by Greg Keyes
Because if he died now, he could never kill the god he really wanted to kill. But now he knew. A god could be killed, and he could kill it, with the right weapon.
So they rode on, and night fell, and still they rode, for the moon was full. Perkar’s hand tingled, and it felt good. He had struck a Wild God and lived. What could he not do?
Not much later, Atti fell from his saddle. Perkar had tucked away the memory of the blood he had seen, preferring not to think about it. But now he was nearest the flame-haired man, and he dismounted. Atti was already trying to regain his feet.
“Just wait a moment,” Perkar told him. “Let us look at that.”
“Get him back on his horse,” Eruka called. “That thing might still be coming.”
The Kapaka and Ngangata trotted their horses so that they stood between Perkar and Atti and the way that they had come.
“See to him,” the Kapaka said. After an instant, Apad also moved up to join them.
“Some god was protecting you,” Perkar told Atti. “Telling you to put on your mail.” The tough steel links had torn in the Wild God’s claws; three rips ran for the length of a forearm from sternum to crotch. The claws had dug deeper, and there was much bleeding, but so far as Perkar could tell, none of his organs were laid open to the air.
Atti swore copiously as Perkar got his mail and padded undershirt off of him.
“I have some long strips of colored linen here,” the Kapaka said. “I brought it as a gift for the Forest Lord.”
“Leave it then,” Atti said.
“I have other gifts, still with me,” the Kapaka replied. Perkar unpacked the linen and cut several lengths of it. Again to the sound of Atti’s profanity, Perkar wrapped the cloth tightly about the hill man’s chest and torso. Blood soaked it instantly, but even before the wrapping, Atti’s blood had nearly ceased flowing of its own accord.
When Perkar was satisfied, he helped Atti back on his horse, handed him up a waterskin. Atti drank greedily.
“I think we need to go, if we can,” the Kapaka said. Back behind them, the limbs of trees were beginning to wave to and fro. There was no wind.
“I can ride,” Atti said. “I became dizzy for a moment only.”
“This way,” Ngangata said, spurring back to the front. He seemed to be examining something on the trees; Perkar thought, in the pale moonlight, that he saw marks there, tattoos on the trunks of the birches.
“There,” Ngangata whispered. “See the firelight?”
The moon had set, and that had slowed them down considerably. Now Perkar saw the faint, pale flower of illumination Ngangata referred to. Left to himself, Perkar would never have seen it; fatigue sat on his forehead, pushing on his eyelids, gently, insistently. The Wild God seemed far away, a dream.
“Who can it be?” Eruka wondered. “I hope they have some woti.”
“They do not,” Ngangata replied.
They wound through the last few trees. There, in the flicker of the light, Perkar saw his first true Alwa.
Ngangata had seemed so strange to him when they met, but suddenly Perkar thought him very Human, compared to the Alwal. Five of them clustered near the fire, standing as upright as any human. They were slender-hipped and broad-shouldered, thickly muscled. Their arms and legs seemed almost normal, but their bodies were not quite right, too wedge-shaped. A fine, silvery hair lay over their pale skins. It was in their heads that they were most strange, however. Their faces were flat and broad, bones as coarse as stone showing through them. They possessed neither foreheads nor chins; above their thick eyebrows their skulls were plainly flat; thick white hair was pulled back into buns. Massive but receding lower jaws blended into thick necks. It was in their eyes that he saw the most strangeness; like deep pools of water, they were murky, unreadable. They glimmered and quickened, darted or remained fixed, but in ways that seemed all wrong, that hinted at odd thoughts that Perkar could not understand.
Ngangata said something to them, the same clucking language he had spoken to the Wild God. One of the Alwal clucked back at him. The others stood stock-still. Their mouths were huge; Perkar was further reminded of the Wild God. What was it the Stream Goddess had once told him? That many gods took their forms from Human breath and blood? If so, perhaps in Alwat lands the gods took of Alwat blood for their forms.
“What are they saying?” Apad asked irritably.
“They say that the god will not follow us here. They say that this is the place of another god, Hanazalhakabizn. Hanazalhakabizn and V’fanaqrtinizd are old enemies.”
“Banakartenis?” the Kapaka asked, trying to imitate the alien name. “Who?”
“V’fanaqrtinizd. The Wild God we just fought.”
“But he will not follow us here. What about the local one—Hana-whatever?”
Ngangata and the Alwa conversed a moment; two of the others added something; Perkar realized with a start that one of them was female; though shaped much like the men, she was a bit smaller and had very obvious breasts. He was surprised he had not noticed earlier.
Ngangata listened and then relayed what he had been told.
“Human people are allowed to pass through on their way to the Forest Lord, but not to build or cut. V’fanaqrtinizd was driven insane by Human Beings who injured him and killed his trees. They say the sound of the trees dying drove him insane.”
Perkar was just realizing something else; that beyond the fire there was a building of some sort. A number of limber saplings had been planted and bent and tied together to form a sort of long-house—a rude and tiny imitation of a damakuta. It was covered in bark and mats woven of some material. The Alwat were house-builders. Strange that he had never heard that.
The Alwal seemed to be through talking. They all squatted down, resting comfortably on their haunches. One of them—the female, actually—waddled a few feet from the fire and, as Perkar watched, commenced to shit.
“What disgusting creatures,” Eruka commented.
Ngangata regarded them darkly. “Yes. They have agreed to let us stay near here. Tomorrow they will guide us on toward the Forest Lord.”
“What did you have to promise them for that?” Apad asked caustically. “Our heads?”
Ngangata shook his head. “No. They think Human Beings amusing. They like to tell stories about them. If they travel with us, they will have many stories to tell.”
“And you? Do you tell them stories about us?”
“I do.”
“I thought as much.”
Ngangata ignored that. “They say we may make camp on the ridge above this place,” he said. “They said we may take a small branch of their fire if we wish.”
“Thank them for me,” the Kapaka said.
“They have no such word,” Ngangata told him. “I can tell them ‘It is enough’ or ‘You can share our camp, too.’”
“Tell them it is enough, then.”
Perkar was glad that they were sleeping at some distance from the Alwal camp, though he had no illusions about being safe from them, should they decide to attack. It was just good to be out of their sight, out of that strange regard, the kind a child or a very old man might hold upon you. As he closed his eyes, he wondered what an Alwa might dream about, if dream they did. He might ask Ngangata, who must surely have dreams of both kinds, Human and Alwat.
INTERLUDE
In the Court of Black Willows
She’lu Yehd Cha’dune, Chakunge, Lord of Nhol, emperor of five domains and the desert hinterland, stared at Nyas—his vizier—with drooping eyes. The deep orange light slanting in through the chamber’s high, narrow windows identified the hour as late, nearing sundown. He had been transacting the business of Empire since it had lanced through from the other side of the room at a similar angle. Soon, hopefully, he could snatch a moment of rest, some food in private. He need only focus his attention for a bit longer on the items of the day. Hard to do sometimes, when so many of them were so boring. For instance, Nyas was just finishing a tabulation of tribute
received from the sixteen quarters of the down-River port of Wun Yang. She’lu hoped the next matter—whatever it was—would be a bit more interesting.
“Next, my lord, I have a somewhat personal item, a possibly distasteful matter.” Nyas peered around his nearly round nose with wide-set eyes, awaiting She’lu’s leave to continue.
“Go on,” She’lu said, his attention fully focused again.
“It concerns your daughter Hezhi.”
“It isn’t another complaint from the librarian, is it, Nyas? I thought we had settled that matter.” He picked at his robe, frowning.
“Perhaps so, my lord. That is not what I must speak to you about.”
“Good.” She’lu frowned as Nyas actually looked around him—as if every person within earshot had not been Forbidden to speak anything they heard. As if anyone he did not know about could approach this throne. This must be a delicate matter indeed.
“You remember the incident in the Hall of Moments, just outside of the Leng Court.”
“Of course. Three of my elite guardsmen and a priest were killed before they banished the thing. Apparently the priesthood has become complacent—more intent on playing politics than keeping dangerous ghosts out of the Hall of Moments.” He aimed this remark, with a flash of his eyes, not at Nyas, but at the pale, pudgy man who occupied a lower seat to his right. The man—today’s representative from the priesthood, one De Yehd Shen—colored visibly but did not respond verbally. Not here, anyway, and not without the support of a more eminent priest.
Nyas, of course, caught the exchange, and so shook his head. “Our records show that the hall was swept the day before, in preparation for court, and was being swept again when the attack occurred. It is hard to find any fault …”
“Something was not done right. I still feel the track of the damned thing whenever I walk there. It was strong, more demon than ghost. Almost like something summoned. But I did not summon it.”
“Perhaps it slipped through or awoke when you called the Riverghosts,” the priest suggested, his little-boy voice clear and piping.
“I would have felt that,” She’lu retorted, narrowing his eyes. “Do you think I have no more sense or control than to summon such a thing?”
“Perhaps if some other person took advantage of your summoning, however …”
“Stop,” She’lu snapped. “Darken your mouth! I’ve been through this, and with members of the priesthood far more competent and knowledgeable than you. I don’t wish to discuss this further. And what does this have to do with my daughter?” he demanded, suddenly realizing, to his chagrin, that he was somehow missing the point.
“Your daughter,” Nyas said, “was seen in the Hall of Moments with her bodyguard at the time of the creature’s appearance and attack.” He looked meaningfully at She’lu.
The emperor glared back at him. “And?” he asked.
Nyas sighed. “If you remember, Lord, Hezhi is nearly of age—some twelve years old.”
“Oh? Oh.”
“Indeed. It may be a coincidence, but it could be something more.”
“Is my daughter being watched?” he asked. Was the priest actually hiding a smirk? She’lu trembled with the sudden exertion of not striking the simpering fool down. The urge to reach out, slap his soul a bit, was overwhelming. He was emperor, he reminded himself, because he could resist such temptations. His brother, after all, had been born with more power—but no self-control at all.
“She has been watched diffidently, my lord. There has been no formal assignation to her.”
“I suppose we should make one then, just in case, though I find it inconceivable that my daughter …”
“Even you are not completely apprised of the River’s will,” his vizier reminded him.
“Yes, yes. Assign someone to watch her, then.”
“My lord,” the priest chirped. “That is the business of the priesthood.”
“I suppose it is,” She’lu grudgingly admitted.
“If you will permit me, I will bring this to the attention of the order.”
She’lu drummed his fingers on the arm of his throne, looked tiredly around the chamber. The black columns that supported the roof and gave the court its name seemed to mock him, somehow.
Like the priest; nothing he could overtly do anything about. Yet. “Very well,” he said at last. “But I want to know who it is.”
“I suspect I know who will be assigned, my lord, if you will permit me.”
“Go on.”
“A new Jik has recently been initiated. He shows enormous potential. He will be very discreet.”
“Why a Jik?” She’lu asked irritably. “I see no reason for an assassin to watch my daughter.”
“Please, my lord. The Jik are not assassins. They are priests.”
“Yes. The sort of priests who assassinate people.”
De darkened again. “It is common practice, my lord, when the child is a direct descendant of the Chakunge. You yourself were certainly watched over by a Jik.”
She’lu aimed a smoky stare at his vizier. “Is this true, Nyas? You were my father’s vizier.”
Nyas nodded yes.
She’lu ceased tapping his fingers and glowered at the priest. “Very well. Send him to me, and tell him to have a care. I have high hopes for a good marriage for the girl.”
“Very good, Lord,” the priest acknowledged. “If you would but give me your leave …”
She’lu sighed heavily, drank some power from the River, felt it course and shimmer in his veins. He sent a finger of it out to the priest, touched his tiny, fragile soul. He stroked it a bit harder than necessary; the man shuddered and his eyes rolled up.
“You may speak of the matter of my daughter, and that only,” he commanded. He held the command there for a moment, then pulled the touch away. The priest sagged in his chair, sweat beading on his forehead. She’lu smiled, feeling a bit better. He could have merely released his Forbidding entirely; it would have been less painful for the priest. Nothing that had been discussed was of any real importance, after all. But it pleased him to bring the man discomfort. Indeed, the fellow had been allowed to take notes on much of the court’s business—the financial matters, for instance—and he would be allowed to keep those notes, so that the priesthood would not register a complaint. But leaving him Forbidden to talk about those same things would make the priesthood suspect he held unknowable secrets. It would keep them guessing.
“Now,” She’lu snapped. “Is that all, Nyas?”
“No, my lord. There is still the matter of the Southtown Levee …”
Suppressing a snarl behind a courtly smile, She’lu settled back into his throne, resigned to an even longer day than usual.
II
The Alwat and the Gods
“They slow us down,” Eruka complained. “Why did they have to bring children?”
“They would have slowed us down no matter what,” Perkar pointed out. “They have no horses.”
“We almost have none ourselves,” Eruka reminded him. Perkar felt a brief flash of anger at the flaxen-haired singer, but it quickly passed. They were in the same predicament—both had lost horses they could ill afford to lose. But Eruka was trying to keep in good spirits about it, as opposed to sulking; Perkar supposed he should do no less.
At least they were back on a trail now, though one that was clearly the result of Alwat feet and thus not comfortably broad enough for a horse. The branches sometimes grew low and that also made it difficult to ride, so they spent much time walking, anyway. The Alwal walked far, far in front. He only now and then caught a glimpse of them, as a matter of fact. He had been astonished when all seven of them came along as guides: two men, two women, an infant, an older child, and a gnarled creature Perkar guessed to be an old woman. For traveling they donned soft shoes of deerskin and long cloaks of the same substance, tanned white but with many odd figures and designs burned into them. It was the first thing like adornment Perkar had observed; they wore no jewe
lry that he could see. They did carry weapons, or at least tools, in little pouches slung over their shoulders on straps. Each adult bore a long cane-pole spear, sharpened and fire-hardened at the end. One of the women also carried a sharp stick. Now and then she would stop, dig some root out of the ground, and place it in a net on her back. She chattered to herself all the time that she did this. Usually she was through by the time the Humans had caught up to her, and she would scramble up and run back to the other Alwal, short legs pumping. Once, instead, she ran circles around the men with horses, chattering what almost seemed like a little song. The other Alwal were more aloof and sober, though when they took breaks to eat or rest they would come back down the trail and watch the Humans, muttering to one another now and then.
Eruka and Apad were proving poor company. He guessed that they were both shaken by the events of the previous day; Eruka by his paralysis, which no one had mentioned, and Apad—his eyes darted here and there, a shadow of fright over them. Given what had happened to Atti, even wearing armor, it was a miracle that Apad had survived unscathed, and that thought seemed to be lodged in his mind. Perkar had tried to congratulate him on his good fortune, only to be rebuffed by a scowl.
Both of his friends wore their armor today, he noted, and both cut fine, heroic figures; Apad in a mail coat of two layers, one steel and the other brass, brass greaves, and a hemispherical cap with a long, lozenge-shaped noseguard. Eruka wore black chain over a scarlet gambeson; rather than a shirt, his armor was a long coat divided into a split skirt that allowed him to straddle his horse. They looked wonderful, warlike; but the air was thin here, and he noticed them puffing and panting. For himself, he had decided to trust the word of the Alwal, who said there was no further danger of attack. As weird and disgusting as they might be, they lived here, were as intimate with the spirits of the land as he was with those of his father’s pastures. If there was real danger, they would tell Ngangata—after all, they must think of him as one of their own—and Ngangata would tell them.
