The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  “High godspeaker,” he said, wary, as the door closed behind him. “I am come to you at the Empress’s command.”

  Vortka nodded. He was dressed in nothing but a loincloth and his scorpion pectoral, lean and weathered by his service to the god. His sacrifice knife lay on the altar before him. To one side, in their pens, the waiting sacrifices panted. “And by the god’s desire,” he said calmly. “Come closer, Zandakar. We have much to discuss.”

  He closed the distance between them, the leather satchel heavy in his hand. “Yuma said you will explain everything. Was she right?”

  Vortka snorted. “Is she ever wrong, warlord?”

  They exchanged rueful, conspiratorial smiles, and Vortka was Vortka again, even without his comfortable robes. His secret friend, since Dmitrak’s birth not a secret at all. After Yuma was made Empress his tutor was dismissed, and all the lessons that did not involve war he took with Vortka high godspeaker. They studied, they laughed, Vortka never chastised him, never froze him with cold, hard eyes, never whipped him on the scorpion wheel. There was never a time when he thought Vortka did not see him, see his true heart and know what he felt, and what to say.

  The way he knew what to say the newsun I was given Didijik’s tanned and stitched hide to wear for my sin. The way he knows, with no words being spoken, that I would gladly spend my life riding across Mijak with my warriors.

  And how being born the god’s hammer fills me with fear.

  Vortka said, sober now, “Since Dmitrak’s birth you have known what it is the god made you for, Zandakar. You have known what you are , but not what that means . Now it is time to learn its meaning. Now it is time to become the god’s hammer.”

  Zandakar felt his mouth suck dry. Not yet, not yet. I am not ready . “High godspeaker . . .”

  “I know,” said Vortka. His eyes were so kind. “Zandakar, I know. But this is your purpose, would you thwart the god? Give your godspark to demons? Defy the Empress?”

  He shivered. “No. I love the Empress, I worship the god. I have spent twelve seasons preparing for this moment, even though I did not know why, or what it meant. I will do what I must, it is why I was born.”

  “Good boy,” said Vortka. There were tears in his eyes. “I am proud of you, Zandakar. Aieee, god. You make me proud.”

  Hearing the words, his own eyes burned. He did not remember Raklion warlord clearly, the man had always been distant and so often unwell. Even on the journey through Mijak, all those dreamlike godmoons riding under the sun, knife-dancing with the warhost, seeing the god throw down the sinning cities, staring into the faces of the fallen warlords as they knelt and gave him their oaths, even though he had ridden all that time with Raklion, it was his mother the Empress he remembered best from those days. Then Raklion had died as Dmitrak was born, and after that there had been Vortka.

  Would I weep if Raklion warlord said he was proud? I do not think so. We were never close.

  He said, “Tell me what to do, Vortka. I do not know what I must do.”

  “Put down the satchel,” said Vortka. “And hand me a black goatkid from the pen. First we will sacrifice, then I will tell you what the god desires you to know.”

  Vortka’s sharp blade was merciful, he knew how to kill without causing pain. Twelve times he slaked the god’s thirst with sacred blood, twelve times the blood was collected and drunk. Zandakar struggled to control his heaving belly, hot blood on an empty stomach was a recipe for woe.

  When the sacrifice was over, the last white lamb’s carcass vanished in the air, Vortka put his knife aside and washed his hands in a basin of water. His eyes were still kind, they were also sad.

  I think he is like me , thought Zandakar, surprised. Vortka is sorry for the slain creatures .

  He would never say so. It might anger his mother, and the god.

  Vortka said, “In that leather satchel, Zandakar, is a powerful weapon. Your mother made it, the god told her how. Your mother made you, another powerful weapon. Now the god will tell you how you fit together, how together you and this weapon will be its hammer in the world.”

  The god ? Not Vortka? Zandakar stared. “I—I thought you were going to—Vortka. Vortka . I cannot speak to the god . The god, it is—it is—”

  “To be obeyed without question or complaint,” said Vortka, frowning. “Or have you lied to me in this sacred place? Are you the god’s willing instrument, Zandakar, or are you not?”

  He went cold, he was nearly sick. “I am. I am. I was born for the god. I was born for this weapon, the god will tell me how.”

  Vortka reached beneath the altar and withdrew a small godstone on a leather thong. “Put this on,” he said, handing it to him. “Your horse is waiting for you outside the godhouse. This godstone will tell you where to ride. When it is hot, you follow the god’s desire. When it is cold, you have turned the wrong way. When it drops from your neck, you have reached your destination. Leave your horse safely tied at a distance, sit on the ground beneath the sky. Take the weapon from the satchel, put it on and close your eyes. That is when the god will speak to you, Zandakar. That is when you will learn what you must know.”

  Zandakar nodded. “The god told you this?”

  “The god told your mother. Your mother told me.”

  Aieee, the Empress. Greater even than Vortka. He nodded again, and fumbled the godstone over his head. “I am ready.” He was lying, but what else could he say?

  Vortka smiled, again reading his heart. He came round the altar, he picked up the satchel. “Do not fear, Zandakar. You are the god’s chosen.”

  Vortka took the satchel from his friend, the high godspeaker, and was startled when Vortka kissed both his eyes. “The god see you, hammer. When you are finished in the wilderness, do not return here. Ride straight to the godtheater. I will wait for you there.”

  Zandakar nodded, he could not speak. He left the godhouse, found his horse, swung into the saddle and rode away, the godstone hot against his skin, the leather satchel heavy across his back.

  He rode hot and hard for nearly four fingers, the god was in him, urging him on. He rode far from Et-Raklion, into the wilderness, until the godstone dropped from his neck. Sweating, aching, he slid from his saddle and tied his horse to a tree, staggered twenty paces, then dropped to the ground.

  It was a wild place the god had brought him to, nothing living between him and the sky. He saw scattered boulders, a line of dead trees, heard the breathy chuckle of a nearby stream. No other sounds, the world was nearly silent. He opened the satchel and removed the god’s weapon, his breath caught in his throat as he saw what his mother had made. Red and gold, a thing of mystery. Fashioned by the god for brutal smiting. He emptied his lungs, it was nearly a sob, and with his heart pounding to pieces he put on the glove.

  And screamed, as the wilderness around him disappeared in a flash of white heat. Lost within that terrible maelstrom, Zandakar heard a distant voice. Thought he heard a voice. Thought he heard something.

  Is that me, screaming? God, am I dying? God, have I failed you? God, tell me what to do.

  Unimagined power flailed inside him, blinding, boiling, burning him away. There was pleasure and pain in a dreadful confusion. Almost he panicked and surrendered his reason. Then he heard Vortka, calm, his voice kind.

  I am proud of you, Zandakar. Aieee, god. You make me proud.

  He stopped fighting, then, he sat inside the chaos of his power and waited for the god to come. It came at last, it drowned him with its presence, in understanding without crude words. Poured knowledge into his empty mind, remade him in a blazing heartbeat, changed him in the blink of an eye.

  Clasping his arm, the weapon yearned to be free.

  Despite his godgiven knowledge he felt suddenly uncertain, clumsy, like a child again, learning hotas from his mother.

  Tchut tchut ! he heard her. Are you stupid? I think you are not. You can do this, Zandakar!

  He imagined the power within his control. He imagined it fiery but obedient, wil
d but responsive to his will. Like his stallion Davilik, snapping teeth and striking hooves, aggression contained with his voice, his hands, his heels.

  The power rippled, its mad outpouring slowed, slowed, slowed to a stop. He held his breath. Then, just as slowly, he felt the power pour back, pour strongly towards him, into his gold-and-crystal hand.

  Pouring . . . pouring . . . pouring . . .

  Complete.

  He opened his eyes. There was his hammer hand, gold-and-crystal fingers outstretched, there was the god’s power balanced on his palm.

  It felt as though he held the sun.

  He raised his arm. He clenched his fingers. He stared at a boulder thirty paces away. He breathed out slowly, and released the god’s wrath. Hot white light streamed from his fist and struck the boulder. With a thundering boom the rock blew apart in dust and shards. Davilik whinnied, he danced and plunged. The horse was well trained, it did not run.

  With the god’s mighty weapon he destroyed six more boulders, he reduced four trees to splinters, he boiled the chuckling stream in its rocky bed. The power sustained him, it fed him with life. He released it like a fireball and punched a smoking crater in the ground. Laughing, exultant, he held his fist high, his body on fire with pleasure and power. His mind was spinning, he was drunk on sadsa squeezed from the sun.

  After he laughed, he wept like a child. He knew now what the hammer was, he knew now what he was. He was Zandakar, he was a stranger.

  I am the god’s hammer, born to smite the world.

  It was a difficult thing, to remove the god’s weapon. It felt like his own flesh, solid blood and bones of gold. Carefully he returned the glove to the satchel, carefully he threaded his arms through the satchel’s straps. He swung onto his stallion, his body still thrumming with the remnants of power. A liquid pleasure was in his loins, like the pleasure he felt when he fucked a godhouse vessel. That was not something he had looked for.

  Ride to the godtheater , Vortka had told him.

  Trusting the god to guide him through the wilderness, Zandakar turned his horse for the city.

  He reached Et-Raklion city a bare finger before lowsun. Its streets were crowded, they were always crowded. The godspeakers saw him approaching, they cleared a path swiftly. He reached the godtheater while there was still light.

  It was filled with people, warriors and citizens, and more godspeakers than were usually present. He rode in behind the huge stone platform, slid dirty and sweat-stained to the flagstoned ground. A slave took his stallion, he ran up the platform’s steps to its top.

  The Empress was waiting on her scorpion throne, and Dmitrak behind it. Vortka stood at the altar, in his finest high godspeaker robes. In the dirt at the steps of the platform, a godforsaken criminal on her knees.

  “Zandakar, my precious son,” said his mother. She was dressed in red silk, her wrists were laden with gold bangles, her godbells were shining and so were her eyes. “Tell me you have met the god. Tell me it has spoken to you, and you are returned from the wilderness a man reborn. Returned the god’s hammer, to smite the world.”

  Dimmi was staring at him with a puzzled frown, dressed plainly, as usual. Zandakar spared his little brother the swiftest smiling glance. “Empress, I met the god. I return from the wilderness a man reborn, I am the god’s hammer born to smite the world.”

  With a triumphant look at Vortka, she raised herself from the scorpion throne. Zandakar, so close to her, saw the violent pain in her eyes. She took his hand and guided him beside her, to stand and face the multitude.

  “People of Mijak!” she called to the hushed, waiting crowd. “Here is Zandakar, my beautiful son. He is your warlord, he is much more than that! He is the god’s hammer, born to smite the wicked world!”

  An excited buzzing from those close enough to hear her, voices repeating her words into the crowd. She let them whisper, she let them gasp, she turned to him and said, “The god spoke to you?”

  He nodded. “Yes, Yuma.”

  “The weapon is yours, you have made it your own?”

  “Yes, Yuma.”

  She laughed. “Then put it on, my beautiful son. Become the god’s hammer, your purpose in the world.”

  It was like rejoining himself, sliding his hand and arm into the gold-and-crystal glove. In the sinking sunlight the weapon caught fire. The crowd cried out to see it, they pointed and sighed. He closed his eyes and called on the god, he felt its power ignite inside him, he felt his blood burst into flame. He raised his hand above his head, pointed his fingers at the sky. Blue-white fire streamed from his body, he heard the crowd shouting, he heard some screams.

  “ Behold the god’s hammer, he will smite the world!”

  It seemed to Zandakar his mother’s words reached him from far away, as though she stood in the godhouse and whispered on the wind. The cheering of the watching crowd seemed just as distant, not quite real.

  “ Zandakar warlord! Zandakar godhammer!”

  He opened his eyes. The power still poured from him, like one of Mijak’s underground rivers it flooded without ceasing into the sky, he thought it might even singe the sun.

  Beside him his mother looked at him, proudly smiling. “Now kill the prisoner. Smite it with the god’s hammer, Zandakar.”

  Kill the—Startled, he pulled back the blue-white fire and spoke without thinking. “Yuma? Are you certain?”

  Nothing angered her more swiftly than to have her word questioned. Her lips tightened, her eyes narrowed, he felt the echoing crack of the taskmaster’s cane. As he stepped back she said, “When have you known me not to be certain?”

  “Empress,” he said, and bowed his head.

  Vortka came forward, he trod the stone steps down to the dirt and cut the godforsaken criminal’s bindings. She was a large, clumsy woman with small breasts and wide hips, her skin was not uniformly dark, but strangely patchy, pale and brown. She bore a scarlet godbraid, she was a slave.

  Zandakar looked at the god’s gold-and-crystal hammer, he felt his power simmer, like water on the fire. All he had to do was to take a deep breath and release it. He did not.

  “Zandakar,” said his mother, softly, the edge of a snake-blade in her voice.

  I have killed before, why do I hesitate? She is condemned, godforsaken, yes she breathes but she is dead.

  His gaze flicked sideways, his mother was waiting. He looked over his shoulder, at his staring brother. Dmitrak’s gaze was eager, his fingers were fists. He had yet to make his first kill as a warrior, but not because he was not keen.

  I am the god’s hammer, its chosen, its weapon. What I do with my power, I do for the god.

  “ Zandakar ,” the Empress commanded.

  He raised his gold-and-crystal fist and killed the slave.

  The blue-white stream struck her, it turned her to flame. She stood before him a burning pillar, she burned to nothing, to a sifting of ash. The power seared him, this time it was different, it was not the same as smashing rock. He felt it smite him, curdle his blood and melt his bones. He cried out as the crowd cried his name, he heard Dmitrak shouting, heard Vortka gasp.

  He did not hear his mother’s voice.

  The power left him, he swayed on his feet, he felt weak and dizzy. He could have wept. It was Vortka who went to him, who helped him to steady. His mother ignored him, she turned to the crowd.

  “See the god’s might in him! See its proud fury! He is my son, he is Zandakar, the god’s hammer!”

  Trembling, he stripped the gold-and-crystal glove from his arm. His skin was unmarked, he had expected to see scars. He felt tentative fingers touch his tunic, he turned and looked down to see Dmitrak, staring.

  “Zandakar—Zandakar—what happened to your hair?”

  His hair ? He snatched up a godbraid and held it before his eyes. It was blue. It was blue .

  “Zandakar, tell me,” Dmitrak whispered. “Tell me how it feels to kill like the god!”

  He could not answer. All he could do was stare at his godbraid, b
lue as the blue fire, blue as its merciless killing flame.

  “I cannot explain it,” said Vortka, in a low voice. “Except to think it is the god’s mark upon you, the god’s mark of favor, that you smote a sinner in its name.”

  His hair did not change when he used his power to smite rock and earth. This had happened because he killed a human. He did not understand it, he likely never would.

  “You are godtouched, Zandakar,” said his mother, delighted. “I have always known it. Now the world will know, too.”

  The patch-skinned slave was not the last criminal he hammered before he rode from Et-Raklion at the head of the warhost. Every highsun, in the silent godtheater, he smote five more godforsaken sinners. He smote them in front of his witnessing warhost, he smote them in front of godspeakers and ordinary folk brought in from Et-Raklion’s outlying villages, and from all the cities and villages in Mijak.

  “ The word must spread ,” his mother told him. “ Every godspark in Mijak must know who you are .”

  He did not question, he was serving the god.

  When he wasn’t smiting criminals in the godtheater, he was training with the warhost, preparing to ride. He knew now what the god’s plan was for him, he knew he must lead the warhost into the world. Or, at least, his mother the Empress must lead it, with him by her side, smiting wherever and whatever the god told him to smite.

  Dmitrak would not be riding with them.

  “It’s not fair ,” his brother wept, inconsolable. “I am old enough to be a blooded warrior, I have heard the stories, she joined the warhost when she was my age.”

  Sitting beside him on his small bed, Zandakar sighed, and patted his shoulder. “Dimmi, if it were only a question of joining the warhost, then—”

  “ Do not call me Dimmi !”

  He withdrew his hand. “Forgive me. Dmitrak. If it were only a question of joining the warhost, then there is no doubt. You would be assigned to a shell. But we are not remaining in Mijak, we will cross the Sand River into the unknown. Yuma is being careful, she does not want to risk you, she—”