, bent upon tearing the Crow God apart with his bare hands. With a flashed look of utter disdain, Karak turned and ran him through, as well, the blade sliding into his navel and out his back. He knew no shock at being impaled, because in the past year he had taken more than one such wound. But before, he might have fought up the blade, or at least quickly disengaged himself. Now he merely glared at his murderer, still refusing to admit it was over.
Karak held him up with the blade for an instant, yellow eyes bright with contempt. “See how you like that without a magic sword to heal you,” he spat.
“Ah,” Perkar moaned. Karak released the hilt. Sword still in his belly, Perkar felt his knees wobble and give way, and he sat down roughly.
He almost fell on Ngangata. The halfling was still alive, though just barely so. Karak regarded them for just a moment, then stepped toward Hezhi.
“I-I’m sorry,” Ngangata managed to stammer.
“Shut up, you dumb Brush-Man,” Perkar whispered. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I could have … I could have …” Ngangata seemed confused, unable to think of what he might have done.
Trembling, Perkar leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. “I’m the one who is sorry, brother. Piraku with you and about you.” He patted
the dying halfling on the shoulder. “I’ve got just one more thing to do,” he said, feeling a little giddy but otherwise surprisingly well, considering. “Then I’ll come join you here.”
Ngangata nodded but said nothing.
Perkar put both hands on the sword hilt, closed his eyes, and pulled.
Ghe brushed his lips upon Hezhi’s and felt triumph. He, a gutter scorp from Southtown, had kissed a princess. He stepped back from her, wanting to see her lovely eyes, hoping to see love there.
What he saw instead was urgency.
“Hello, Yen,” she said very seriously.
“Princess.”
“I need your help.”
Ghe noticed for the first time that there were other figures behind Hezhi. They all stood in the little courtyard above Nhol, where Hezhi had taken him once to look down at the ships. But he understood that could not be where they were as his memories—what little remained of them—returned.
“I’ve failed you,” he said, feeling hot, unaccustomed tears start in his eye, remembering the Blackgod carving him with a knife of living thunder.
“Not yet. There is still time,” Ghan said from behind Hezhi. The third figure was the stream demon, the woman—she sat sullenly on the bench by the cottonwood tree. Near her, looking old and defeated, stood the ancient Nholish lord he had captured in the Water Temple. Lengnata was fat, his eyes piggish little dots.
“Where are we, really?” he asked Hezhi.
“In your mansion. The place where you keep the souls you capture.”
“How did you get here?”
“I came to see you, Ghe. Because there is something you can do to save me.”
“Anything.”
“You must slay the River to do it.”
Ghe’s limbs began to quake. He shuddered violently. “I can’t do that. You have to know I can’t do that. Even if I had the power—”