The Blackgod

by Greg Keyes

  Did he really believe he could slay the god of the River, merely because some self-styled Crow God told him so? Well, perhaps it was true. Perhaps that was the only way she could ever be truly safe from the River God. But she knew his power, knew it the way a child knows the fists of a father who beats her, and she did not believe he could die. If there was anything in the universe that was eternal, it was the River.

  But perhaps nothing in the universe was eternal. She had read cogent arguments in several books to that effect.

  For the moment, it seemed reasonable—insomuch as anything seemed reasonable—to pursue the course that, after all, she had chosen: to go on to She’leng. But unless she learned much about this plan of the Blackgod, particularly its execution and its likely aftereffects, she would not actually commit to approaching the source. The scale upon her arm told her just how dangerous that could be.

  Perhaps her new gaan powers could help, however. She would have to ask Brother Horse, then consider all of the information available.

  That night they had no choice but to sleep in the open, so they camped in the lowest spot they could find and ranged the horses about so that they might serve as sentinels. There was no sunset, for the sky had gone leaden, and the day faded pitifully away. Hezhi felt cheated; each sunset and sunrise usually seemed more spectacular than the last in the Mang Wastes, as if there must be some compensation for the lack of splendid palaces, gold filigree, and books.

  As she closed her eyes, she wondered what Ghan was doing right then. She speculated, briefly, whether she could send her spirit abroad to Nhol, but the answer to that seemed obvious. If she went near him—or sent the Horse—they would be eaten. Brother Horse had done nothing in the lands of the River but watch, with his vision, if she remembered his story. He had never loosed his wolf or sent his senses out. She added that to her list of things to ask him about.

  But she could picture Ghan, bent over a book by flickering lamplight, tracing the sublime curves of the ancient hand, certain of each stroke. She missed him.

  I shall have to write him another letter soon. Though, of course, she had never managed to send the last. In fact, she realized with considerable chagrin, the earlier one was still in the yekt at the Mang camp.

  Mentally composing its replacement, she drifted into sleep.

  In her sleep came a hurricane. Wind shrieked across a darkling plain, the colors of which were indigo, black, and beetle green. Rainbow lightning brightened the sky so that it resembled the stained glass Hall of Moments, back in the palace, save that here the glass shattered and re-formed in every instant. Images shaped and faded in the trails the light burned on her eyes.

  She did not stand but sat a horse, and she understood that it was her mare, her spirit. Dust devils birthed and died about them, danced like the ladies of the court, stunned into a simulacrum of carefree behavior by Nende’ng and wine, seeking only the sensation of movement and the promise of oblivion.

  Across the vast courtyard—for such it was, she understood suddenly—a shadow man came walking. She saw him enter from a hall on the horizon, as tall as the great Water Temple, stalking toward her, lightning pattering upon his head and shoulders like fiery rain. From most of these obvious attacks he did not flinch, and she watched him approach in growing terror that even the nature of the otherworld could not entirely suppress. Beneath her, the mare whickered, stamped, and rolled her eyes. Hooves rang like bells on the polished marble.

  Suddenly the sky sleeted white, however, a bright, furious light that blinded her, stilled the wind, and rocked the earth the mare stood upon. When the blaze faded, she saw only the giant’s court, darker than before. The hulking shadow giant was gone. Above, she thought she saw vast wings vanish amongst the lofty unlit regions of the roof-sky.

  “I had hoped to impress you,” a voice sighed from nearby, breaking the new stillness. “Now I am fortunate merely to be alive.”

  She peered toward the voice. It was Shadow Man, but grown much smaller. Smaller than she, even, and curled into a ball like a fist.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am the gaan, the one who sent Moss and Chuuzek to find you.”

  Hezhi opened her mouth to speak, but he quickly went on.

  “I know you have been told I am your enemy. I know it must seem that way to you. But you have many enemies, Hezhi, and only a few who love you.”

  “You do not love me,” Hezhi snapped scornfully.

  “No. But I know who does. I know he is coming. I can take you to him.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Your old teacher, Ghan.” The shadow paused and clucked. “Gaan—Ghan. Have you ever noticed that?”

  “Ghan is in Nhol,” she snapped, ignoring his linguistic observation. “I can never go there again.”

  “Both of those statements are untrue,” the Shadow Man contradicted. “They are both lies, though you know not why you tell them. Ghan is coming here. Your father has sent him to make you understand.”

  “Ghan sent me from Nhol in the first place,” Hezhi whispered, feeling as if she would fall from the mare. “He would not come to get me back.”

  “I know what I know. Even Ghan can come to understand he was wrong. Hezhi, listen to me. Before, the River—your ancestor—was asleep. I do not know what transpired between you, exactly, but I know that it frightened you. Imagine him as a great creature, who, while asleep, did not recognize even his own daughter. In that state, he may have frightened you, and you would have been right to worry, perhaps even to flee him. But he knows you now. He feels remorse. Hezhi, you are the most important child he has ever produced. Karak knows that, that’s why he plots with Perkar. Karak and Perkar will do you harm, Princess, though I cannot see of what sort.”

  “Perkar is my friend.”

  “Oh, no, Princess, he is not. Neither is the Blackgod. It was he who attacked me just now.”

  “So you say. And even if he did, that would only mean he was helping me. Before you were a monster filling the horizon. Now you are a somewhat pitiful thing.”

  “As I said before, I only endeavored to impress you. Even the greatest gaan is no match for a god like Karak, and Karak and all his brethren are no match for the Changeling. You are the Changeling’s daughter, Hezhi, and they are no match for you, either, not if you don’t want them to be. This tinkering about with little spirits and little victories—that is what I do, what I am capable of. You are destined to change the face of the world, not dirty yourself with such paltry forces.”

  “What do you propose I do?” Hezhi snapped, making no effort to hide her irritation.

  “Separate yourself from those you ride with. Find Moss and Chuuzek, who follow you. They will take you to Ghan. He will explain to your satisfaction the rest.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Listen to me,” the shadow hissed, rising up, growing to Human size as it did so.

  Hezhi clapped the flanks of her mount, and the mare leapt forward, hooves flashing. Shadow Man leapt back, kept leaping back, growing more distant in a series of bounds that eventually carried him beyond the horizon and out of the hall. His voice, however, stayed near.

  “You must learn who your friends really are. You have been mistaken about such things before,” he said. “Watch Perkar. Especially watch the Crow God.”

  Then the plain went dark, as if it were a room in which all of the candles had been blown out. Real sleep swallowed her up, and no more dreams came until dawn.

  Perkar sat gazing at the fire, knowing he should feel elated, wondering why he did not. He felt weary—unbelievably weary, considering that he had only been awake for half a day at best—and yet the thought of sleep unaccountably sickened him.

  “They say there is a man at this fire in need of some wine,” a soft voice asserted from just behind him. It was Raincaster, returned from rubbing down the horses for the night. Yuu’han was only a score of steps behind him, bearing a wineskin.

  “I should have helped you with the h
orses,” Perkar murmured. “I feel well enough.”

  “You don’t look well enough,” Raincaster said. “And it insults a horse to treat her halfheartedly.”

  “I would not have been half—”

  “Raincaster meant no insult,” Yuu’han intervened. “You are not as strong yet as you would like to think, that is all. Have some wine.” He proffered the skin.

  Perkar sighed. “Very well. I’m sorry, Raincaster.”

  Raincaster wiped his forehead, a Mang gesture that dismissed all blame. “You have been fighting for your life against demons,” he reminded everyone. “No reason to think such an experience would sweeten your mood.”

  Perkar returned the smile, though he did not feel like doing so. He liked Raincaster. He liked Yuu’han, as well, but with Yuu’han there was always the sense that his cordiality to Perkar arose out of duty—duty to Brother Horse and the responsibilities of hospitality. Raincaster seemed to genuinely like him—and to have an interest in the ways of the Cattle People. “Perhaps I do need some wine,” he said, by way of further, though indirect, apology. Perkar accepted the proffered skin, tilting it back and catching a mouthful of its contents—though with some misgivings. He quickly discovered his misgivings were justified; the wine was kbena, a strong drink made from some sort of desert plant, sweet and tainted by an unpleasant aftertaste that reminded Perkar of rotten pears. It was certainly nothing at all like woti, the prized drink of warriors in his home country—save that it did warm his belly. He also knew from experience that the first mouthful was the worst, and so quickly swallowed another before passing the skin on to Raincaster. The three of them drank in silence for a while, watching the Fire Goddess consume withered juniper scraps. The night sky lay heavy above, revealing no light.

  Perkar quickly realized that he did not want to get drunk any more than he wanted to sleep. The fifth time the skin came around, he shook his head and passed it on. Yuu’han shrugged and took a long draft.

  The wine stirred something in Perkar, something he might ordinarily not have brought up.

  “I know it was hard for you,” he mumbled, addressing both of the Mang.

  Yuu’han nodded, understanding him and already accepting the implied thanks, but Raincaster’s expression demanded that Perkar express himself more fully.

  “To leave your kin to help us. With the war and everything.” Even a mere five drinks of the potent kbena was enough to thicken his tongue and make him feel more stupid than usual. He wished for eloquence rather than the gruff, clumsy, apologetic statement he had just uttered—but, as usual, it was too late to correct.

  Raincaster shrugged, apprehending the spirit of the comment. “Our uncle is right, and the others are wrong. Anyway, I’ve never cared much for those Four Spruces People. They’ve always had delusions of grandeur.”

  Yuu’han’s somewhat bleak expression softened at that. “Remember Mane Gatherer?” he said.

  “I’ve heard the story,” Raincaster replied.

  “I haven’t.”

  “Mane Gatherer told us the sun had spoken to him. He wanted us all to band up behind him and invade the Southlands—conquer Nhol, the Fisherfolk, the whole world, he said.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes.” Yuu’han gulped down another mouthful. “He said it was the destiny of the Mang to rule the cities.”

  “What happened?”

  Yuu’han cracked a cryptic grin. “You’ve seen a city. Would you want to try to rule one?”

  Perkar stared at the two Mang for only an instant, considering, before swearing, “No. By the gods, no.”

  Raincaster clapped his cousin on the shoulder. “Our reaction exactly,” he proclaimed.

  Not much later, Yuu’han took the watch and Raincaster retired. Two tents had been erected: one for Tsem, Brother Horse, Heen, and Hezhi, the second for the two younger Mang, Ngangata, and Perkar. Perkar sought his blanket near Raincaster, after making Yuu’han promise that Raincaster—who had the next watch—would wake him for the last, or dawn, quarter. He could tell by Yuu’han’s answer that he would not be trusted to stand watch, not in his present condition.

  He lay awake long, unable to understand what was growing in him, gnawing at him. He dozed fitfully once and awoke sweating, heart pounding. Raincaster was gone, Yuu’han in his place. Ngangata was curled in his blanket, snoring faintly. The brief nap had not rested Perkar in the least, but it had tightened something in his mind, so that he knew what dark disquiet had replaced the demon Hezhi and Brother Horse had driven from him. It gathered itself together and shouted him its name.

  Fear.

  A mere spark before, it had caught in him now and burned furiously. In the past year, he had seen more bloodshed than he dreamed possible. He had murdered and fought fairly. More to the point, he had been disemboweled, been lanced through the throat, and stabbed numerous times—once through the heart. He still dreamed of each of those wounds; the pain of each was written clearly on his body and in his mind. When he thought about it much, it revolted him. Despite all of that, still he had developed the illusion that he was invulnerable, unstoppable, because keeping grasp of that belief was the only thing that kept all of his terrors at bay. When he was a child lying in ted with the terrible nighttime understanding that death would claim him one day, he had faced that by pushing it away, insisting that it was many, many years before he would have to face such an unfair reality. The child in him had used Harka to do that again, to place death in a far-off place and time he need not think about.

  But now he had experienced the pain of death several times over and no small taste of her oblivion. He owed his beating heart to Harka, but now he understood that even Harka could not protect him. Not against Karak, who had brushed him aside as if he were a child—not against Chuuzek, either, who had flicked him almost casually from his saddle.

  He did not consciously remember the past several days, but something in him did. He felt as if he had been lying in a grave with spiders crawling in and out of his mouth, with worms chewing at his eyes. A simple warrior—a boy—was not fit to deal with such things. He was in a struggle meant for shamans, wizards, and godlings. Useless, even if he had his heart, whole and full of bravery, but his heart was not whole; it was deeply scarred, and not just metaphorically. Now… Now what he wanted most to do was ride away, leave Hezhi and Ngangata and all of his responsibilities, and hide—hide from gods, from wars, from the sky itself.

  Hezhi awoke with the dawn. Ngangata was cursing and saddling his horse, as were all three Mang.

  “Stupid. I should have watched him. We should never … whose watch was it?”

  “Mine,” Raincaster answered, voice carefully neutral. “He said that he was going back a bit, to see where our pursuit was when the sun rose.”

  “I’m sure,” Ngangata snarled. Hezhi sat up, fully alarmed now.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Perkar,” Tsem told her. “He’s gone.”

  XXII

  The Dreamsnare

  Ghe felt a flash of pain and smelled life leaking into the air. He turned, puzzled, to see that one of the soldiers had thrust an arrow into his own eye and was working it deeper even as Ghe watched.

  No. He had been shot in the eye and was merely grasping at the shaft as he died. Even as Ghe realized that, two more soldiers swore at arrows sprouting in the deck next to them.

  The mist had hidden them, but now Ghe could see a half-dozen canoes ranged upstream on the River. All were converging on the barge furiously, each paddled by ten or fifteen barbarians.

  The soldiers knew their jobs and did not remain surprised for more than an instant or two. Within heartbeats, twenty of them were at the bow, a wall of spears and swords, bows twanging behind them. Three men loaded and cranked the catapult. Ghe was just wondering what he should do when his better-than-Human ears detected a clamor aft. Grimly he raced toward the rear of the boat, springing up upon the cabin roofs and crossing them in great strides.

  A boatload of the b
arbarians swarmed over the brass railing onto the afterdeck; three Nholish soldiers lay beneath their feet, pumping red life onto the planks. Other than barbarians and dead men, there was none to witness Ghe snarl and leap from the roof; two of the invaders managed to shoot him before he was amongst them, but neither shaft gave him pause. He was a panther among dogs.

  The trip up-River had lulled them all. The people in the villages nearest Nhol had been coolly cooperative when they docked for supplies, but the farther away they voyaged from the great city, the more eager were people to see them. At Wun, the governor had thrown them a magnificent banquet, and though Bone Eel seemed bored by it—it was perhaps not sufficient for his jaded standards—Ghe thought it a grand show of hospitality, as did the soldiers. That had been a day ago. The governor had warned them that the Dehshe tribes on the east bank of the River were troublesome, but Ghe had gathered that most real attacks were on the outposts farther south and east.

  But here they were. The impact of his body hurled several of them back, and then he was amongst them, carving at their hearts and lungs with the icicle point of his knife. He used the blade for two reasons. The first was that the soldiers on board the ship did not know his nature, and he did not want them to know. Let them think him a superb fighter—which, in fact, he was and could easily demonstrate. A more salient justification was that he enjoyed the feel of his blade in flesh, the exquisite geometry of cut-and-thrust, and though he could draw their lives from them more easily than he could stab them to death, the latter gave him greater pleasure. It recalled the joy of learning the ways of the Jik, and with that memory came a vague inkling of why he had ever been loyal to the priesthood, though they were so clearly monstrous. They gave him a thing of beauty; the discipline to kill with elegance, with art.