The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  “No,” said Han. “Trust me on this, Rhian. Once seen, the warships of Mijak can't be mistaken for a Keldravian galley or a trireme from Barbruish.”

  “No,” she whispered. “I don't suppose they can.”

  “My witch-men have told me they are sailing not for Kingseat, but towards the coastline of Hartshorn.”

  “Hartshorn?” she said, staring across the tiltyard. That first skein of soldiers would be here soon. “So Zandakar was right. He said Mijak would send some of its warriors into Ethrea to harry the duchies while it sailed on to attack Kingseat harbour directly.”

  “ Zandakar ,” said Han, tightly. “Rhian—”

  “I couldn't do it,” she said, and looked at him. “Han, I couldn't give him to you. Not just because I needed him for Ethrea, but because—”

  “I would've hurt him,” said Han. “I'd have killed him, for my slain witch-men.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that would be wrong.”

  “Very wrong. Yes.”

  Han sighed. “So Sun-dao told me, blown by the wind to reprove me for my anger.”

  “ Sun-dao …” Well, why not? First Hettie, then Marlan. Why not the emperor's dead brother? “I suppose I'd look foolish if I asked how he is.”

  “Foolish?” said Han. He was almost smiling. “Perhaps. But kind, also.”

  “Kind?” Rhian looked down at herself, at the battered huntsman's leathers that had become her second skin. At the knife-hilt calluses that roughened her fingers and palm. “Han, I don't remember the last time I felt kind.” She looked up again. “Your presence. Your warning. Does this mean Tzhung-tzhungchai has forgiven me? Do Han and his witch-men pledge their help to Ethrea, again?”

  He placed his hands palm to palm and offered her a formal bow. “Your Majesty, we do.”

  She lost sight of him for a moment, in a blurring of tears. “Thank you,” she said, her voice husky. “And…thank you for returning my horse, by the way.”

  Surprise and amusement flashed vivid across his face. “Rhian, little girl-queen…Tzhung's emperor has missed you.”

  She touched his silk-clad arm with her fingertips. “And Ethrea's queen has missed you, Han.”

  Then they both turned at the sound of her soldiers, approaching. Their private moment was over…

  It was time to go to war.

  Dmitrak stood in his warship's bow with Hekat, he stood beside the empress his mother and fed his eyes on Ethrea as the warhost prowled the walled edge of Ethrea, of Hartshorn , past fields and woodlands and snarling rocky places. They sailed close enough to the edge of Ethrea to see the faces of the men standing on their little stone wall, that could not protect them though they thought it would. They were dead men, standing, they were dead men shouting and waving their fists in defiance. They shot little arrows that plunged into the sea. They were dead men whose blood would please the god when it spilled.

  “Dmitrak,” said Hekat. That was all she had to say.

  He turned to his warriors, he raised his gold-and-crystal fist in the air. His warriors saluted, they drummed the deck with their feet. Laughing, he summoned the god to his gauntlet and killed those defiant shouting men on their wall. His warriors shouted as the Ethreans died.

  “Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

  Every warrior in the warhost took up the chant. Their voices sounded like thunder, they pounded the air. The air shivered with their voices, it shuddered with their might.

  “Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

  Dmitrak smashed and smashed the stone wall with his fist. He was drunk on the god's power, it fed him like wine. It poured from his blood in a river unstoppable, he felt as though he could burn the whole world.

  Hekat smiled when he killed those defiant Ethrean men. She smiled as he smashed the stone wall to sand. She laughed when he killed three black-clad demons who tried to smother him with the wind.

  Aieee, the god see him. She smiled. She laughed.

  When at last the warhost came to the first stopped harbour, he smashed the stone wall that was keeping them out. Twenty at a time, two hundred chosen warships sailed close to the sloping pebbled beach. The defiant Ethreans there had no hope of stopping them, they ran from the god's hammer, they died as they ran.

  Mijak's warriors on their horses leapt from the warships into the water, the god's power was in them and they swam to the shore. More Ethreans ran towards them with arrows and swords. Dmitrak did not wait to see those Ethreans die. He did not need to see it. They were already dead.

  With Hekat the empress he sailed on in his warship, leading the warhost to the next landing place. His warriors were chanting as Ethrea died.

  Vortka high godspeaker stood alone beside the godpost mast. He did not say a word, watching Ethrea die.

  Five times more, as they sailed so swiftly for Kingseat harbour, Dmitrak smashed their way into a long-abandoned port. Five times more, the warhost on its horses laid claim to Ethrean soil and watered it with Ethrean blood.

  Hekat smiled, and smiled, and smiled.

  They sailed around the walled edge of Ethrea. He smashed and smashed and smashed that stone wall, like Zandakar in the godless lands, he smashed it all to pieces.

  Zandakar? Who is Zandakar? Did he live? I do not think so.

  A week earlier, Alasdair and the master of Kingseat's harbour had overseen the blockading of its wide, inviting mouth and every inch of water between the ocean and the docks.

  Working by daylight and through the torchlit nights, soldiers and townsfolk laboured to build as many makeshift boats and barges as could be contrived. Whatever was made of timber, and would float, they used. Word went out from Ethrea's pulpits: the help of Ethrea's people was needed. Tables, doors, even the sides of barns, came down the Eth in every river-barge that could be spared, that would also be used to keep Mijak at bay.

  When their duty as workhorses was done, they were chained bow-to-stern, four deep, to form a wide, wooden gate across the harbour's mouth. And crammed in behind them were those other, makeshift barges, the kingdom's fishing fleet, its rowboats, its skiffs and its skillies.

  When the task was done, one fool scallywag ran across the harbour from side to side and never once got his feet wet.

  Rhian, touring the township, changed from huntsman's leathers into her now-familiar black doublet and leggings, encased in the breastplate so lovingly crafted by Armourer Sandiman, left her personal skein of soldiers to its own devices and made her solitary way through the harbour's Royal Gate to stand on the docks. Ranald's dagger was belted at her hip and her shortsword – the one she'd used to kill Damwin and Kyrin – dangled at her side. Staring at the choked harbour, she felt her heart pounding within her metal breast.

  It's not enough. How can that hold back Mijak? How can it stand against Dmitrak's gauntlet?

  But it was all they could do. They'd done their best. How could she ask her people for more?

  The light was fading. Dusk would be upon them soon. Torches and lamps were being lit in the streets behind her. The township was busy like an angry hive of bees. With Mijak approaching, their careful plans were come to life.

  Rhian closed her eyes in brief prayer.

  God, turn my peace-loving Ethreans into a rogue swarm. Let them sting and sting Mijak until it drops dead.

  Brisk footsteps sounded, and she turned.

  “Alasdair.”

  He nodded as he joined her, his expression strained. “Rhian.”

  The last four weeks had seen deep grooves carved into his face. If her hands were rough and callused from her knife and sword-hilts, so were his. If she'd become a warrior queen, he was made a warrior king. She scarcely saw him any more. He slept as many nights in Kingseat's garrison, with his soldiers, as he did with her in their castle bed. Time had blunted his sharp anger over the slaughtered armada. Still, his anger remained, no less painful because it was blunted. A bludgeoned wound could hurt as keenly as a swordcut.

  They weren't…fighting. They just weren't happy
. He'd retreated somewhere, and she couldn't find him.

  Beyond discussions of tactics and training, Zandakar was never mentioned.

  She glanced at her much-absent husband. “You bring me fresh news from Tzhung-tzhungchai?”

  In the nearly ten hours that had passed since Han came to her at the tiltyard, his witch-men had twice sent their emperor word from her duchies, and he had straight away sent it to her. Warriors of Mijak were rampaging through the middle of her kingdom. Some had been killed, but not nearly enough. Edward and Rudi's soldiers were trying, but their lines had been broken in a dozen places and three times, at least, Mijak had crossed over the Eth. Its warriors had killed and burned in Hartshorn, in Morvell and in Meercheq. They hadn't yet broken through to Arbat…but surely it was a question of when, and not if.

  Han had told her: The warriors of Mijak are like locusts. Do you know of locusts, Rhian? Marauding flying insects, their appetites are insatiable. They descend in swarms upon Tzhung's farmland and leave nothing living in their wake .

  Mijak was a plague of human locusts, come to plague Ethrea.

  “Yes, Han's sent fresh news,” said Alasdair. “Mijak's warships are making steady progress around the coastline. The witch-men have slowed them, but…” He shrugged. “Whether it's because they're so weakened, now, or the priests of Mijak are grown more powerful, they can't be stopped. They should reach the harbour at first light.”

  “Which means a dawn attack,” she said. “How…dramatic…of them.”

  He nodded. “You look tired.”

  “No more tired than you. Is there any further word from the duchies?”

  “Only that the fighting continues. Ludo and the others are still safe.”

  Thank God, thank God . “We've no idea how many are killed? Or how long before Mijak's warriors will break through into duchy Kingseat?”

  “No, and no.” Alasdair's hand came to rest on her shoulder. “But Helfred says we're welcome in the great chapel, for Litany. Half an hour.”

  Rhian folded her arms, struggling for composure. “I can't help feeling I shouldn't be safe here, in Kingseat, while my people are fighting and dying to the north.”

  “Don't distress yourself,” said Alasdair. “Come the morning, Kingseat will be no safer than anywhere else. So. Do we attend Litany, Your Majesty?”

  For the briefest moment, she rested her head on his shoulder. “Your Majesty, I think we must.”

  It was a solemn service. The townsfolk crowding the great chapel and the streets outside were resolute, but afraid. They echoed her own mood, and Alasdair's as he sat beside her before Helfred's pulpit.

  Helfred's sermon made her weep.

  “Though yet we may perish…though as we pray here tonight our brothers and sisters in Ethrea give their lives for this kingdom…we are a blessed people, for Rhian is our queen. God bless her. God keep her. May God keep us all.”

  Dear Helfred.

  She stayed some time in the great chapel, afterwards, rallying her people. Showing them a brave face.

  She wondered how many of them realised it was a lie.

  The murky half-light before dawn saw her back at the harbour, with Alasdair and Han, Zandakar and Dexterity. With Helfred, and Idson, and several thousand soldiers.

  She and Zandakar had not danced their private hotas . The next hotas they danced would be with the warriors of Mijak.

  Idson and his soldiers lined the harbour foreshore. They'd spent most of yesterday and half the previous night setting up their barrels of pitch, their stores of arrows, extra swords and knives and many piles of stout wooden staves in every alley, doorway and cranny they could find. There were soldiers and townsfolk on every roof, at every window, in every tree that could be climbed. Various traps were set. Preparations were complete.

  All they had to do now was wait.

  Rhian looked over at Han, who stood a small distance apart with his eyes closed. Doubtless he was communing with his witch-men, in their twilight. A twilight he'd told her was yet far from healed. She didn't want to imagine how lost they'd be without him. Weakened witch-men were better than none at all.

  Alasdair, so self-contained, was engaged in quiet conversation with Helfred. Glancing at Zandakar, she tapped him with a finger and beckoned him a few paces to the side.

  “Rhian?” he said.

  He was neatly dressed in a linen shirt and leather leggings. His blue hair was tightly bound in a sailor's queue. The scorpion knife, his only weapon, was sheathed at his hip.

  She nodded at it. “You're certain your blade won't fail you?”

  “My blade will not fail me,” he said quietly. “I will not fail you.”

  She stared at him, unable to speak. Too many thoughts, too many emotions, not enough time.

  “Thank you,” she said simply. What else could she say?

  His eyes so pale, his remarkable face grave, he pressed his fist to his breast. “You are welcome, Rhian hushla .”

  “Listen,” said Alasdair abruptly, turning away from Helfred to stare across the boat and barge-choked harbour. The sky was turning pink, and there was light enough now to see by. “Listen, do you hear that?”

  Across the water…through the cool morning air…an ominous chanting, growing louder.

  “Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho! ”

  Mijak's invasion of Kingseat had begun.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  A hunting horn sounded long and loud: Commander Idson was rallying his soldiers, rallying the people of Kingseat township to war. The call echoed through the streets, was returned, and returned, as captains and sergeants and tavern-keepers and seamstresses sounded their own horns in courageous reply.

  And again that chilling chant drifted over the water, thousands of voices, united and cold.

  “Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho! ”

  “Look!” cried Helfred. “God have mercy!”

  The warships of Mijak had reached the blockaded harbour. Rhian stared, and felt her heart falter.

  Sail upon sail upon sail upon sail…the horizon was blotted out. The ocean had disappeared beneath a carpet of black and red hulls.

  “Sweet Rollin,” she whispered, and turned. “ Alasdair .”

  He came to stand with her, and rest his hand on her shoulder. “I know,” he said, his fingers tightening. “Even if the armada had managed to sink half their fleet I doubt…”

  “Did I not tell you, Rhian?” said Han. “Myriad, like locusts.”

  Without warning, a bolt of crimson fire leapt from the leading warship. It struck the centre of the chained barges blocking the harbour's entrance, blowing them apart in splinters and flame. A second bolt hit, and a third, and a fourth.

  “ Chalava-hagra ,” said Zandakar, grimly. “Dmitrak. My brother.”

  Rhian tore her gaze from the burning blockade, and stared in horror at the knife sheathed on his hip.

  He'll never stop them with that. We'll never stop them. Ethrea is done…

  She looked again at Mijak's warships. Those bolts of crimson were coming faster and faster, and it seemed the harbour itself was on fire. Their pitiful blockade was burning to the waterline, smoke billowing, sparks surging towards the rising sun. Fire spread through the crowded boats and makeshift barges like an incoming tide. From across the water the sound of chanting, and the greedy roar of flame.

  She'd felt helpless before, but never like this. Standing on the harbour docks, watching the timber blockade burn, watching Zandakar's brother clear his path to her capital, with no way of stopping him. No hope of destroying him.

  Han's right. They're locusts…and we're a field of waiting wheat.

  “Han,” she said, “your witch-men—” But Tzhung's emperor couldn't hear her.

  “Oh dear,” said Dexterity. “Is he sick? Should I fetch Ursa, perhaps—”

  “He's not sick,” said Alasdair. “He's witching.”

  Even as they stared at him, Han stirred from his trance, his face masked with pain. Leaving Alasdair and Zandakar, R
hian moved to his side and touched him, gently.

  “Does the twilight still scream?”

  “Yes.” He shuddered. “Mijak clouds all.” He staggered a little, as though blown by a strong wind only he could feel, then steadied and looked at her. Such pity in his eyes. “Your duchies are laid waste, Rhian. Your people fight bravely, but the warriors of Mijak…”

  Sickened, she looked at Zandakar. My people…my people…

  He met her gaze. “ Yatzhay .”

  “What of the dukes?” Alasdair demanded. “Edward? Rudi?” He swallowed. “My cousin?”

  Han shook his head. “I can't tell you the fate of one—”

  “Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

  Dmitrak's warship was entering Kingseat harbour.

  Alasdair turned. “Rhian, go. There's still time.”

  “Run and hide?” she said, staring. “ No !”

  “ Rhian !” He was distraught. “You promised me you'd—”

  “I know. But Alasdair, where in God's name can anyone hide from this ? If you want to run to the castle, then run. I am staying here, to fight with my people!”

  “You mean die with your people!” He rounded on Dexterity. “We need a miracle, toymaker. Give us a miracle!”

  “Majesty, I – I can't do that,” Dexterity stammered. “I don't know how it works, I don't—”

  “Han,” said Alasdair, turning away. “You can witch Rhian away from here. Take her to Tzhung-tzhungchai. Please . Save her life.”

  “Alasdair, stop it!” Rhian said before Han could reply. Almost, she slapped him. “Are you mad? How can you of all people ask me to leave?”

  Alasdair's eyes were brilliant with tears. “How can I not? You're my wife, Rhian.”

  “I'm Ethrea's queen first!”

  His head snapped back as though she'd struck him. Then he turned to Zandakar. “You tell her. She'll listen to you.”

  But Zandakar was staring as though Alasdair were a stranger. “Rhian hushla cannot leave. She is a warrior, zho ?”

  “You want her dead?” Alasdair demanded. “You want your brother to kill her? All she's ever done is defend you, Zandakar, and this is how you're going to repay her? Or maybe this is what you always had planned. A gift for your mother, the Empress of Mijak! Give Rhian to her and all will be forgiven, is that it?”