The Blackgod

by Greg Keyes

  Around him, the armies came together, and the forest was suddenly a garden of death, the Mang skirling and the gods of the host venting unrecognizable sounds. From the corners of his eyes he noticed a rider and horse go down beneath the fangs and claws of a wolf; he saw a bear-man, blinded by two arrow shafts, wander into the decapitating edge of a curved Mang sword.

  Claws raked against his hauberk and rings snapped with the force, and suddenly T’esh was shrieking and down; he leapt clear, and though he sought with Harka’s edge to dispatch his foes, he searched with each free instant his eyes had for the Life-Eater. He finally saw him, as he stepped from the path of a dying bear; the Nholish man was a blur of flame and motion near the Huntress. Her spear had pierced him, but he strove up it, sliding the shaft through his own belly, and something like lightning cracked between them. His throat nearly raw with shouting, Perkar fought that way, and whatever came between him and the Tiskawa died.

  Ghe reached the Huntress before Perkar fought his way through, however, and something like sunlight bloomed where they touched. The Huntress screamed, shrill and carrying. Perkar continued to fight, half blind, as his foes redoubled in number and ferocity, and when he again saw clearly, it was to behold the Tiskawa fight savagely from beneath a pile of rutkirul and wolves. As Perkar watched, however, these minions of the Huntress fell away, twitching, and the Tiskawa stood amongst their corpses.

  Perkar recognized him now, though his glimpse of the man—when he still was a man—had been brief, in the shadows beneath the streets of Nhol. He had been a worthy enough swordsman—without Harka, in fact, Perkar would never have beaten him.

  His face aside, there was much about the Tiskawa that no longer seemed Human. Most of his clothing hung in shreds upon him, so the weird colors of his flesh and the bony unnatural lines of his torso and shoulders were revealed. His eyes held a kind of black fire as he pushed up through the slain beasts and gods to confront him. Perkar wondered where the Huntress was, and then forgot worry as he remembered this thing devouring the Stream Goddess. He howled and leapt.

  Much faster moved the Tiskawa, fading away from the blow, even though he rose from an awkward position.

  “You!” it snarled. “This time you cannot have my head.”

  Perkar didn’t answer. He kept Harka in a guard position. When the monster suddenly lunged, darting forward and slashing down with hooked talons, even Harka had difficulty moving his arm quickly enough. He struck for the neck, but an upflung arm interposed itself. Unbelievably, the godblade did not bite but slid instead down the forearm, skinning the flesh from it and revealing the yellow plate beneath. He twisted Harka and stumbled back, carried the blow on into the ribs of the Life-Eater, and there the edge finally parted flesh and bone, cut from the lowest rib through the spine, down to the pelvis. Then the claws swiped across his face and he felt sudden numbness at the same moment that a furious heat seemed to consume him. Like a child burnt by a coal, he shrieked and leapt backward. The Tiskawa tried to follow, but its body sagged crazily as the legs understood the spine that animated them was severed.

  Scrambling back farther, Perkar put his hand to his own neck and felt a jet of warm fluid, realized that one of the arteries there had been torn, but even as he did so, the flow diminished as Harka closed his wound.

  That was nearly it, the blade said. He dug into our heartstrings, too.

  Snarling, Perkar started forward again, but at that moment a horse slammed into him, battering him to the ground, and he had to raise Harka quickly to meet a Mang warrior’s attack. The god-blade flicked out deftly and impaled the man as he leapt down. When Perkar returned to his feet, he saw the earth itself rise in a column, form quickly into the Huntress, now massive, bearing the black antlers of an elk on the snarling head of a lion. The Tiskawa had just risen into the air, wind rushing furiously about him, his lower body hanging limp, when she gored him on her horns. The Life-Eater shrieked, but he also reached around her neck with both arms, and—incredibly—lifted the Huntress off the ground. Together they flew into the air, blown up like leaves in the curled fist of an autumn wind. Perkar saw the Huntress transform again into some sort of dark-pinioned bird, and then the two of them disappeared into the dense opaque vastness of the canopy, gone.

  Gripping Harka even more tightly, he thought to follow—somehow—but at that moment his body sprouted a pair of arrows; his hauberk stopped their heads, but Harka drew him relentlessly to face his mortal opponents.

  “You cannot kill the Tiskawa if you let these Mang hack you into pieces.”

  Grimly Perkar turned to his work, ashamed that, in his heart of hearts, he was relieved.

  For the Tiskawa, he knew, would have killed him, and he wondered if he could face it again. Something that could give the Huntress such a battle…

  Then there was no more time to think.

  Sheldu’s men attacked the thing, but Hezhi did not need to see the first of them die to understand that what they faced was a god of no mean strength; she had seen him instantly, knew that he formed from the water and dirt rather than emerged from it. She did not even reach for her drum, but as when she had captured the bull, Hukwosha, she merely slapped her palms together and opened the lake.

  This time she did not hesitate; she called on Hukwosha, and the bull bolted gleefully to the task.

  But we must manifest, the bull said. We cannot fight only beneath the lake.

  “I don’t know how to do that,” Hezhi told him.

  Give me your leave.

  She hesitated only a moment; Tsem was rushing forward with his club, certainly to his death—despite his size, strength, and recently acquired skills. “You have it!” she cried. Might surged into her limbs, and she took in a breath that went on and on. Blood surged in her as her body thickened and distorted with agony that was so exquisite as almost to be pleasure; even before the change was done she was pounding across the earth on four cloven hooves. The colors of the world had faded to shadow, but her nostrils brought a new realm of sensation that she had never imagined and had little time to appreciate. She could smell Tsem, the acrid taint of his fear nearly masked by a sour anger. One of Sheldu’s men had soiled himself, and Sheldu himself had no scent whatsoever. The leaf mold and the crisp freshness of the forest faded before the corruption of the attacking god and its sudden fear, stinking like a rotten corpse. Then he was on her horn, and she tossed him, gored him again, and slammed him into a tree. The dull salamander eyes glared at her feebly.

  “Hezhi,” it groaned—not from its froglike mouth, but from somewhere inside. “Hezhi, listen to me.”

  Hukwosha stepped back and hooked the monster anew on his horns and began to run joyfully.

  “Listen!” Its eyes were fading.

  “Talk, then,” Hezhi bellowed. “You haven’t long.”

  “Beware the Blackgod, he—”

  Hezhi suddenly recognized the voice. “Moss? Moss, is that you?”

  “Yes,” the voice answered feebly.

  “Hukwosha, stop,” she commanded, but the bull continued to run, and sudden panic mingled with her elation.

  Free, Hukwosha roared. Free me.

  “No!” She wrenched at him then, grappled him back into her mansion, though it felt as if her body had burst into flame. She knew her body was changing again, and as that happened she sank into the unreal haze of the lake. The dying god shimmered, and she saw him—whoever he was. But linked to him she saw Moss, and he was impaled as plainly as the Salamander God.

  “You’ve killed me,” Moss sighed. “I was only trying to… I wouldn’t have hurt you.”

  “I’m sorry,” she answered, and even in the flat cold of the otherworld she was.

  “No matter,” he gritted out. “I—” Then his eyes widened, and he vanished as if he had never been. An instant later she blinked and the sight was gone. She was Hezhi, a little girl, lying on the leafy floor of the forest. Nearby, the corpse of the Salamander God blubbered out a final breath, and then its spirit departed.r />
  Through the woods she could hear Sheldu and the others approaching.

  After a tense moment, the task became simple butchery. The unholy creatures summoned by the Tiskawa were all dispatched, and the Mang, though indeed brave and fierce, were no match for the host of the Huntress, as Perkar well knew. The horsemen fell to lion and wolf, to the gods who were sometimes bears, to eagles and hawks that swooped upon them—and to Harka, of course.

  Before it was over, Perkar wept for them.

  Among the dead he found Moss, who was not dead, though his gut was torn open. The young shaman’s eyes followed him, pleading.

  “Listen to me, swordsman,” he bubbled through a mouthful of blood. Perkar approached cautiously, mindful of what Chuuzek had managed in such a state.

  “Listen,” Moss repeated. “I have no way of knowing whether you are the Blackgod’s dupe or willing ally. But I am slain now, and I saw Ghe carried off by the Huntress. You may be Hezhi’s only hope.”

  “What nonsense is this?” Perkar growled.

  Moss closed his eyes. “The lake comes to swallow me,” he muttered. “I can’t—” He opened his eyes again, and they held a peculiar blankness. “Perkar, are you still there?”

  Perkar crouched down beside his foe. “I’m here,” he said.

  “I think I know what the Blackgod intends,” the dying man whispered. “I think I understand now.”

  He whispered another sentence, and Perkar felt a profound chill. It was a sensation that gathered strength.

  “Oh, no,” he muttered, because he knew it was true. There could be no doubt.

  “Karak must have conspired with the Huntress to separate me from her,” he snarled. Moss nodded faintly.

  “Does it hurt?” Perkar asked. “Are you in pain?”

  “No. It’s a sort of fading. Let me fade, if you will—it will prepare me. Many vengeful things await the ghosts of shamans, and we must have what advantages we can.”

  “Can I help?”

  But Moss didn’t answer. He was not yet dead, but it was clear that he had spoken for the last time. With Harka’s vision Perkar could see the last thread of life unraveling.

  Trembling, he stood, Moss’ revelation repeating itself in his brain, and grimly he began to run back the way he had come. T’esh was dead, and the last of the Mang horses either fled or devoured. He had no chance of reaching his destination in time, but he also had no choice but to try; once again, it was all his fault.

  XXXVI

  Erikwer

  Ghe tumbled through space, the treetops a nightmare blur that they sometimes hurtled over and sometimes crashed among. They fought with claws and teeth and with the energies burning within them, and almost as soon as they began, Ghe understood that he would lose. The Huntress was the most powerful being he had ever faced save the River himself. Her existence seemed to extend all about him, into the earth and the trees—this form he fought was only a finger of her. His sole satisfaction was knowing she was not toying with him; he was giving her a good fight, drawing power from her to hold himself together—but he was losing, for she was both more powerful and more experienced than he. For the first time, Ghe truly understood the sheer desperation of the River in creating him, the minusculity of his chances of success.

  Nevertheless, he clung to her as she disemboweled him again and again.

  “You hurt me,” she admitted in a feral, growling voice. “Few have done that, so feel proud.”

  He didn’t answer, for at that moment one of his arms tore free of his body. Again he was surprised at the lack of pain, and he wondered if there would be pain when she finally bit his head off. Shuddering, he called up all of the gods he had swallowed; he began to burn them for strength. The stream demon was strongest, would burn longest. He did not bother with the feeble fuel of his Human ghosts, though they shouted at him.

  One shouted at him more loudly than the others.

  River! he shouted. Ghan shouted.

  Ghe understood in a blaze, but there was no triumph in that comprehension, for it came too late. He could scent him, his Maker, and he realized that their aerial battle had brought them very near his waters. So it was worth a try.

  Using what strength he could, he tore himself from the Huntress and flew. For an instant he was free of her, and sprawling below him he could see trees, the rising flanks of mountains—and a gorge that pulsed with salvation. How could he have forgotten that his lord lay so near?

  “No, you don’t,” the Huntress shrieked as sharp talons dug into what remained of his spine. “Oh, no, my sweet.”

  For an instant he went limp with despair, but then Ghan spoke again within him, a single word.

  Hezhi.

  Ghe snarled and struck his talons into the Huntress, reached for the beating heart of her power. He touched it and it surged through, burning him, tearing at him, far too much energy for him to absorb; his extremities charred and his vision blazed away with his eyes, and then they were falling, the Huntress shrieking and beating about him, but they were still falling. She had not recovered.

  “No,” she snarled, and then they hit something that broke them both.

  “I’m fine,” Hezhi said, stumbling toward Dark. But she wasn’t fine. She had killed Moss, and though the man had been her enemy—or had he? She barely knew that anymore. The effort of fighting Hukwosha back into her heart had sapped her of strength, and she could barely stand.

  “I’ve never seen anything like that,” Sheldu muttered. “Not in a Human shaman. Surely—” He bit off his remark, seemed almost ready to chortle. “Come. Our success is certain now. In ridding us of that menace yourself, you have removed the last chance that we might be stopped.”

  “You mean because you wouldn’t have to reveal yourself, Blackgod?” Hezhi muttered.

  The man smiled grimly. “Well. I thought that Perkar might soften, eventually. But it matters not. I would have revealed myself to you—it is to this forest that I dare not show my power—not yet. The actions of a Human shaman such as yourself—”

  “I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” Hezhi groaned. “But shouldn’t we get going?”

  “Indeed.”

  As they continued their ride up the valley, Ngangata flanked her on one side and Tsem on the other.

  “So you know,” Ngangata said, his voice low.

  She nodded. “Perkar told me.”

  “Give the word and we flee,” the halfling said. “With your familiars and Tsem and me to stand for you, chances are good you can escape.”

  “Why? Why should I want to do that?” Hezhi asked. “This is what I want. I want to be rid of this malevolent thing our people call Lord. The thing that brought Ghan here to his death—that—that—” She stuttered off, realizing that she was dangerously near crying. She must not weaken now; the end of all of this, one way or the other, was nigh, she could feel that. She took a deep breath and continued. “I care not what designs your Crow God has, what hidden agenda his scheming covers. The truth is that compared to the River he is but a flea.”

  “A flea who believes he can slay the dog,” Tsem muttered.

  “And I believe he can, with my help,” Hezhi said. “But he is still a flea.”

  “Do you imagine yourself more, Princess?” Tsem asked softly.

  She looked at him, shocked, but then reflected on her words and smiled.

  “It sounds like I do, doesn’t it? It’s just that I know what it feels like, the power in the River. Just now, when I was the bull, I felt I could do anything, and that takes more than a moment to forget.”

  Tsem bridled. “I wish I could forget it in a moment, Princess. If you could have seen yourself—”

  “Hush, Tsem. I’m fine: I don’t want to be a goddess. That is exactly what I want to be free of. Only the River can poison me with such might—the Blackgod and his kin cannot, will not do it. They have the same desire I do, to end the threat I pose.”

  “They could do that simply by killing you,” Ngangata argued.<
br />
  “True, which is why I do not fear the Blackgod. He has had ample opportunity to slay me and he has not. Why? In another generation the River can produce another like me, perhaps one more receptive to his will. As long as he exists, the threat I represent exists.”

  Ngangata shrugged. “Still, it is never wise to trust the Blackgod completely.”

  “Or any god. Or any person!” Hezhi answered. As she did so, Yuu’han drew abreast.

  “An instant of your time, please,” he asked of Hezhi.

  “Of course.” Hezhi was taken aback by the man’s tight, formal tone.

  “I have tried to dissuade Brother Horse from this trip many times,” Yuu’han admitted. “He is an old man, and I fear for him.”

  “I have tried to turn him back, as well,” Hezhi told him.

  “I know. I thank you for that.”

  Hezhi regarded the young man. Since Raincaster’s death, Yuu’han—always somewhat dour—had withdrawn from almost everyone but Brother Horse. “If you wish to try again…”

  “I have done that, thank you. He will stay with you, and because he does, I do, as well.”

  “Your uncle means much to you.”

  Yuu’han raised his enigmatic gaze to lock fully on her own, something the Mang were reluctant to do unless angry—or very, very sincere. “I call him uncle,” Yuu’han said, quite softly. “I call him that because he was never married to my mother, and thus I have no right to call him ‘father.’ Nevertheless, he is the one who begat me. And when my mother died and her clan refused her orphan, Brother Horse drew me into his clan. Few would have done that; most would have let the mother’s clan dispose of the child.”

  “Dispose?”

  “The custom is to leave an unwanted child in the desert for the gods to take their mercy on.” He glanced away at last, having impressed upon her what he wanted to.