Hammer Of God (38 page)

Tears rose in Vortka's eyes, the high godspeaker was weeping. “Zandakar—”

“Tell me.”

“No,” Vortka whispered. “The god does not desire that. The god never did.”

Never did…never did… He stared, his bones hollow. Loud in his mind, the screaming innocents as they died in their thousands. “Never? Aieee, Vortka…all those people I slaughtered—”

Vortka embraced him. “Your pain is my pain, Zandakar, we are both sinning men. We will be tasked for these sins in our time.”

The stone scorpion pectoral was hard against his flesh. He could not weep, there were no tears for this, there was no tasking that could punish him for what he had done.

Lilit, Lilit, can you hear me? Do you know? You should never have loved me, to love me is a sin.

Too soon Vortka released him. “Zandakar, there is more,” he said. “You can hear it once and then you must go.”

He flinched as Vortka's hand came to rest against his cheek. He was empty, there was dust in his veins. “What?” he asked dully. “What more must I hear?”

Vortka looked at him steadily, his cold hand trembled. “Once you are gone, Zandakar, we might never meet again. I want you to know this, I want you to know who you are. Your mother is Hekat, your father is not Raklion. The warlord's seed was tainted, he never bred a living son. My seed quickened Hekat. You are my son.”

At first the words had no meaning, they were just words. You are my son. He closed his eyes, tried to recall Raklion's face but he could not recall it. The man was gone from his mind.

I was young when he died, in my heart there is Vortka.

He opened his eyes, his heart beat like a drum. He believed what Vortka told him, the truth drummed in his bones. “Dmitrak?”

“Was sired by Nagarak.”

Nagarak? Understanding flooded through him. Yuma hates Dimmi, how could she not? “Dimmi does not know?”

“He can never know, Zandakar,” said Vortka. “All that was cruel and ruthless in Nagarak, all that is cruel and ruthless in your mother, that is your brother Dmitrak warlord. I know you love him, you came here because you love him. Your love might yet save him. It might yet save Hekat, I do not know. My son, you must leave.”

My son. My son. He did not leave, he embraced Vortka, his throat was choked with pain. “How can I leave when you need me…Adda?”

“Adda,” whispered Vortka. “Aieee, Zandakar, to hear you call me that. My heart is breaking, it breaks at your words.”

Stepping back, Zandakar seized Vortka's shoulders, he stared into his father's loving face. “I must stay in Jatharuj. Can you face Hekat alone with this? I think you cannot. She will not believe you, she will be so angry. Dmitrak will be angry. If you try to stop the warhost alone they will forget they hate each other, they will turn on you.”

“They will not turn on me, I am Vortka high godspeaker.”

The god see him, he was so stubborn! “Vortka, please—”

Vortka smiled again, such pain in his face. “I am tasked by the god to do what I can here. I can save your mother, I have loved her many years. Hekat has loved me, she loves me still, though she thinks she does not.”

“You are one man, Vortka,” he said, despairing. “How can one man hold back a warhost?”

“I am not one man, I am Mijak's high godspeaker,” said Vortka, his face proud. “I am in the god's eye, I have seen its true heart.”

“You have seen its true heart because Dexterity has shown you,” he said. He wanted to shout, he wanted to shake Vortka. “Take us to Hekat. He will show it to her, she will—”

“Kill him,” said Vortka. “Zandakar, do you want him to die?”

Shocked, he shook his head. “No, Vortka. No.”

“Trust me, Zandakar, I am your father,” said Vortka. “The god is in this man from Ethrea, but Hekat will not hear its voice. She cannot hear it, her heart is full of blood and death. I am a godspeaker, I will speak for the god. I am Vortka, her old friend, she will listen to me.”

There was no swaying him, he was stubborn for the god. Zandakar let his forehead drop against Vortka's. “I am your obedient son, Adda, I will do what you say.”

Vortka's lips pressed his cheek. “I know. I have something for you, you must take it when you go.”

He watched as Vortka withdrew to rummage in a cupboard at the back of the room. Dexterity put a hand on his arm. “Zandakar, what's going on? Are you all right?”

He shook his head. “Wei.”

Vortka returned, in his hand something long and slender, wrapped in black cloth. He unwrapped it and held it out. “Take this sacrifice knife, Zandakar, the god intends it for you.”

Zandakar looked at the blade. Its bone hilt, dark with age, was carved into a scorpion. Its snaketongue blade shone blue in the chamber's lamplight. He closed his fingers around the knife's ancient hilt. Power blazed through him, the blade shimmered with blue life. It shimmered like the god's hammer, the power felt the same.

“Rollin save us!” said Dexterity, stepping back. “What is that thing?”

“Keep it hidden, Zandakar,” said Vortka. “When the time is right to use it you will know, the god will tell you.”

Zandakar nodded. “Yes, Vortka.” He heard his voice break. “Vortka, you must stop Mijak. You must stop the sacrifice of slaves. You must save Yuma, and Dmitrak. They sin, they do not know it. Please, Vortka, save them, they live in my heart.”

“I will save them, Zandakar,” said Vortka. “Go in the god's eye, go now.”

In dreadful silence they looked at each other, in dreadful silence they said goodbye.

“Come, Dexterity,” said Zandakar.

“What?” said Dexterity, startled. “We're leaving? But I thought—”

“Come,” Zandakar commanded, and left his father behind.

As they hurried back to their boat, and Sun-dao, Dexterity tried to think what Vortka could have told Zandakar that had changed his mind about seeing his mother and brother. That had clearly shaken him to his bones.

He couldn't begin to imagine, but he was going to find out.

I kept Zandakar's secrets before, and much good that did me. I'm not about to make that mistake again. I doubt Rhian or Ursa would forgive me a second time.

Whatever power Sun-dao had drawn on to hide them from men's eyes, it must still be working. The priests in Vortka's dwelling looked right through them. The wandering priests on the streets of Jatharuj ignored them. The few fearsome warriors they saw did not see them.

Well, Hettie, all I can say is while it may be a dubious power, I'm not sorry he possesses it.

Rollin save them, the town's air was rank. Clearly the stench did not bother Zandakar, but for himself he was relieved he'd not eaten a thing since their last leaping whirlwind ride on the ocean. Jatharuj was a port town, like Kingseat, and port towns weren't known for their floral aromas. Port towns meant people, and people meant refuse and cesspits and cooking smells and animals, piss in the gutters and dung on the streets. Port towns meant fishing boats and fish guts, butcheries and entrails. He was born and bred a duck's waddle from Kingseat, he knew all those smells and never once had they churned him. But compared to Jatharuj, Kingseat smelled of springtime and jasmine.

If it were daylight he'd expect to see the air tinged red, so strongly did it smell of death and old blood. How much was animal, and how much human? God help him, that he should even need to consider such a thing…

Oh, Hettie. This dreadful slaughter has to stop.

As sorry as he felt for Zandakar, grieving, he felt sorrier still for Athnïj of Icthia. This had been his township, before Mijak came. Every man, woman and child in this town had been a citizen of Icthia. Now, if any at all had survived Hekat's slaughter, they were slaves, the property of Mijak. Perhaps it was the stink of their blood that coated his tongue and clogged his nose.

It was too much. Tears stung his tired eyes.

Zandakar's long strides were carrying him far ahead. Dexterity skipped a little to catch up, like a child chasing its father or an older brother. In the starlight, with his dark skin, it was hard to see Zandakar's face. Impossible to know what he was thinking. One hand was pressed to his belly, safeguarding the strange knife that Vortka had given him.

Oh, Hettie, I wish he hadn't. I wish Zandakar hadn't taken it. That knife looks evil. As though it's spilled barrels of blood. Has it? Has Vortka? Hettie, who is he? What is he? I was in his mind but I don't remember a thing. He took my pain from me as simply as breathing. Not even Ursa can heal a man so well. In that moment of healing he was kind, he was compassionate. But that stone scorpion he wore – the chalava – dear God, it came alive…

The stone scorpion came to life…and Zandakar had thrown himself into its terrible embrace. And it had stung him, there was venom…yet he'd survived.

I don't understand any of it. This Mijak, this dreadful place, it's incomprehensible to me. Zandakar's incomprehensible. It's like we've never met.

Even with his blue hair, with his strange tongue, with his dark skin and his scars, in Ethrea, Zandakar had seemed like any other man. He'd wept like a man, felt fear like a man, he had even smiled, like any Ethrean man. All right, there were his hotas, there was his killing. They were startling. But men did kill in Ethrea. Not often, but they killed. There were brawls, there were accidents, men would be men.

In Ethrea I knew him. In Ethrea I saw a stranger who was in many ways like me. But now, Hettie? Now? Good God. Who is he really?

They reached the harbour at last. The same two warriors stood guard at its entrance. Unseen, unheard, like the softest summer breeze, they slipped past the warriors and onto the dock. In a handful of minutes they'd be with Sun-dao again…and any hope of a private conversation would vanish.

Dexterity grabbed Zandakar's arm and tugged, taking them both sideways till they stood in the shadow of a nearby moored warship. It rose and fell slowly on the water, its carved, torchlit hull blood red and menacing.

“We need to talk, Zandakar, without Sun-dao eavesdropping. What is going on? Why aren't we going to see your mother and brother? The plan was for you to convince them not to attack Ethrea. And now we're leaving? Why?”

Zandakar's mouth thinned to a stubborn line. “Vortka say.”

“And that's it?” he demanded, when Zandakar said nothing else. “Vortka says go and we go? Just like that?”

“Zho.”

He almost laughed aloud with disbelief. “Really? And how do we explain that to Sun-dao? To Emperor Han? To Rhian, when we get home? We came here to stop Mijak!”

Zandakar folded his arms. “Vortka will stop Mijak. Vortka is chalava-hagra. Chalava speak to Vortka, it say—”

“What?” he prompted. “Zandakar? What did your god tell him? What did I tell him, while I was burning?”

And suddenly Zandakar's face was masked in pain. Twisted with anguish.

The night was still warm but suddenly Dexterity felt chilled. Oh, Hettie, Hettie, I knew something was wrong. “Zandakar, I warn you. I'll not take one more step until you tell me what I said. Before you tell me what's wrong! And don't tell me nothing's wrong, because I'm not blind or stupid. And I did not come all this way to be treated like a child!”

“Chalava,” said Zandakar at last, his voice a strangled whisper. “You tell Vortka chalava wei want blood. Wei want blood ever. Harjha. Targa. Bryzin. Zree.” His fist thudded against his chest. “I kill them for chalava. Chalava wei want!”

Oh dear. So at last, Zandakar knew the truth. And what could he say now? What words were there, in Ethrean, or Mijaki, or any living tongue, to ease the pain? So many murdered, and all for a lie.

Zandakar took a step back. “You hate. You hate this killing Zandakar.”

What? “Wei!” he said swiftly. “I don't hate you, Zandakar.”

In the silence, Zandakar's harsh, ragged breathing. “I hate.”

Dexterity stared at his anguished face. “Yourself? No. No, you mustn't do that.” Not with that wicked knife stuffed down your shirt. “I know it's dreadful, all those people who died, but it's not your fault. You thought you were doing what chalava wanted. You were told it's what chalava wanted. You're not to blame, Zandakar.”

Another silence. Zandakar's stare shifted, touched on the harbour, then came to rest on the next row of warships, the dreadful might of Mijak. Then he pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, as though his head pained him. After what had happened with the stone scorpion it was such a human gesture. Disarming. Disconcerting.

Dexterity touched his arm. “Zandakar, I think we should go back, while we can. If I can burn for Vortka, then I can burn for your mother.” Not that he relished the prospect, or could control it, but surely it must be their best hope of success. If he prayed, prayed hard…

“Wei,” said Zandakar. “Vortka say wei.”

“Well, I don't answer to Vortka!” he retorted. “And neither do you. Not any more. We came here for Rhian and for Ethrea. You swore a blood oath to protect them, which means stopping Mijak in Icthia, which means—”

“Wei!” said Zandakar, almost shouting. “Stupid Dexterity listen. Danger, zho? Vortka say danger.”

Well, that was convenient. And puzzling, when Vortka knew first-hand the message they brought, and its importance. Unless…

Oh dear, Hettie. Has Vortka tricked us? Is he only pretending to believe the truth about his god?

Very carefully, he laid a hand on Zandakar's arm. “Look. I know this Vortka is your friend, gajka, but I think we have to consider—”

“Wei gajka,” said Zandakar. “Adda.”

“Adda?”

“I think you say father,” said Zandakar. “Zho?”

Stunned, Dexterity gaped at him. He didn't know what he'd expected, but it certainly wasn't this. “But – but you said your father was Raklion.”

Zandakar shook his head. “Wei. Vortka.”

It was like the solid ground had turned to mist. “He told you this? Just now?”

“Zho.”

Dexterity tugged at his beard. “Are you sure he's not lying?”

“Zho,” said Zandakar. In the torchlight, his face was frightening.

“All right, all right,” he said hastily. “I had to ask. Rollin's mercy.” He shook his head, bewildered. “You never knew? You never suspected?”

“Wei.”

“And are you pleased he's your father?”

Now Zandakar's eyes flashed from ice to flame. “Zho.”

If there'd been somewhere to sit he'd have sat down, very hard. It had been a long, eventful night already and clearly it wasn't over yet.

“So…is he Dmitrak's father, too?”

“Wei.” Zandakar's eyes gleamed. “Nagarak.”

The way he said the name wasn't promising. “I take it that's bad?”

A nod. “Zho. Bad. Nagarak bad.”

And did bad blood breed true? As with dogs and horses, did a rotten sire mean rotten stock?

I think it must. It was Dmitrak at Garabatsas.

But before that, in those other places, it had been Zandakar.

So perhaps bloodlines mean nothing. Perhaps it all comes down to choice, whether a man is good or evil.

After all, Zandakar had been both. That had to mean something.

Oh, Hettie, it's so complicated, and I'm a simple man.

At least this explained why Zandakar was so eager to trust Vortka. But did that mean he had to trust the priest, too? Just take Vortka's word for it that they shouldn't find Hekat? Trust him to speak to her, on Ethrea's behalf?

“Dexterity,” said Zandakar. “You trust me, zho?”

Oh dear. “Yes. Yes, of course I do. But—”

Zandakar pressed a fist against his heart. “Trust me, trust Vortka. Trust Adda. Zho?”

It was the closest he'd ever seen Zandakar to begging. Oh dear, oh dear. “If I agree,” he said slowly. “If we go now, without doing anything more to stop Mijak – am I going to be sorry? Will Ethrea pay the price for my mistake?”

“Wei,” said Zandakar. “Dexterity, wei. Vortka save Ethrea.”

Oh, Hettie, sweet Hettie. Please don't let me be wrong about this…

He took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “All right, then. We go.”

With Zandakar leading the way they continued along the dock, past row after row of looming warships. In the distance the horizon was lightening, growing paler with the approach of dawn. The night had escaped them without him noticing. Dexterity found himself beginning to panic.

What if Sun-dao's left us? What if he's sailed away? What if we took too long in the township and he thought we'd been captured, or killed? Oh, Hettie! He didn't look well. What if he's died?

But no. Sun-dao was waiting in the cramped Tzhung boat. He watched them clamber from the dock to the gently pitching deck, fingers laced before him, the ends of his long, bone-threaded moustaches dangling down his narrow, tattooed chest. Though he still looked weak, he was also furious.

“You find the Empress of Mijak? You find her son, Dmitrak?”

Dexterity glanced at Zandakar. “Ah…not precisely.”

A sharp gust of wind stirred their boat's sail, their clothing, their hair, but did not ripple the surrounding water. “I must see this empress,” Sun-dao hissed. “I must see her son. Take me to them.”

He stepped back, unsteady. “Why?”

Sun-dao rattled off something in Tzhung. From the look on his face it wasn't anything polite. “You foolish man,” he spat. “I leave emperor, I leave my witch-men, for me to do what I must do.”

“What you must do? What we must do, surely. We came to try and stop Mijak, and I think we've succeeded. We now have an ally against its empress.”

“What ally?” said Sun-dao, scathing.

Dexterity jutted his beard at the witch-man. “Do you know, I'm not inclined to tell you. We're not answerable to you, or to your emperor. Take us home to Ethrea and we'll tell Queen Rhian. What she chooses to tell Han is entirely up to her.”

Another, stronger gust of wind. Sun-dao's sunken eyes glittered. “You stupid toymaker. Mijak must be defeated!”

“Yes, of course it must,” he retorted. “Do you think we don't know that, Sun-dao? Set one foot in the town and you can smell the blood. I can smell it still. It's quite turned my stomach.”

Sun-dao's long, unbound hair was stirring more than could be explained by a breeze. On his arms and bare torso, the inked tattoos writhed.

Dexterity stepped back another pace, almost bumping into Zandakar. He glanced sideways again. “I don't like this,” he murmured. “Something's not right.”

Sun-dao took a painful step forward. “Take me into Jatharuj. Take me to the empress.”

Heart thudding, Dexterity stood his ground. “Why?”

“Why is not your business! Take me to them now!”

“I'll do no such thing. And don't you take that tone with me, Sun-dao.” He turned to Zandakar. “Can you believe his effrontery? I'll be lodging a formal complaint when we get home.”

“Zho,” said Zandakar. He sounded…dangerous. As though any complaint he lodged would be lodged with a blade. “Sun-dao. I know you, I think. You came to kill empress. Kill Dmitrak. Zho?”

What? Dexterity stared at him. “Zandakar, what are you talking about? Sun-dao wouldn't—” And then he stopped. Something dreadful and unseen was crawling over his flesh. He turned, so slowly, and looked at Sun-dao's face.

The witch-man was snarling, his tattoos frantically alive beneath his amber skin.

Oh, Hettie. Don't tell me…“Is he right, Sun-dao? Did you come here to kill them?”

Sun-dao's eyes opened wide. Now a deep crimson glow burned in their depths. Within the last few moments it seemed the flesh had melted from his face, leaving nothing but a thin papering of skin over bone. His hands were unclasped, his arms held wide.

The salt air began to crackle with power.

Dexterity swallowed. Oh, Hettie. “This is disgraceful. Wait till Queen Rhian hears what you had planned.”

Sun-dao said nothing. The witch-man looked scarcely human. And all around them a wind was rising, cold and sharp like a winter storm filled with ice, to slice frail flesh to bloody ribbons.