by Karen Miller
He flung out his gauntleted hand, pointing. Aieee, god, that he could not smite the sinning island from here. But they would reach it soon and then it would burn. Like the demons' ships had burned, they had burned and sunk, he had destroyed them. Hekat did not do that, Vortka did not touch them.
I destroyed them, I am the god's hammer.
He turned away from the sight of that island Ethrea, he turned for the empress but she was not there. Vortka was there, he was not laughing. He was not pleased to see Ethrea, nest of demons. In the pale light of newsun his silver godbraids were silent, his godbells were not singing.
He is an old, sinning man. The god cannot see him. The god sees me, Dmitrak warlord, its hammer.
“The empress is sleeping,” said Vortka, his voice low. “You should not wake her.”
He looked past the high godspeaker to the shelter on the warship's deck, where his mother the empress lay on a pallet, where warriors of his warship stood proud guard around her.
“Why is she sleeping? She is strong in the god's eye, she is the god's chosen. She wants to see Ethrea. Let her wake, let her rejoice!”
Vortka shook his head, his silver godbells muttered sourly. “I am Vortka high godspeaker. Hekat is asleep.”
Dmitrak stared at him. “You have made her sleep. With your healing crystal, you have—”
“ Hold your tongue ,” said Vortka. “She is the empress, she is not young, she needs her rest.”
He stared into Vortka's eyes. Aieee, god, there were secrets, there were things he was not told. “You do not wish to be here, Vortka. You did not want the god in the world. You tried to stop us sailing from Jatharuj. Are you a demon? Do you fight the god? ”
He felt the god's power burning his blood. He felt the power surge through him and into his gauntlet. The red crystals caught fire, the gold wire flared in the sun.
I could burn him, I could burn him, I could see Vortka die.
The warriors on the warship's deck were watching, they saw their warlord's rage. Vortka's godspeakers were watching, the god was in them. They would smite him if Vortka was struck down.
“ Dmitrak !” said the empress. “What is this? Are you mad?”
The power died in his gauntlet, he was a small child again, the empress was scolding. Her tongue was a snakeblade, she could draw blood.
He stepped back. “Empress.”
Hekat came forth from her shelter, she walked slowly but with pride. Her linen tunic was old, it was patched, it was blemished with salt stains. She did not care. She never did. There were bloodstains on her tunic, they had not all washed out. The blood was from his warriors that she gave to the god. Her face was thin, she looked tired, but her eyes burned for the god.
Vortka turned to her. “I left you sleeping,” he said, his voice soft. “You are the empress, you still need your rest.”
“Tcha,” said Hekat. “I was sleeping, I awoke. I heard the god laughing, I smelled demons in the wind.”
Dmitrak pointed. “You smelled Ethrea. Look.”
Hekat walked to the bow and stared across the water. Ethrea squatted on the ocean, it was green and wide and almost close enough to kill.
“The god sees me,” Hekat whispered. “The god sees me in its eye. The god sees Mijak, it sees Mijak in the world. We are the god's warriors, we are the scourge of demons, we will give the god Ethrea. Ethrea will fall.”
On the deck of the warship, the warriors began to chant. “ Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho! ”
Hekat turned to them, she was smiling. Her scarred face was full of joy. “Not yet. Your voices carry, your voices are loud for the god. We do not wish to wake the demons of Ethrea. When the time comes to wake them you will know. I will tell you.”
“ Empress !” said the warriors, and punched their fists to their chests. Dmitrak saw the love in their faces, he saw his warriors loving her, he had to look away.
I am the warlord. The warhost is mine. They should love me before her, is she the warlord? She is not.
And then the warrior tasked to cling to the warship's mast above its scorpion sail, and there keep watch for demons, cried out. A moment later he was echoed by watchers from the other ships of the warhost.
“A demon! A demon!”
Dmitrak called up to his warrior. “Grano! What did you see?”
Grano climbed down the mast like a spider. “A ship, warlord. It was there, and then it vanished, like those other demon ships who tried to kill us on the ocean.”
“Tcha,” said Hekat, scornful. “They think to warn their demon brother. Let them fly. Let them tell that demons' nest of Ethrea Hekat's warhost is coming. Will it make a difference? I think it will not.”
“Hekat,” said Vortka. He did not sound pleased that she was awake, there was something in his eyes that said he was not pleased. “We must sail to Ethrea, we are not there yet. Rest. You are weary.”
“Tcha,” she said, “how can I be weary? I am strong in the god, Vortka. The god sees me in its eye. You should make sacrifice. You should give the god its animal blood on this warship, the blood it drinks at lowsun will be the blood of Ethrea.” She laughed, she made her godbells sing. “I will make Ethrea a godhouse and give it to the god. I will make Ethrea a godpool, I will swim in its blood.”
Dmitrak stared at her, his own blood burning. She did not look at him, she did not speak to him, she did not laugh with him. She did not say Dmitrak and I . He was a horse to her, he was a snakeblade. He was a thing to use, she did not see him.
You will not do this without me, why do you forget?
Vortka and his godspeakers sacrificed for the god. Dmitrak watched the doves' blood flow and saw his warriors dying, he saw Hekat with her snakeblade give their sweet blood to the god. When they died he had wept for them. When their bodies burned on the warship she abandoned for their pyre, burned with their slain horses, burned because his gauntlet had fired them, aieee, the god see him, he had wept. Hekat had struck him. “ They served the god ,” she said. “ How dare you weep? ”
He dared weep because he loved them, he dared weep because he knew their names, they were warriors he had handpicked, they were the warlord of Mijak's shell.
On this warship she had taken as her own he had a new shell, he had new hand-picked warriors, but it was not the same. Those warriors she killed had been his first-chosen brothers. He knew their names, he knew their hearts, he knew their bones and their blood.
Every brother the god gives me is taken away. Why does the god do that? How have I sinned?
The godspeakers on every warship in the warhost performed their newsun sacrifice. Everywhere he looked he saw the bright flashes as the flesh of the sacred birds was consumed by the god. Ninety-four warships had been lost to the demons, but still it would swallow the world.
It will swallow Ethrea next. I will see it swallow Ethrea. I am the god's hammer. What is Hekat? An old woman. What is Vortka? An old man.
When sacrifice was over, Vortka left his godspeakers to stand with Hekat and Dmitrak looked around him at his mighty warhost. Every warship's sail had a big belly, the blustering trade winds made them fat. His warships ploughed the waves, they sailed swiftly towards Ethrea. The god wanted them on that island. It wanted Ethrean blood.
Do I need Vortka to tell me? Do I need Hekat to say it is so? I think I do not. I think I am the god's hammer, I know the god's want.
He looked at Hekat, standing in the bow with Vortka. The wind blew her godbraids, her godbells sang for the god. Her godbells sang a warning, she would be angry at his words.
Let her be angry. I am the warlord, I have a tongue, I will speak.
Tucked inside his horsehide jerkin was a rolled piece of cured sheepskin. On it was inked a map of Ethrea, taken from one of those ships that had sailed to Jatharuj and never sailed away. Captured sailors had shown him how to read it. So many times he had looked at the map, so long had he thought of ways to kill the demon island of Ethrea. When they were in Jatharuj he tried to talk of it with Hekat. She
sent him away, she said it was not time. Since they sailed from Jatharuj he tried to talk of strategy to Hekat, they were sailing to Ethrea and still she would not listen.
Ethrea is close, we can see it, almost touch it. Hekat the empress must listen to me now.
He pulled the map from his jerkin and joined Hekat and Vortka watching Ethrea, the nest of demons, looming larger and larger as the trade winds bellied their sail.
“Empress,” he said, “we must talk of Ethrea. We must talk of—”
“Tcha,” she said, she did not turn to look at him. “I have been a warrior since before you were born, Dmitrak. Do I need you to tell me how to lead my warhost? I think I do not. I think Hekat the god's knife-dancer knows what to do with her warhost.”
My warhost. My warhost . The words raged on his tongue, he did not speak them aloud.
She held out her hand. “Give me that map.”
He gave it to her and watched as she unrolled it on the warship's railing. She would not even let him unroll a map. He swallowed his anger, there was no use in shouting. She would not hear him. She heard only the god.
“Here,” said Hekat, her finger stabbing the inked sheepksin. She had also studied what it said. “This is Ethrea, yes?” Her finger stabbed again, quickly, around the edges of the island. “In this place Hartshorn , and this place Morvell , there were harbours, like Jatharuj. You see? Now there is a stone wall, what is stone to the god? Stone is nothing. Stone is like firewood, these are walls made of straw. You are the god's hammer, Dmitrak, you will smash that stone to pieces, you will break that stone wall down. When you have done that, half of my warhost will leap their horses from their warships. They will ride into the belly of Ethrea and eat it from the inside out.” She looked at Vortka, she was smiling. “Does the god's high godspeaker see my warriors, leaping? Does it see them devour this Ethrea from within?”
Vortka stared at the map, his face was calm, his eyes were frightened, why did Hekat not see that? Why did Hekat believe Vortka was pleased to be here?
I do not believe it, I am not blind.
“I see them, Empress,” said Vortka. “I see them.”
“Dmitrak,” said Hekat, and dug his ribs with her elbow. “Look here.” Her finger stabbed at the map again, she was still smiling. “This is Kingseat , it is a city and Ethrea's harbour. This city Kingseat is Ethrea's mouth. I will sail down its throat with the rest of my warhost. You will destroy this city. The god's hammer will destroy it. As my warriors kill the people you will kill every city in this demon island of Ethrea. That is your purpose. That is my plan. Did I need you to help me? Tcha . I think I did not.”
Dmitrak looked at the inked map of Ethrea. Her words were his thoughts. In Jatharuj he had thought of this plan. As they sailed with the warhost he knew it was right. He wanted to make his hands into fists, he wanted to shout at her: “ This was my plan .”
“Dmitrak.”
He looked up, she was staring, a challenge in her eyes. She was not smiling, she was ready to smite. “You say nothing, warlord. Is Hekat mistaken? Is the god's chosen knife-dancer wrong in her plan?”
He shook his head, his godbells sounded mournful. “No, Empress. This is a sound plan. This will kill Ethrea.”
“Yes, it is sound,” she said, as though he was stupid. As though he could never think of this plan himself. Then she looked at Vortka. “High godspeaker? I am not deaf, I hear the words you keep in your mouth. Speak them. I am listening.”
She always listened to Vortka. When he denied the god, when he challenged her decisions, when he shouted and argued and told her she was wrong, Hekat listened to Vortka.
I do not understand.
Vortka's godbraids shone silver in the light from the climbing sun. Their godbells sang softly, as though he was afraid. He should be afraid. The empress was the empress. She was a thing to fear.
“You can kill Ethrea,” he said, his voice was quiet. “You can kill every island in the world, every city, every nation breathing will die, if you desire. I have been thinking, I think you should think again.”
“Think again?” said Hekat. “Why? You have said you see my warriors, you see them for the god.”
“Think about Ethrea,” said Vortka, “and if it should die. Think what we have learned of this place, from the slaved sailors who know the world unknown to us.”
“I know what we have learned, Vortka,” said Hekat. “It will hold us and feed us and keep us as we sail to the rest of the world and give it to the god. That is its purpose, that is why we have sailed here.”
Vortka nodded. “Yes, it will, Hekat. No demon can prevent it. But remember Et-Raklion. There was the god, there were warriors, there were godspeakers, there were also slaves. If you kill Ethrea's people, there will be no slaves. You should not kill this island, you should tame it for the god. Give the god its people so they may worship and be its strength.”
Hekat shook her head. “Their blood is its strength, Vortka. They will worship as they die.”
“Hekat…” Vortka dared to touch her. “Will you kill the whole world? That is not the god's want. It wants the world living. It wants the world in its eye.”
She stepped back from him, her godbells sang a warning. “Do you know what the god wants, Vortka? When we were in Et-Raklion you said it wants the world. When we were in Jatharuj you said it does not. You said the god did not want the strong blood of humans, I gave it that blood and many demons died. The trade winds returned and now there is Ethrea, waiting to die.”
Dmitrak watched Vortka stand straight, he was old but he was still tall, he was not stooped with his years. “Hekat,” he said, “I am the high godspeaker, how can you ask if I know the god's want?”
Hekat touched his old and wrinkled cheek. Dmitrak watched her, the touch was gentle but her eyes were hard.
“All your life you have served the god,” she said softly. “You will serve it now by serving me. You are right, Vortka, Ethrea will be my new Et-Raklion. The world will be Mijak. How can it be Mijak if one demon still lives? The blood of Ethrea will destroy every demon. They will not stand against so much human blood, they will all die, and the god will have the world.”
He did not love her, he hated her, but Dmitrak smiled. “The god sees you, Empress. It sees you in its eye. This is how we will give it the world.”
She said nothing, she did not look at him. She looked only at the high godspeaker, an old man blind in the god's seeing eye. “Vorkta, remember Raklion,” she whispered. “Remember him on the scorpion wheel. Remember Hekat in the god's eye beside him, where Nagarak could not see her. Remember Hekat among the scorpions, remember Hekat dancing with Bajadek, with Hanochek, remember Abajai and Yagji. Vortka, remember Hekat. Remember all she has done.”
Vortka was weeping. Tears fell from his eyes. “I remember everything,” he whispered. “How can I forget? Do you forget Vortka and how he has served the god?”
Hekat stared at Vortka. Weeping Vortka stared in return. They were silent, they said no more to each other, yet Dmitrak thought they were shouting bitter words. Bitter shouting was in their eyes, in their faces, the salt air was crowded with the words they did not say.
She turned. “Fetch me paper and ink, warlord. I have messages for my warhost.”
Dmitrak nodded. My warhost. My warhost . “Yes, Empress,” he said, and did as he was told.
As the warhost sailed for the god towards Ethrea, Hekat wrote her messages for the warhost. The messages were sent from warship to warship, so every warrior knew what soon would come.
Another demon boat was spied by their lookouts. This one did not vanish, it tried to sail away. It could not sail fast enough to escape the warhost. Dmitrak sank it, his warhost chanted as it burned.
The godspeakers of Mijak went below the warships' decks to the horses, they used their healing crystals to stir the horses from their slumber, they used their healing crystals to wake the god in their blood. The warriors who were tasked to the rowing of the warships took hold of their o
ars, the trade winds blew, those warriors rowed hard, and the warhost flew the waves.
Ethrea came closer…and closer…
Rhian sat on the grass by the old castle tiltyard, methodically sharpening her knife, Ranald's knife. She'd already danced her hotas privately, with Zandakar. Now she waited alone, which suited her, for the day's first skein of soldiers to arrive so she could train with them. Sharpen them. Prepare them for battle.
It was four weeks and three days since the armada's return.
Autumn had sunk itself deep in Ethrea's bones. It was a cool morning, softly misted. The day promised fair. She could hear the bustle of the castle stables, behind the high brick wall at her back. Smell the hot mash cooking for the horses. There came a shout. A snatch of laughter.
We can still laugh, then. Surely all's not lost if Ethrea can still laugh.
Every day she received messages from Edward and Rudi to the north, from Adric and Ludo as they patrolled beyond duchy Kingseat's home districts, from Helfred's tireless clergy as they toiled in their parishes. Her people were ready. As ready as they could be.
Four weeks and three days. Ethrea was holding its breath. She held her breath with it. What else could she do?
I can dance my hotas. I can sharpen my blade. I can pray that somehow, this nightmare is spared us.
When Han stepped out of the air beside her she was so startled she fumbled her whetstone, nearly slicing off her fingers with her blade's newly keen edge.
“Han,” she said, sounding stupid. Feeling stupid. She'd abandoned hope of ever seeing him again.
Like the last time they'd met, he was wearing black silk. Four weeks later he still looked exhausted. His eyes were still angry. And yet…and yet…
“Mijak is sighted.”
Slowly, disbelieving, she unfolded to her feet. Her fingers slid the knife home in its sheath on her hip. “It can't be. I've not been given word, and I have boats patrolling—”
Han raised an eyebrow. “Is Ethrea the only nation with boats?”
“You mean you've been—” She took a deep breath, let it out in a rush. “And you're certain it's Mijak? There's no chance Harbisland or Arbenia or one of the other trading nations have miraculously changed their minds and—”
