by Karen Miller
Nagarak turned. “Warlord—”
“You tell me I am not dead or dying? I will see her . Do not deny me, this is warlord business!”
Nagarak nodded to the novice, then looked at Raklion. “You are warlord of Mijak, with a warlord’s authority. That is the god’s will, I say nothing to that. But this is my godhouse, Raklion, I am its warlord. Do not raise your voice to me here, or think to command me like one of your warriors. No man sits above the scorpion wheel, I will see you on it and weeping for the god if once more you disrespect the god’s warlord within these walls.”
In Raklion’s wasted face, a tumult of feeling. “Forgive me,” he said, through teeth clenched tight. “As you say, I am warlord. My brain is filled with warlord thoughts, my journey has begun, it is not ended. It—”
“High godspeaker,” said the novice from the doorway. “Here is Hekat warleader, to see the warlord.”
Nagarak glared at her, she was a plague in his heart. She returned his stare calmly, she had no shame. “He is weary, warleader,” he said. “You will not tire him. Stay a short time only, I will know if you linger. I must commune with the god now. After newsun sacrifice we will speak of other matters. Come to me then, I will not see you before.”
That did not please her, anger flickered in her face. She was a proud, haughty woman too used to having her own way. Raklion had spoiled her, it was a great pity.
Reluctantly, she nodded. “High godspeaker.”
Raklion was smiling, his eyes shone to see her. “Thank you for your care of me, Nagarak. I am grateful, I will remember your words.”
Nagarak closed the chamber door behind him. He stalked through the godhouse, godspeakers scattering before him.
As the god is my witness I will bring that bitch down. She has given us Zandakar, she saved Raklion in the crater. Let that be her legacy. Let her now rot.
Raklion held out his thin hand, he did not rise from his bed. “Hekat. Beloved. Come, sit beside me.”
Pushing aside her hatred of Nagarak, she crossed to the low stool placed near to Raklion’s pillows and sat. He looked ancient and wasted, his silver godbraids had no life. “Warlord.”
“Hekat . . .” Smiling, he stroked her scarred cheek. “Will you dress yourself in nothing but plain linen? What must I do, what can I say, that will convince you to dress in silk and wool and golden jewelry! You are Hekat, you are beautiful. You are beautiful and mine.”
She shook her head. “I am Hekat, the god’s knife-dancer. I have no need for silk and bangles. My snakeblade is my jewelry, my beauty is the dance.”
“You are Hekat, slayer of two warlords,” he said, easing himself beneath his blankets. “You will sit at my right hand as I reshape Mijak. The other warlords will quail before me, for you are the snakeblade in my fist.”
“What other warlords?” she asked him, smiling. “Those sinning men, are they not thrown down in the dirt?”
He laughed, it was a sickly sound. “Yes. They are thrown down. Together you and I will see they stay down, or die.” He sobered. “I see in your face how changed I appear. Do not fret, beloved. Nagarak promises I will be myself again in time.”
Nagarak was lying, did he know it or was he blind? Raklion was ruined, he would never be the same. She would not say so, she had need of him yet. “It pleases me to hear it, warlord. And until then you will trust me as your voice? You will trust me to continue what the god began at the Heart of Mijak? The warlords are chastened now, Raklion, but if they are not beaten to the ground and their warhosts taken from them, their godhouses taken from them, everything that made them warlords, if it is not all taken from them soon they will rise to their knees and then to their feet. They will turn to demons and abandon the god.”
The chamber was lit with a handful of candles. In the soft light she watched him smile again. “Aieee, my knife-dancer. So savage for the god, so savage for me.”
I am savage for Zandakar, he will not inherit chaos . “I am the god’s servant, Raklion. I do not rest until its will is done.”
“I know. You are fearless.” His words were slurred, his gaze unfocused. “I trust you, Hekat. You speak with my voice. Together you and Nagarak will subdue the warlords. You will take from them what they must lose. You will continue what the god began at the Heart of Mijak. And when I am myself again, I will finish it.”
“You honor me, warlord. I am humbled in your eye.”
“Tcha,” he said. “Will I forget how you saved me from Bajadek and his son? My life and Zandakar, you have gifted me with both. I do not forget it, you are Mijak’s first woman. All other women are beneath you.”
She touched his wrist. “Where I am, warlord, the god has placed me. If I have saved you, you also saved me. You did not return me to Abajai and Yagji, or give me to Nagarak for killing on a godpost.”
“The god would not let me,” said Raklion. “It meant you for my warlord bed.”
That is the least thing I am meant for . “You are the warlord. You know the god’s want.”
He nodded, slowly. “When I am well again I will ride with my warhost through the streets of Et-Raklion. You will ride at my right hand, you and Zandakar. The people will see my son beside me, they will see you, his mother, the warhost’s warleader with my heart in your hands.”
She smiled to think of it. “Godspeakers will stand on every street corner. The word will ring out with godbells of the god’s desire. One Mijak. One warlord.”
Who soon will be Zandakar. I am his mother, I will be his voice.
Raklion heaved an unsteady sigh. “Hekat, beloved, I am so weary. I must sleep now. Stay. Hold my hand.”
“Of course, warlord.”
As he slid into dreams he whispered, sadly, “Aieee, sweet Hekat. I am sorry for Hanochek.”
Tcha. I am not . She sat beside him, she held his hand. In the chamber’s silence, as Raklion slept, fears and suspicions seeped once more into her heart.
Vortka is wrong, Zandakar’s fall was no accident. Demons seduced him to wickedness in the hope he would die. In causing his death they seek to thwart the god. He is born to destroy them, he will be the god’s hammer when he is a man. The god saved him this time . . . what of the next?
For there would be a next time, and a next, and a next. The demons had to destroy him if they were to survive. Demons were wily, the god did not always defeat them. Had she not read that in the godhouse library, as Zandakar grew inside her belly? Yes, she had read it, tale after tale of demons thwarting the god. If the god itself could be thwarted by demons, so could she. I am not the god . And if they succeeded in killing Zandakar, what would the god do? Would it abandon her, reject her, cast her down in the dirt? Would Hekat the godtouched become Hekat the godforsaken?
I am the god’s knife-dancer, it is my purpose to lay its enemies low. If I fail to protect Zandakar, if the god’s hammer is destroyed, the god will desert me. It will not see Hekat, she will be dead in its eye.
There was only one answer. She must create another son. One to be warlord and hammer if the demons triumphed and Zandakar died. The thought of him dying was a knife in her breast. She bit her knuckle to the bone.
I need a man to sire me a second son. A man with the power to wake the crystal. It cannot be Vortka, I must have faith. The god will send that man to me, I live in its eye, I am its willing slave. It will send me another man in its time.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
A breath before newsun Hekat ate a brief breakfast with Zandakar on her private palace balcony. He was woeful, his five highsuns of penance in the godhouse shrine garden commenced after his honeyed cornmush and sadsa.
“You will be warlord, Zandakar,” she told him, unrelenting. “You cannot be warlord with an unclean heart.”
“No, Yuma,” he murmured, he did not lift his gaze from his cornmush bowl.
“When the god knows you are penitent, when it has heard all your prayers, you will live again. You will rejoin the world. You will be my son, the warlord Zandakar.”
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br /> He sighed. “Yes, Yuma.”
A slave came to the doorway. “Warleader, there is a godspeaker.”
Zandakar sighed again and slid from his chair. He wore his linen training tunic and plain brown leather leggings, as soon as the seamsters were finished he would wear blue-striped Didijik.
Not even five highsuns of prayer will teach him a better lesson.
“The god see you, my son,” she told him. “Live in its eye.”
He pressed his small fist to his breast, his godbells were mournful. “The god see you, Yuma. I will live in its eye.”
She ate more quickly when he was gone, she must hurry to the barracks for newsun sacrifice. She was the warleader, it was her expected place. Besides, if she did not attend sacrifice there she must attend it in the godhouse and already she was tired of Nagarak’s sour face.
I must meet him after sacrifice and discuss warlord business. That will be enough time spent in his shadow.
She cantered the red mare to the barracks and left it in the stables, she must walk to the godhouse after or invite Nagarak’s wrath. She did not have Zandakar as an excuse today.
The warhost was assembled and ready for sacrifice, she knelt on the grass among them, one of them, Hanochek had never done that. She felt their cautious approval, it pleased her. When sacrifice was done she spent some little time showing them her unchanged face, letting them see that she was still Hekat, still a knife-dancer, she wore a plain linen tunic, she did not wear gold. No-one mentioned Hanochek, if they missed him she could not see it in their eyes. Their eyes were warm, they were pleased to see her.
You are Zandakar’s warhost, I hold you in my hands.
She took Arakun aside. “How fare the warriors of those fallen warlords?”
Arakun’s twisted face twisted further in a smile. “Warleader, they spent a wise night, they did not cause trouble. I think the memory of that sinner you slew rode them in their unquiet dreams.”
She nodded. “Good. Collect the other shell-leaders, sit together in the warlodge. Distribute those warriors among yourselves, each according to their skills and temperaments. Let our warriors of Et-Raklion keep them busy, let them see how hopeless rebellion is. I go to meet Nagarak, we must soon move to subdue all of Mijak with our sharp knives.”
“Yes, warleader,” said Arakun, and shook his head. “It is a fierce blessing, Hekat, to be the warhost of Mijak.”
“If we were not worthy the god would not raise us high,” she told him. “After you have decided what to do with those warriors, Arakun, you and the shell-leaders must consider the expansion of our warhost. Soon the warhosts of those fallen warlords will join us, they must have somewhere to sleep at night and we must decide how best they will serve our purpose.”
“Join us?” said Arakun. “Warleader, they will come to Et-Raklion?”
“Of course,” she said, staring. Was the man stupid? “Mijak’s warhost cannot be scattered, not until those other warriors are tamed. Until that time the warhost must dwell here, in our barracks. Those inferior warriors must be trained to our ways.”
Arakun’s jaw dropped. “Forgive me, warleader. In our barracks? On the Pinnacle? I think that is impossible, I think the barracks is stretched to breaking already, in the past few seasons Raklion has recruited so many more warriors.”
“Tcha! I know that.” She cowed him with a scornful look. “Slaves will be brought from the other cities, they will toil until a new barracks is built. On the flatlands and far slopes of Raklion’s Pinnacle, there is a great deal of open ground there.”
“Yes,” said Arakun, sounding cautious. “We skirmish over it with the new recruits . . .”
“We will have all of Mijak for our skirmishing. That is where the new barracks will be built. When I return from meeting Nagarak I wish to hear your thoughts on its design and how best we will salt our shells with so many new warriors. We will need many more shells and shell-leaders, you will give me a list of those you think deserve that rank, I will discuss it with you shell-leaders and make my decision in my time.”
Arakun pressed his fist to his breast. “Yes, warleader.” He sounded daunted.
“Arakun,” she said. “We have worked well together in the past. You have been a man who hears my voice. Should I now seek a man with sharper hearing?”
He shook his head, his godbells chimed his fervent alarm. “No, warleader. There is nothing the matter with my hearing.”
She smiled. “Good.”
He saluted her again. “Warleader, all will be done as you command.”
She left him and walked leisurely to the godhouse, through the barracks that were her home. She would not hurry for Nagarak, he must learn to wait for her. As she walked she inspected the forges where the snakeblades were born, she dallied with the fletchers making their arrows and the craftsmen who constructed the bows. She inhaled the rich scents of leatherworkers’ row, where a warrior grown too old for fighting presented her with a bridle for Zandakar’s new pony. It was small and perfect, inlaid with lapis lazuli and banded with silver.
“The god sees you, Hekat warleader,” said the battered old man. He had lost an eye to war, he had lost two fingers and one of his feet. There was water on his cheeks. “I served Raklion’s father, the warlord Ragilik. I served Raklion warlord, who is warlord of Mijak. If the god desires I will serve his son. Zandakar the beautiful, he is known by that name.”
The bridle was as perfect as her son. “Warrior, you have served him already,” said Hekat, touched. “Raklion will know of this gift, when his godhouse business is behind him he will come to thank you himself. What is your name, we have not met before.”
The old man pounded his fist against his breast, almost too overcome to speak. “I am Tuglia. I was a knife-dancer.”
“You are still a knife-dancer, Tuglia,” she said, clasping his shoulder. “In your heart, you dance with your knife.”
She left him weeping, and went to meet Nagarak.
“You bring an animal harness into my chamber?” he demanded. He did not rise as she entered. He was a man with no manners, too arrogant to live.
She looked at the silver and lapis pony bridle. “It is a gift for Zandakar from a brave godseen warrior. You say I should drop it in the dirt?”
“I say you should sit so we might talk of things that matter. I am high godspeaker of Mijak, I have much to do.”
She dropped to the other chair in the cold, spare chamber, the bridle she laid carefully across her lap. It was the only beautiful thing in the room. “Before we talk of Mijak, tell me: is Hanochek gone? Is he taken from Et-Raklion?”
“Yes. He is gone,” Nagarak admitted. He hated to tell her even that small a thing.
I must not care for that, is Nagarak important? I think he is not . “To Et-Jokriel, in secret, as I suggested?”
“Yes. To Et-Jokriel, in secret.”
She felt the fiercest joy well up inside her, she wanted to sing, to dance, to shout. He is gone, he is gone, I am free of him forever! She nodded. “That is good, Nagarak. It is good for the warlord, for Mijak and my son. You must never tell them where Hanochek is sent. Let it be our secret. Let it not burden their hearts. If they ask, say it is the god’s want.”
Nagarak nodded, grudging. “Agreed.”
She swallowed a smile. “How fares the warlord this newsun, after his healing?”
“He is much improved.”
“How long before he can ride to war? The warhost must chasten Et-Banotaj city. Those people must be taught how to kneel on the ground. Of all the cities they must be taught first, they were led by a warlord who consorted with demons.”
Nagarak looked down his nose. “Raklion will teach them, in the god’s time.”
Tcha. He was not stupid, he was being difficult. She leaned forward. “Nagarak, we have the warlords, we do not have their warhosts. Before many highsuns their warhosts will ride on us, they will know, or suspect, their warlords are in Et-Raklion, they will come to claim them unless they are subd
ued. If Raklion is not well enough for war, then I will lead Et-Raklion’s warhost, I will make war on the cities of those fallen warlords, I will smite them with my snakeblade, I will smite them for the god!”
Nagarak stood and crashed his fist on his stone desk. He looked like the man in the hovel of her childhood, spittled and angry and wanting to hurt. “You smite nothing and no-one for the god, Hekat. The god will smite you in your arrogant pride!”
She wanted to slap him, she kept her hands by her side. “Aieee, Nagarak! You are stupid. If I am arrogant does it mean I am wrong ? Do you say the cities must not be subdued? Do you say Et-Banotaj is not demon-tainted?”
“I do not say that! I am Mijak’s high godspeaker, I know where there are demons,” sneered Nagarak. “The warlord and I have spoken already. We know what must be done in Mijak, woman.”
They had spoken? Without her? Tcha, they were foolish. “Yes? Then you must also know it must be done quickly .”
Breathing heavily, Nagarak sat back in his chair. “Of course it must.”
Tcha, it was a wonder he did not drop dead from agreeing. “The warhost must ride within three highsuns, we can wait no longer,” she said. “Will Raklion be recovered enough by then?”
Nagarak stared at his barren stone desk. “No,” he said, frowning. “It will take longer than that for him to regain his strength.”
She felt her blood stir and her amulet quicken. “Then I will lead the warhost. Will those fallen warlords be chastened three highsuns from now?”
Nagarak smiled, if he had power over her she would grovel before him. “As we speak they are chastened. They will be chastened further.”
“They must ride with me to wicked Et-Banotaj. They must see that sinning city thrown down.”
“No,” said Nagarak. “They will ride with me . I am high godspeaker in Mijak, Hekat. The god is wrathful, its wrath is mine. There are warriors in Et-Banotaj, there are also godspeakers. Godspeakers are my business, they are not yours to chide.”
She looked at his sleeping stone scorpion pectoral and remembered it living and killing for the god. She remembered the warlords, smitten by the sight. “Agreed,” she said. “The godspeakers are yours. The warriors are mine, if they will not surrender they will die by my hand.”
