Chosen of the Changeling

by Greg Keyes

  “Also from Nhol?” Moss asked.

  “One is,” Brother Horse replied. “The other two, not at all.”

  There was a brief, restless silence, during which Chuuzek became more and more agitated, chewing his lip and bunching the reins in his hands.

  “If they are Cattle People, I will kill them,” he suddenly blurted defiantly.

  Brother Horse reined his mount to a full stop and turned in his saddle to face the young man squarely.

  “If you kill a man—or a woman—under my protection, in my village, I will consider it murder,” he said. His tone remained placid, but the words somehow conveyed the most resolute finality imaginable. Chuuzek made to speak again, but Moss intervened.

  “Of course we understand that,” he said. “We are Mang. Our mothers taught us well.”

  “I would hope so,” Brother Horse returned. “I would hope it would take more than war to see our ancient ways set easily aside.”

  “This is more than war,” Chuuzek growled, but then, at another glance from Moss, he lapsed into sullen silence.

  Brother Horse moved his mount forward again, and the silence pooled around the horsemen, threatening to stay with them all until they reached the village. Still, Brother Horse made no move to quicken his pace.

  What could Chuuzek have meant, this was more than war? Hezhi barely understood war at all—as the insulated daughter of the emperor, she had rarely had occasion to think about it—but how could a war be more than that?

  “I see the pennant of the Seven Hoof People,” Moss remarked.

  “They arrived yesterday,” Brother Horse told him.

  “Is old Siinch’u with them this year?”

  Hezhi felt the cords of her companion’s back loosen a bit. He even uttered a little chuckle, and Hezhi was certain, though she could not see his face, that he was grinning. “Oh, yes. I caught him trying to sneak into my granddaughter’s tent the other day.”

  “Still the same then.”

  “Of course. Gods help lecherous old men.”

  “Yes,” Moss replied. “Didn’t I hear that you spent several years on an island hiding from the Woodpecker Goddess because you and her daughter—”

  “No need to repeat rumors like that,” Brother Horse snapped. But it was his mock anger now, a joking kind of disapproval, very different from the low, dangerous tension of a few moments before.

  Had she seen that danger, that thing with claws and molten eyes?

  “Tell me about your granduncle Snatch-the-Pony. I heard he—”

  “Yes, it’s true,” Moss nearly crowed, his face opening into a radiant smile. “He went over to the Fang Hills …”

  So when they reached the Swollen Tents Brother Horse and Moss were laughing together. But Chuuzek, trailing a bit, kept his face flat and expressionless. Hezhi thought it to be a thin, translucent mask over murder—and perhaps more.

  VIII

  Tales of the Changeling

  Perkar sat staring at the Blackgod for a long while. He noticed and understood Ngangata’s occasional glances warning him to be cautious. Perkar felt he hardly needed such a warning, but then again, the record of his life seemed to register one mistake after another. The Blackgod simply gazed at the fire, his lips moving every now and then, as if he were speaking to the Fire Goddess, but otherwise he remained cryptic—as unknown and unfathomable to Perkar as the marks that Hezhi made on her long white leaves.

  Good Thief added nothing to the silence. He ate the dried meat they gave him without speaking; he seemed to have expended his energy not only for threats and self-recrimination but for everything else. More than once Perkar thought he had fallen asleep, but his eyes always fluttered back open.

  Destroy the Changeling. Perkar had spent months denying to himself that such a thing was within his power. Good people had died when he believed it was. His king had died, and a war with the Mang had begun because a single, stupid boy had believed he could slay the unslayable.

  Now a god who claimed to have created the world told him it was possible, that it had been a part of things all along.

  And he was afraid to ask the vital question—afraid to ask how.

  Because if Karak told him, he might believe. And if he believed …

  Across the fire, the Blackgod raised his weird yellow eyes. He smiled, and Perkar saw, in the spooled lights and images of his memory, a great black bird, gripping Apad’s shoulders, plunging his beak down into brain and blood, only to come up wearing the grin of a Crow.

  “How?” he asked, knowing the question would damn him.

  “How?” the Blackgod repeated, blinking at Perkar.

  “No,” Ngangata stated flatly. “Perkar, let it go. Whatever he plans—whether he tells the truth now or not—it will not go well for us.”

  “You can ride away,” Perkar said. “In fact, I beg you to ride away. You have shared enough of my burdens, my friend.”

  Ngangata worried at the fire with a stick, banked it a bit. “We should both ride away.”

  Karak softly clucked with his tongue. “There is so much Alwat in you,” he said to Ngangata. “Always ready to let things be. Always satisfied with the way things are.”

  “Things could certainly be worse,” Ngangata retorted.

  The Blackgod nodded. “Alwat through and through. But your friend, here, is Human—through and through. Better, he is a hero.”

  “Perkar knows my opinion of heroes,” Ngangata replied.

  “Enough,” Perkar snapped. “Tell me. Explain to me how I can destroy a god who lies across the entire breadth of the world.”

  “Oh, you cannot,” Karak said.

  Perkar blushed with fury. “Then why did you say that I could?”

  “Well, you can certainly help to slay him. It is within your power to bring about his destruction.”

  “Karak—”

  “Blackgod.”

  “Blackgod, then,” Perkar snapped. “Perhaps the gods enjoy such quibbling. Perhaps immortality twists you so. But I want no part of it. Speak to me plainly or do not speak to me at all.”

  Karak’s eyes flashed red and then white hot. A snarl curled his handsome lip, and he bolted to his feet. Perkar, suddenly filled with Harka’s sense of danger, reached for the blade, but his hand never reached it.

  The Blackgod clapped his hands together and lightning was born. Thunder came in the same instant, to shatter the very air around them. Perkar was flung back roughly, dazed by the blinding light and deafening noise. Both throbbed in his head. He was only dimly aware of being lifted bodily off the ground as someone took a double fistful of his shirt. A great river of flame still ran across his vision, and he was not even certain whether his eyes were open or closed. He fumbled again for Harka, but an iron claw closed around his sword wrist and held it with absolute strength.

  He dangled there, held in the air by chest and arm, until the brightness across his eyes faded and he could make out the Blackgod’s face, set and grim, inhuman. The brassy roar in his ears lingered.

  The Blackgod was now white. His skin was ivory, his hair a cascade of thistledown, his eyes pearly slits with a single blue pinpoint to mark their pupils. His face was still essentially Human, but his nose had become a sharp alabaster beak, a dagger aimed between Perkar’s eyes. Ngangata and Good Thief sprawled behind Karak, and Perkar could not tell if they were alive or not.

  “Know this,” the god hissed, his voice cutting somehow through the crashing in Perkar’s injured ears. “There are limits to the insolence I will tolerate from such as you. You will treat me with respect. You will do this, or I will turn your companion inside out. I will flay his skin, and then I will have yours.”

  With that the god released Perkar. He tumbled roughly to the ground, dizzy, on the verge of violent illness.

  “Now,” Karak said, in a more reasonable tone. “Now you can let me answer your question or you may politely ask me to leave. All other options include pain for you and yours. Do you understand this? Are you now aware of ou
r respective positions?”

  Perkar realized dully that blood was drizzling from his ears and down his neck. He wiped ineffectually at it.

  “Y-yes,” he managed to stammer, though he could not hear even his own voice as well as he could that of the god.

  “Fine. Now listen carefully. Long ago, the Brother of the Forest Lord did not walk long across the land as he does now. Long ago, he kept to a certain place, kept all of his water about him, contained. He was only tricked into releasing it, you see. But once he was running free, he became hungry. He became insatiable. He began to grow then, to eat everything.

  “Until now, at least he has been lying in one bed, and so he eats only what he can reach from it. But he tries to throw pieces of himself out, toss them away but keep hold of them, too. This is so that he can wander where he does not flow and eat what is there, as well. He wants it all, you see?”

  Perkar nodded, even as he coughed. The pain in his ears was sharpening, and he could not tell if that was Harka healing him or just the fading of shock and the return of sensation.

  “Well, this girl Hezhi is such a piece of him. But you and I, Perkar—we took her away from him before she could be whole. Before she could be him. It was a near thing; you don’t even know how near.”

  “But now she is safe?”

  “Safe? Oh, no, pretty thing. No, now he wants her back. She is his best hope and his most terrible danger. He is awake now—you awakened him—and he bends his huge will to reclaiming her. And he knows you, too, of course.”

  “This Mang gaan, then. He serves the River?”

  “Yes, in a sense. The River sends him dreams, shows him visions of greatness. He is one tool the River wields now.”

  “There are others?”

  “I can’t see them well. They are still in his shadow, where my vision has trouble walking, with him awake. But something waits there in Nhol, ready to spring out across the plains. When it comes, it will be a whirlwind.”

  “What then?” Perkar groaned. “What am I to do?”

  “She can slay him,” the Blackgod answered, eyes narrowed to milky slits. “She must be brought to his source, to the spot he was born. There she can slay him.”

  “Hezhi?”

  “Good. You understand. Take her to his source.”

  “And then?”

  “Then she will slay him.”

  “How?”

  “That is not your concern. Suffice to say she will do so.”

  Perkar opened his mouth to speak again and then thought better of it. He was afraid, and he realized that it was a sensation that bearing Harka had muted for some time. He searched for his earlier disdain, his passionate anger, and found it buried beneath terror.

  “Take her to his source,” he said, repeating the Blackgod’s words. “How shall we find it?”

  “You know where it lies—in the mountain at the heart of Balat. And I will leave you roadmarks in any event. But have a care—do not travel upon him to reach it. You must go overland.”

  “Even I know that,” Perkar muttered.

  Karak squatted before him, so that his beak nearly touched Perkar’s nose. The Blackgod smiled fondly, reached over and tousled Perkar’s hair, the way one’s grandfather might.

  “Of course you do, pretty thing, little oak tree. I just remind you.”

  Before Perkar could reply—or even flinch from the god’s touch—Karak suddenly curled in upon himself, knotted into a tight white ball, and bloomed into flame, like a dried rose consumed by fire. He uncurled his body as the heat licked up from him, black again, completely a bird. A Raven larger than any man. The Raven hopped back from Perkar, regarded him with its head cocked.

  “Just reminding you,” the Raven said, and strutted over to where Ngangata and Good Thief lay. Both had begun to stir, to watch the exchange between Perkar and Karak with dull eyes.

  The Raven stooped over Ngangata, and ice formed in Perkar’s chest. He desperately willed his hand to reach for Harka, commanded his legs to bring him erect. He could not govern his limbs; they refused him.

  Karak regarded Ngangata for what seemed an eternity, and Ngangata stared back at the god, his expression set and unreadable. Then the god hopped on, to where Good Thief lay.

  “Hello, pretty thing,” the Blackgod cooed.

  Good Thief looked not at Karak but at Perkar. His eyes held a desperate mixture of fear and anger.

  “My horse,” he shouted. “His name is Sharp Tiger. Look after my horse, Cattle-Man.”

  It was not a command, it was a plea. It was the last thing Good Thief said; Karak’s talons dug into his belly, black wings opened and boomed, and the god was rising up, the Mang dangling helplessly, his eyes still fixed on Perkar.

  He watched the god and his prey until they dwindled to a speck, were gone.

  Perkar barely had enough energy to help Ngangata into the tent—the fire was scattered, the night chill sinking into their bones. The tent was warmer but still uncomfortably cool, and the two huddled together, not speaking. Perkar thought of talking to Harka, but that seemed useless, somehow, and instead he lay there, remembering Good Thief’s face growing smaller. He certainly did not believe he would sleep, but suddenly it was morning, light glowing in through the tent skin.

  Ngangata was still asleep, and Perkar did not disturb him. Instead he got up and pushed as quietly as he could through the tent flap. The sun was already well up, feathering the rolling clouds above with shades of gold, pink, and gray. Blue sky peered through cheerfully.

  Perkar—not cheerful at all—gathered wood and started a fire. He found the corpse of the dead archer, his back open in long stripes, his eyes wide and uncomprehending. He dragged the stiff body to where its companion lay, and there he sang a song for the dead, offering what little wine he had to them. He did not know their names, of course, except for Good Thief, but there was an appropriate song for dead enemies, and he sang all of it. After that, he began to search for stones to cover the bodies.

  After a long search, he found only a few fist-size stones. He looked down at the horse and the man, wondering how best to deal with them. Not far away, Sharp Tiger whickered, further reminding Perkar of his obligations.

  “Let the sky have them,” a voice croaked from behind him. Perkar turned to see Ngangata, bleary-eyed, standing near the tent.

  “They were valiant enemies,” Perkar told him. “They deserve some consideration.”

  “Let the sky have them,” Ngangata repeated. “They are Mang; that is their custom.”

  Perkar puffed out a long, steaming breath. “You mean leave them here for the wolves?”

  “Yes.”

  “There should be something more we can do than that.”

  “For dead bodies? No. Offer to their ghosts later, if you still feel guilty. Now we should leave this place before their kinsmen arrive.”

  “How did they know to come here, in the first place?”

  “Their gaan saw us, no doubt.”

  “Then he will see us wherever we go.”

  Ngangata shrugged. “If we are moving, there will be no place to see.”

  Perkar nodded reluctantly. “I have to take Good Thief’s horse.”

  Ngangata gave Perkar a somewhat painful flash of a grin.

  “That is a Mang war horse. No one but his rider may approach him.”

  “Good Thief asked me to. It was his last request.”

  Ngangata raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I will pack the tent,” he said.

  Perkar stared at his fallen enemy for a few more heartbeats, then turned his attention to Sharp Tiger.

  The stallion eyed him dubiously as he approached. Sharp Tiger seemed a fitting name; though most Mang horses bore stripes upon their flanks and hindquarters, his were pronounced and black, laid upon a tawny field. His mane was jet. Of course, his name would have nothing to do with his appearance. Mang horses were named after dead Mang warriors, just as Mang warriors were named after dead horses. Perkar wondered, as he ap
proached the beast, whether a man or a mount had first borne the name in the long ago.

  Sharp Tiger watched him draw closer, eyes flaring; he dipped his head up and down restlessly.

  “Shununechen,” Perkar said gently, as he had heard Mang say to mounts not belonging to them. “Smell me, cousin.”

  Sharp Tiger allowed him closer, until he could place his cupped hand near the animal’s nostrils. The beast sniffed him uncertainly.

  He was still saddled, the bit still in his mouth. Perkar sadly realized that he hadn’t even unsaddled T’esh for the night; he could see him grazing some distance away, nearer the stream. This was no way to treat such beautiful mounts.

  But then, neither was cutting the legs out from under one, he reflected, gritting his teeth.

  “Are you going to let me on, cousin?” he asked Sharp Tiger:

  His plan had been merely to lead the horse behind T’esh, but now he had an inexplicable urge to ride him. Ngangata, of course, was right. This horse would never let anyone but Good Thief upon his back. Still …

  He put his foot in the stirrup, and Sharp Tiger stood there, passively. It wasn’t until he tried to swing his other leg over that the beast reacted.

  Perkar was suddenly in the air, propelled upward by Sharp Tiger’s explosion of movement. He thudded to the ground and rolled. Sharp Tiger came after, lashing down with his fore-hooves. Only Harka’s preternatural sense of danger saved Perkar from the stallion’s hard, sharp weapons; he was only lightly grazed on one arm before he fought clear and returned to his feet. Sharp Tiger ceased his attack as abruptly as he began it and watched Perkar with clear, dark eyes.

  Perkar smiled wryly at his own stupidity.

  “Very well,” he said. “Then will you let me lead you?”

  Sharp Tiger stood, quiet now. When Perkar cautiously took his reins, he followed without complaint.

  Not much later, with the tent packed and Ngangata mounted, they set out toward Brother Horse’s village. Perkar rode with his thoughts, and one eye on the cloudswept sky, the fear and memory of black wings clear in his mind.

  IX