by Karen Miller
But he was the warlord and Wyngra had at last insisted, using the might of his office as leverage. He capitulated. To shout at Wyngra was to invite censure from Nagarak, once they were returned to Et-Raklion.
It was two fingers past highsun, and Bajadek’s death. An unsteady hush mantled the bloody Plain of Drokar. The last of the dying had been sent to hell or to the god, a sharp knife in the throat their final gift. Bajadek’s warriors who’d survived their warlord’s folly sat defeated on the reddened ground, watched over by warriors of victorious Et-Raklion. Each warhost’s dead had been separated and laid in rows, awaiting the godspeakers’ attentions. The horses too badly injured to save were killed and skinned, their hides bundled for curing, their harnesses saved for living horses. Crows argued over their naked carcasses even now, quick to feast on such generous bounty. The sky was rotten with black wings, wheeling.
“You are certain Hekat has taken no serious hurt?” he said to Wyngra, clutching at the wheel of an upturned chariot. The godspeaker’s godstone burned against his severed hamstring, his flesh crawled and stretched, healing with enough pain to make him grunt and bite his lip.
“The god protected her,” said Wyngra, unperturbed. He was a godspeaker of many seasons, he knew his business and the god’s. “She was exhausted and wounded a little. Her hurts are healed. She will sleep now until she wakes.”
Raklion nodded with sharp relief. She is Hekat. Godtouched and mine . What a glory was in that child. Death and beauty, gifted to him by the god. She would be his warrior forever, fighting for him and for the god. “Good. Hanochek!”
Six paces distant, Hanochek dismissed the warrior he spoke to in lowered tones, and approached. The god had seen him in its eye, he was whole and unharmed save for a little split skin and some drops of spilled blood, hardly enough to moisten dry bread. He stood beside the chariot wheel and pressed his fist against his unhurt heart.
“Warlord?”
“Tell me again how stands the tally?”
“Of our number, four hundred dead, three hundred sorely wounded,” said Hano patiently. “One thousand hurt but able to ride. Almost a quarter of our horses slaughtered. We’ll make them up from Bajadek’s horses, if there are enough left living.”
Raklion winced. Twice already Hano had given him the tally but his tired mind was reluctant to grasp it. Four hundred dead. Aieee, how his heart wept. “What else, Hano? What bad tidings do you not give me?”
Hano hesitated, then sighed. “Warlord, among the fallen there are Dokoy Spear-leader and Bodrik Chariot-leader.”
“Aieee!” The news was pain greater than any sword-cut or knife-stab. His fingers tightened on the chariot wheel, and splinters bit him. Dokoy and Bodrik, great warriors. He’d chosen them himself to stand as leaders. “They died for the god, Hano. They are not gone to hell.”
Hano wept without shame, tears diluting the blood on his face. He and Bodrik had been particular friends. “I know, warlord.”
Raklion gripped Hano’s arm, lending him a little of his meager strength. He could not weep openly, he was the warlord. “You said nearly two thousand of Bajadek’s warriors are slain?”
“Yes, warlord.”
“No word yet on Bajadek’s second son?”
Hano shook his head. “The godspeakers are searching Et-Bajadek’s death piles. If Banotaj is there with his father and brother, they’ll find him.”
Wyngra straightened and slipped his godstone into its pouch. “Warlord, stand on your leg now. Show me you are whole again.”
Raklion released his grip on Hanochek’s arm. Tentatively at first, then with more confidence, he let his injured thigh take his weight. No pain, a little stiffness. He walked five paces, then nodded and walked back. “That is good, Wyngra. Join your fellow godspeakers in the search for Bajadek’s second son among the slain.”
Wyngra bowed. “Warlord.”
As Wyngra departed, Raklion frowned at Hanochek. They were alone now beside the upturned chariot. For a short time unobserved. He could show his tiredness and grief to Hano, there was no loss of strength in that. He leaned his hip against the chariot’s splintered pole-staff and let it take his burdensome weight. Wyngra had plucked the arrowhead from his thigh, but the wound was still sore.
“Perhaps Banotaj is fled back to his father’s city,” he mused.
“Leaving his father and brother dead on the battlefield?” said Hano, sounding doubtful. “Naked to the crow-filled sky, without the proper rites? Let us hope not, warlord. If he lives he’s the warlord now. Such cowardice does not bode well.”
Raklion agreed. Bajadek warlord had tried to steal another warlord’s godpromised wife. Such godless trickery could be a disease, passed from father to son like plague, with kissing. Cowardice could be its symptom.
“Has our godspeaker returned from Et-Bajadek city?”
“Not yet, warlord.”
“Send him to me the moment he returns, Hano, and also when this Banotaj is found. I will walk among my warriors now. I will shed silent tears for my fallen before they burn on the pyre.”
“Yes, warlord,” said Hano, and bowed his head. Then he looked up. “I will make special sacrifice when we are home again, Raklion. When I saw you bloody I feared the worst.”
Raklion smiled, and held him close. “The god sees me, Hano. It sees me in its eye. It sent me Hekat knife-dancer, a child with the godspeark of a mighty warrior. Aieee, if you had seen her. Bajadek warlord fell like wheat before her scythe. There is no need for Nagarak to test her blood, I have seen what she is. The god has shown me. She is Bajadek’s doom, my gift from the god.”
Hano stepped back. His eyes were wary. “If you say so, warlord.”
“I say so, warleader,” he said, displeased by Hano’s displeasure. “She is the god’s gift, her teeth are made of gold. Now obey my want. There is much to be done before we can ride home in triumph.”
“Warlord,” said Hano, and departed to his duties.
Weary, heavy-hearted for his losses, Raklion thrust aside Hano’s resentment of godgiven Hekat, put on his warlord’s face and went to mourn the fallen with his warriors.
The funeral pyres were lit at lowsun, for the victors and the vanquished. Bajadek’s only living son had been found senseless among the wounded. Revived, he torched his father’s cold remains, and his brother’s. Then he torched the warrior pyres, built from the bodies of his father’s fallen and timber brought by Et-Bajadek’s sullen godspeakers. Soaked in pitch the pyres burned and burned, sparks like godsparks flying into the starlit sky.
Banotaj was a young man, twenty seasons had he seen. Raklion, regarding him, his own pyres already burning, his silent tears shed, his warriors praised and comforted, wondered how he would fare as warlord.
It would be no bad thing if he faltered, I think. A neighboring warlord embroiled in domestic bickering is one kept safely inside his borders.
When the last pyre was set alight and Banotaj had returned to stand with Raklion and the godspeakers from both sides of the conflict, sacrifice was made by Wyngra and one of Bajadek’s godspeakers. The bull-calf blood was caught in two gold cups and presented to the warlords. The warlords unsheathed their knives and slashed their arms, they dripped their blood into their cups, then swapped them, in silence. In silence they drank, in sight of the god and its godspeakers and the gathered warriors, to signify an end to war.
“Banotaj warlord,” said Raklion, as his wounded arm was bound with linen. No godspeaker healing for this hurt, there must be a scar to record the peace. “The days of Et-Bajadek are done with and dead. That name now passes into history. You are Banotaj warlord of Et-Banotaj.”
Bajadek’s son had a sulky mouth. His eyes were small, and too far apart. His teeth were bad, with empty pits no longer jeweled. Healed of his battle wounds, the scars still livid, he said, begrudging, “Raklion warlord. I will take my warriors and return to my city, now that proper honors are done.”
Raklion nodded. “My warhost will camp one more night on thi
s Plain of Drokar. At newsun I will take funerary ashes from my pyres and depart. My quarrel was with Bajadek, defier of the god’s want. He is dead. The god desires peace between us. My son ripens in Et-Nogolor’s Daughter. Sire your own son, Banotaj. Teach him the lessons learned here this day and in doing so you will appease the god.”
Banotaj’s small, wide eyes slitted with impotent rage. “You are not my father, to give me advice.”
Raklion leaned close. “That is true. I killed your father. Let his death be his last lesson to you.”
“I was told a girl-child killed Bajadek,” said Banotaj, his whole face a sneer. “ You were crawling in the mud.”
They had drunk the peace blood; striking the boy would be a sin. Raklion bared his teeth, though, to hint at possibilities. “I am the warlord, Banotaj. All your dead warriors died by my hand.”
Banotaj smiled. “The warrior who killed my father is loved by me for slitting his throat. Which one is she, Raklion? Take me to her. I would give thanks for her clever knife. She has saved me from a tedious task.”
Raklion stared. Banotaj would plot his own father’s death? No wonder Bajadek had sought Et-Nogolor’s Daughter if this was a sample of his get. Disgusted, he folded his arms.
“Our business is finished. Take your misguided godspeakers and your defeated warriors and go. Think not to disturb the peace of Mijak, unless you are eager for the god to smite you as today it smote your father.”
Banotaj spat on the Plain of Drokar and walked away.
The night air was heavy with the stench of burned flesh. No kind breeze dispersed the smoke or the stink. With Hano beside him, Raklion watched Banotaj and his people depart the silent battlefield.
“You should rest now, Raklion,” said Hano, solicitous. His temper was sweet again, their friendship returned. “All is done that can and should be done. Come newsun we will gather our fallen’s ashes to take home to the godhouse, then sing songs of their courage all the way to Et-Raklion.”
Raklion nodded. “Will you rest with me? My heart is heavy with our losses, Hano. This is one night I would not be alone.”
“Of course,” said Hano. His eyes were gentle, and pleased. “You are my warlord and my friend.”
What Raklion wanted was to rest with Hekat, but no warlord could lie with a common warrior. A chance child of their coupling would be abomination. Warlords fucked concubines and sired children on women bred from warlord blood. He could not—must not—lie with Hekat.
His body ached for need of her.
“Come, friend,” he said, and draped an arm about Hano’s muscled shoulders. “Lighten my heart and make me smile. Tomorrow we return victorious to Et-Raklion. Show me how to celebrate tonight.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
They returned triumphant to Et-Raklion, and Et-Raklion greeted them with song and sacrifice. The warhost paraded the streets of every district so the people might see Raklion warlord and his mighty warriors, smiters of Bajadek, fist of the god. Even the slaves were allowed to dance. Raklion laughed as his people threw flowers, and coins, and amulets. His warriors kept the wilting flowers, Nagarak’s godspeakers took the rest.
Riding beside him, Hano laughed. “You should show your face to the city more often, warlord. See how they love you? Like your warriors, they love you.”
Raklion smiled, it was not his answer.
They would love me better if I gave them a son. Six godmoons from now I will have one to give them. Then will I show my face more often. Then will they have good reason to love me. Triumph is fleeting. A son is forever.
The ashes of Et-Raklion’s fallen were interred in the godhouse, where Nagarak and his godspeakers prayed for them three highsuns without ceasing. Raklion prayed with them for one highsun, then for two highsuns witnessed his warriors’ funeral games for the fallen. Hekat danced before him, one warrior among thousands. Raklion pretended not to see her, he did not smile. Hano sat with him, he would not approve were she singled out.
Five highsuns after the funeral games were ended, as the night cooled towards the quiet time, he was disturbed in his private chamber by a body slave.
“Trader Abajai is in the palace, warlord,” the slave said softly. “He requests an urgent audience.”
Abajai ? Intrigued, concerned, Raklion put aside the tablet he was reading, dressed in his finest blue linen robe and crimson wool cloak and received the Trader in his public chamber. Abajai had not come alone, his partner Yagji attended with him.
“Warlord,” said Abajai, prostrated beside Yagji on the marble floor.
Straight-backed in his warlord’s chair, Raklion gestured for them to rise. “Traders. Why do you disturb my peace? Do you bring me further word of trouble on the road?”
Abajai bowed. “No, warlord. We bring you word of trouble in your warhost.”
In his warhost? Raklion frowned, and put a bite in his voice. “What do Traders know of my warhost? It is warlord business, and none of yours.”
Yagji whimpered. “Warlord, please hear us. We have had word something precious of ours is in your possession.”
Something of theirs ? Raklion drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I cannot see how this is so. A warlord has no need of Trader baubles.”
With a sharp glance at Yagji, Abajai stepped forward. A bold move, he was clearly distressed. “Warlord, may I explain?”
“You may. Swiftly. Or be swiftly punished for your temerity.”
The Traders had worn their costliest robes, which was only proper. Abajai slid his hands into his green silk sleeves and said, “Warlord, you know Traders oft trade in whispers.”
“I do.”
“You also know whispers whispered to us, then to you, have served you honestly in the past.”
He let them see his growing impatience. “We do not whisper now, Abajai. Now we speak plainly.”
Yagji flinched, and Abajai nodded. “Warlord. It is whispered to us that Bajadek warlord was slain by a knife-dancer in your warhost. It is whispered she is a mere child, who appeared in your barracks from nowhere, alone, a handful of godmoons ago. Is that a true whisper, warlord, or must we smite the whisperer as a sinning liar?”
Raklion felt his heart thud, once. Hekat . What mischief was this? “Bajadek warlord was slain by a knife-dancer. That is true.”
Yagji yelped and scuttled closer. “Warlord, warlord, is her name Hekat? Aiece! Your face tells me it is! Warlord, you are wickedly sinned against, you are her victim! We are her victims, Aba and me! Warlord, this Hekat is a runaway slave , bought by us in the savage north! She cost us a fortune in food, in clothing, in hiring a tutor to—”
Raklion lowered his upraised hand. “Trader Abajai. This is true?”
Abajai nodded, and the godbells braided into his hair chimed in sorrowful agreement. “Warlord, it is. If the knife-dancer Hekat is the girl I paid coin for beyond the lands of Et-Jokriel.”
“This knife-dancer claims to come from Et-Nogolor.”
“We passed through Et-Nogolor on our way to Et-Raklion,” said Abajai. “But she did not come from there.”
Raklion hid his pain behind his face, his heart beat hard with cruel foreboding. “The knife-dancer we speak of bears no slave-braid.”
“She ran away before it was given her,” said Yagji, his glance at Abajai an accusation. “Warlord, truly, she is our slave.”
“What does she look like, this runaway Hekat?”
“She is beautiful, warlord,” said Abajai. “I could have sold her for five thousand gold pieces, that is the limit of her beauty.”
It was the limit. Traders could not sell a ruined face full of scars. But to him Hekat’s scars were nothing. To him she was beyond a price. Hekat his warrior, his knife, his dancer. But if she were a runaway slave . . .
Hekat . . . Hekat . . . what have you done?
“Who knows of this?” he said. “Who have you told, that my warrior is your missing property?”
“No-one, warlord,” said Abajai. “It hurts our reputation to b
e known as Traders who cannot control a single girl-child. And the whispers might be wrong. Until we see her, nothing is certain.”
Raklion struck the bronze summoning bell. “Send to the barracks for the warrior Hekat,” he told its answering slave. “Bring her before me, with discretion.”
He waited in silence, without looking at the Traders. They stood together and stared at their feet, they knew better than to tempt his temper with uninvited talk.
Hekat . . . Hekat . . . what have you done?
She came to him softly, her bare feet kissing the cold marble floor. Her hurts from the battle were completely healed. Even her spiderweb scars were fading, turning to silver with the passage of time. She wore a linen training tunic, badly sewn around the hem. Her snakeblade was belted at her waist. In her left ear, her arrowhead dangled.
She saw Abajai and Yagji, and stood quite still.
“Hekat,” said Raklion, his belly twisting, his loins on fire. “The Traders Abajai and Yagji disturb my rest with a tale of you. They claim your ownership. They say you are property, their runaway slave. Is this falsehood or is this truth?”
Before she could answer, Yagji turned on her. “You wicked brat, you ungrateful wretch, you horrible horrible little liar!” His eyes were bulging, spittle flecked his lips. “Retoth was flogged because of you, I couldn’t keep a meal down for three full highsuns, he wept and pleaded for mercy so! How dare you run away from us? We saved you from that godforsaken village, we offered you life in the civilized south!”
She stood her ground in the face of his anger, like a knife-dancer on the field of war. “A life as a slave. I did not want that.”
Yagji gobbled. “Who are we to care what you want? You were bought and paid for, there is the end of it!”
“Hekat,” said Abajai. His face was disdainful. “You lied to yourself, you cannot lie here. You knew you were purchased. You were ignorant but you knew that much. What foolish tales you told yourself after, because I was wise and protected my investment, they are no concern of mine. You were my slave then. You are my slave now.”
