Hammer Of God (58 page)

Captain Yanson staggered to the bow. “Your Majesty, we can't stay here! We've got to go! We've got to—”

A Slyntian warship's burning mast crashed across them, smashed by Dmitrak's merciless gauntlet. Every man standing was thrown from his feet, and fire leapt like a lover along the Ilda's sweet lines.

“Ludo!” Alasdair shouted, lurching to his knees and looking for his cousin.

“I'm fine,” said Ludo, joining him, blood streaming down his face and one arm. “We're done for. Can we abandon ship?”

“I don't know! Yanson—”

But Captain Yanson was dead, his head split like a melon from striking the railing. Blood and brains smeared the deck. One of the witch-men was dead too, his neck broken. And the Ilda was well alight, tangled in the wreckage of the Slyntian ship. Smoke billowed, flames crackled. The air was full of screams.

“Han's flagship,” said Alasdair, staring at it. “It's tangled too, but not as badly and it's not on fire. If we can use the Slyntian ship as a bridge—”

“God save us, are you mad?” said Ludo.

“Would you rather stay here and burn alive?”

Ludo's face was his answer.

“The other two witch-men live, I think,” he said. “You carry one. I'll carry the other. We can't leave them. We need them. They're not dead, they're just – stunned.”

“And the Ilda's crew?”

Alasdair closed his eyes. God forgive me. “They'll have to take their chances, Ludo.”

Escaping the Ilda was a nightmare. Burning, listing, she tried to kill them in her death throes. Pushing Ludo before him, his witch-man slung across his shoulders, muscles shrieking, lungs gasping, Alasdair kept his eyes on Han's flagship and blotted out everything else: the smoke, the flames, the screams of the injured and dying, the reek of burning blood and flesh, the stink of charred timber and canvas, the chanting of Mijak's encroaching warriors.

“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

He and Ludo reached the sinking Slyntian ship and, without a backwards glance, left the Ilda behind. Burdened with Han's witch-men, they helped each other struggle through the tangle of spars and rigging and dead mutilated sailors. Halfway between the two ships, Ludo's witch-man slipped from his sweaty, bloody grip and plunged into the churning water below.

Between them they saved the second witch-man, barely. And barely reached Han's flagship alive as flames roared on the Slyntian ship and swallowed the Ilda.

“Han!” Alasdair shouted. “Han, can you hear me?”

No reply. Han and his witch-men stood like statues carved from obsidian and amber. Leaving Ludo to care for their rescued witch-man, Alasdair staggered towards them as Ethrea's armada burned and died.

Reckless, desperate, he snatched at Tzhung's emperor, desperate to shake Han back to his senses. But the moment his fingers closed on Han's rigid arm, a bolt of power surged through him. Nerves on fire, ears ringing, he flew through the air and struck the boat's railing. The impact flipped him over the side. He had enough wits left to grab hold, to hang on. The pain was so vicious, he thought his wrists would snap.

“Alasdair!” Ludo shouted.

As Ludo scrambled to reach him, his face bloodless with terror, Alasdair looked up at Han. Tzhung's emperor was stirring, the vacant look fading from his eyes. The witch-men standing with him were stirring, too.

“Alasdair!” said Ludo, reaching him. “Rollin's mercy, are you insane?”

Bumping, bruising, scraping bare flesh and collecting splinters, Ludo hauled him back over the side of Han's flagship. Around them the armada's destruction continued. Both the Ilda and the Slyntian ship had burned to the waterline, and they were only two of many.

Coughing, panting his thanks, Alasdair squeezed Ludo's shoulder then turned back to Han. This time he didn't touch him.

“Emperor, can you hear me? Can you understand?”

Slowly, painfully, Han nodded. “Yes.”

“The armada's defeated,” he said, his voice breaking. Rhian, we failed you. I failed you. “Can you get us back to Ethrea, or at least away from here?”

Instead of answering, Han reached for his witch-men. Embraced them, weeping. Then he released them and raised his head.

“Ethrea,” he said. His voice sounded faint, as though it travelled a great distance. His fingers lifted to touch his face, as though flesh were something unknown, and frightening.

Around him, his ten witch-men did the same.

Slowly Han swept his gaze across the battered, tattered handful of ships still left in the armada. Looked at the ocean, choked with bodies and bits of burned, blasted boat. Stared at the Mijaki warships poised to engulf them.

Blown on the breeze, that menacing chant. “Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

Han's eyes closed. His fisted hands stretched high above his head. His witch-men echoed him. Alasdair stared at the armada's surviving ships, and through the gusting palls of smoke and flickering flames thought he saw other witch-men on boats not yet ruined, slowly raising their fisted hands.

“Oh, please God,” Ludo muttered. “Have mercy. Get us home.”

Nothing…nothing…

Then the tinkling of windchimes…and the world disappeared.

Every morning after dancing her hotas, Rhian stood in her privy garden overlooking the harbour and stared out to the horizon, heart thudding, praying for the armada's safe return. Every evening, before the last of the light was lost, she stood there again, heart thudding, before riding with Helfred to Kingseat's great chapel, where she prayed with her people for a victory against Mijak.

For all the hours in between, one of Idson's soldiers stood there, gaze fixed on the horizon, waiting…waiting…

The grass where they stood was worn bare, and might never grow back.

After nearly three weeks had passed, Rhian cornered Dexterity in the castle library, where he was hunting for new books he could give Zandakar to read.

“Mister Jones!” she said, closing the library doors behind her.

Startled, he banged his head on a bookshelf. “Ow. Your Majesty? Has there been—”

“No,” she said, and tried to ignore the pain under her ribs. “No sighting yet. Dexterity—”

Her toymaker sighed and slumped into the nearest overstuffed leather armchair. “I'm sorry. I've tried, I really have. Hettie won't answer me, no matter how hard I beg.”

Rhian sat in the chair opposite, disappointment cruel as a canker. “Helfred says we must have faith. He says, how is it faith when the outcome is already known?” She chewed at her lip, using pain to drive back the tears. “You've no idea how much I long to smack him.”

“Well, he's the prolate,” said Dexterity. “He's got to say things like that, I suppose.” He sat back and considered her, a frown in his eyes. “Your face has healed well.”

Her fingers came up to touch the scars on her cheeks. Ridged, unattractive, they still gave her pause when she looked in a mirror. Dinsy was forever moping, bewailing her queen's lost looks. “Yes. Thanks to Ursa.” She dropped her hands to her lap. “Though you still wish I'd slashed my arms instead, don't you?”

He pulled a face. “Well…”

“Arms can be covered, Dexterity, as though an oath has been set aside. This way, every time an ambassador looks at me he's reminded of my pledge to his people.”

Dexterity smiled. “You're still beautiful.”

“Tcha! As if that matters!”

But of course it did matter, in some small vain part of her soul. Does it matter to Alasdair? I never asked, before he left. I must ask him when he comes home. I must tell him how I love him.

“You've done well with Zandakar,” she added. “His Ethrean's almost perfect now.”

“He's worked hard,” said Dexterity, his cheeks turning pink. Such a dear man, he always blushed when paid a compliment. “Although he will insist on peppering his speech with a little Mijaki here and there.”

“To tease you?”

“Undoubtedly. But d'you know…” Dexterity frowned thoughtfully. “Mostly I think it's because he's afraid of losing himself. His clothing's Ethrean. His food is Ethrean. Since that scorpion knife's too dangerous, he dances his hotas with an Ethrean knife, under an Ethrean sky, in the shadow of Ethrea's Kingseat Castle. And every day he trains Ethreans to destroy his own people. To destroy his family, Rhian.” He shook his head. “I begin to wonder if we don't ask too much.”

She didn't want to think of Zandakar's sacrifices. If she thought of his sacrifices, she might not look him in the eye next time they met.

“What choice do we have but to use him?” she demanded. “Did we ask for Mijak to cross its borders and enslave the world? Did we ask for its empress to spill human blood in her hunger for power? All we have ever asked for is to be left alone.”

“I know,” sighed Dexterity. “You do what you must to keep Ethrea safe. No matter which way you count the coins, someone's going to come up short.”

Agitated, Rhian pushed out of the plush armchair and roamed the library. Cursed the windows, which didn't face out to sea. “I'm regretting I sent Ludo with Alasdair,” she said. “Adric grows more bumptious by the day. Edward tries to deflate him, and then Rudi gets protective, and my two senior dukes waste their time brangling with each other.”

“It is vexing,” said Dexterity. “But Helfred says his venerables continue to report great courage among the people. I think the babes in their cradles would fight for you if they could, Rhian.”

“How? By throwing their rusks?”

“You never know. It might work.”

She tried to laugh, to show him she was brave, and not subject to the dismals, but the sound she made was more like a sob. “Oh, Dexterity…”

She heard the creak of his leather armchair. His boot heels on the carpet. Then his arms closed around her, and his hand stroked her close-cropped hair.

“Oh dear,” he murmured. “There, there, Rhian.”

She turned her face into his shoulder, let her fingers clutch tight to his coat. “I'm afraid, Dexterity,” she whispered. “I'm so afraid.”

“I know,” he said, his hand patting her back. “But you must be strong, for Alasdair and for your people. If the armada fails—”

She pulled back. “It can't fail, Dexterity. How can we hope to defeat Mijak on land, with so many warriors practiced in killing?”

“I don't know,” he said, his voice low, his eyes troubled. “But if that's what we're faced with, then that's what we must do. Just…don't abandon hope yet. Emperor Han's witch-men are a power for good. I don't understand them, but I believe that completely. And the rest of the armada is full of doughty fighters. They'll give Mijak pause, you can depend on that.”

Pausing them would hardly be enough. The armada must destroy them…and she feared, oh she feared, that even Han and his witch-men would be overmatched.

A clock stood on the library's fireplace mantel, quietly ticking away the time. Rhian glanced at it, bit off a curse and pulled free of Dexterity's comforting embrace.

“I'm late for the armourer,” she said. “A second fitting for my breastplate.”

“Then you'd best hurry, Your Majesty,” he said firmly. “The king was adamant that you should wear one, and he'll expect to see you in it when he returns.”

She smiled at him, fears eased, at least for the moment. “And so he shall. I'll see you at this evening's council meeting, Mister Jones.”

He bowed. “Your Majesty, you will.”

She spent a full hour with the armourer, being poked and prodded and measured and pinched as the man and his bevy of assistants crafted what he assured her would be the most magnificent, the most elegant, the most exquisite of breastplates.

“Armourer Sandiman,” she told him repressively, “it can be as ugly as sin for all I care. Just make sure it will turn aside a sharp Mijaki blade!”

Escaped at last from his tender ministrations, she made her way to the old tiltyard, where Zandakar trained to sweaty breathlessness the leading soldiers from Ethrea's duchy garrisons. Her arrival halted the session as she was greeted with pleasure and cries of “God save Queen Rhian.”

“Majesty,” said Zandakar, and banged his fist to his chest. “You have come to train with us, zho?”

As the soldiers called their approval, she shook her head. “I'm sorry. I've but a few minutes spare. Duty calls me to a meeting with Prolate Helfred.”

“A few minutes?” said Zandakar. His pale blue eyes were gleaming. “Zho, this is long enough.” He jerked a chin at the watching soldiers. “Show them your hotas. Show them Rhian hushla, the Queen of Ethrea, dancing with her blade.”

From the crowd of watching soldiers, more approving calls and pleas for her to dance. They loved to watch her. They loved to fight her, and try to win. Any man she bested stood his comrades a mug of ale. In the last weeks, many free mugs of ale had been drunk.

“Come, Rhian hushla,” said Zandakar softly. “We can dance.”

She was wearing her leathers, Ranald's knife strapped to her hip. To Dinsy's dismay, and the disapproval of the four ladies-in-waiting she'd reluctantly accumulated, every dress she owned was exiled in the wardrobe until the war against Mijak was won.

Sighing, she turned to her duchy's soldiers. Twenty or so in this group, some young men, some middle-aged. All lean, all hardened, soldiers their whole lives. Solid men of Ethrea, who might soon face a brutal death. Who had trusted their lives to her, Ethrea's girl-queen. They stared at her eagerly, hungry to believe she could lead them to victory. Hungry to believe she would save them from Mijak.

Oh, please. Please. Let me save them from Mijak. Oh please, God, please, don't let me have to try. Give the armada victory. Send Alasdair home.

Her soldiers were grinning. Nudging each other with pointed elbows. Like dogs promised a run after rabbits, they jostled and shuffled, their eyes bright and eager.

When she danced with Zandakar, blood often was spilled.

“So, my doughty fellows,” she said to them. “You wish to see hotas as Rhian of Ethrea dances them?”

They roared in answer. She had to laugh, the briefest respite from worry. “Very well. But not for long, or my esteemed prolate shall chide me.”

She unsheathed her knife…and danced the hotas with Zandakar.

Dancing before the men of her garrison was different to dancing before her dukes and courtiers. These men were enamoured of her, inspired by her, they looked to her for leadership and faith. For better or worse she had captured their imagination. They would never accept a sister or daughter in hunting leathers, with a knife, wheeling and leaping and lunging with Zandakar, but she was their queen. She could do no wrong.

Every time she scored a touch on Zandakar, they cheered. Every time she stumbled, they groaned aloud. Sweating, panting, she abandoned herself to the hotas, letting their demands wash her free of other fears.

And then the watching crowd of soldiers parted and one of the royal messenger boys, Beddle, his face red with exertion, stumbled to a halt on the tiltyard. He was grinning like a melon, all his stubby teeth on show.

“Majesty! Your Majesty!” he panted. “The armada is sighted! Mebbe less than an hour's sailing from the harbour!”

The soldiers closest to the tiltyard railing had heard the boy's shrill cry. They pummelled their brothers into silence, and silence swallowed every sound.

Rhian fumbled her knife back into its sheath. Her fingers felt overlarge and clumsy, as though her hands were turned to gloves stuffed with lambswool. Then she looked at Zandakar, who was breathing heavily too, and sweating. These days when they danced their hotas, he worked just as hard as she.

Like her soldiers, he was waiting for her to speak.

The armada is sighted. If they come home victorious, it means his mother and his brother and his father are dead. It means I have killed them.

And what did that mean?

Not taking her eyes from Zandakar's suddenly blank face, she said, “My thanks for your message, Beddle. Make sure it's spread to His Eminence and the rest of the privy council, and to the trading nations' ambassadors. Captain Colley!”

“Majesty,” said Colley smartly, ducking under the tiltyard rail as the message boy ran off. He was one of her best soldiers, stringy as a whip.

“Training's over. See the men back to their barracks. Occupy them in cleaning and oiling their breastplates and equipment.”

Colley struck his fist to his chest, one of Zandakar's habits that all his students had adopted. “Majesty.” Then he hesitated. “Majesty—”

She found a smile for him, from somewhere. “I'll have word sent to you, Captain, I promise, once I know.”

“Majesty,” he said again, and in his eyes she saw the same relief and fear she was feeling.

When she and Zandakar were alone, she risked touching him. Chanced spreading her fingers and resting her palm against his chest. “Are you all right?”

Did he feel her touching him? She wasn't sure he did. She wasn't sure he could even see the tiltyard. His pale eyes were unfocused, as though he looked at a memory.

If Edward and Rudi were here, or Alasdair, they'd tell me to lock him in the dungeon again. They'd say that if we have killed his family then he can't be trusted. Not alone with Her Majesty. Not with a knife.

His blade was still in his hand. It was the first time since she met him that she ever saw him hold it carelessly. As though it wasn't important. But she knew that could change in a heartbeat…

I won't take it. I can't. If I take it, I'll break every bond I've built with him.

“Zandakar,” she said softly. “I have to go.”

Like a dreamer, waking, he breathed deeply and looked down at her. “Rhian?”

She took her hand from his chest. “The council will be expecting me. I have to go.”

He nodded. “Zho.”

“I think it'd be best if you kept to your chamber until we know how the armada's fared. Win or lose, you'll doubtless receive scrutiny we'd do better to avoid.”

Another nod. “Zho.”

“Zandakar…” She folded her arms, suddenly chilled. “If we've won: if the armada is sailing home victorious.” Please God, please God, please God, please…

They'd never spoken of what that might mean. Since his bold inclusion in her plans for war they'd not spoken of anything that didn't concern weapons and training and tactics and death. There were too many eyes on her, and on him. Too many people willing to see what wasn't there, to talk of what didn't exist. There was Alasdair, who must never be diminished.

Alasdair sailing home to me, oh please God, please.

“Rhian,” said Zandakar, and remembered his knife. He looked at the blade, then slid it home in its sheath. “If the armada sails home in the blood of Mijak, that is chalava's will.”

“But your family,” she whispered. “They might be dead.”

He shrugged. “Zho.” Then his gaze sharpened. “Alasdair king might be dead.”

She felt her chin lift. “Yes. He might.”

But he's not, he's not, he's not. He can't be.

They stared at each other, mired in thoughts that could never be dressed decently in words.

“You should go,” said Zandakar. “The council is waiting.”

“As soon as I know what's happened, I'll send word. If your family's dead, Zandakar, if Mijak is defeated, there's a home for you here as long as you want one. My word as queen, and none shall gainsay it.”

His stern expression softened. His eyes warmed, just a little. “Thank you, hushla.”