The Godspeaker Trilogy by Karen Miller
As he reached once more for his damp clay tablet, to report to his mother of the warhost’s successes, a shadow fell across the table. He looked up, frowning.
“Warlord,” said the piebald woman who had woken Dimmi’s light-sleeping lust. “I disturb you. Forgive. May I speak?”
She was young, perhaps eighteen seasons, or nineteen. Her patched skin was odd, but not ugly. At least, not to him. Her blue eyes were beautiful, as beautiful as his mother’s. Her thick black hair was unbraided, falling down to her hips. She wore typical Harjhan clothing, a linen shift dyed pale green, no shoes on her feet. Her demeanor was chaste, retiring, demure, but when he looked in those beautiful eyes he thought he saw mischief, and a swift dance of humor.
He nodded. “Yes. Speak. Start with your name.”
“I am Lilit. I come from father, chieftain. He wishes you.” She made a face. “To see you.”
The chieftain’s daughter? He had never seen her. Like her fellow Harjhans, her accent was odd, not unpleasant. So many uncounted seasons had their peoples been apart, there was a drifting of language but they understood each other well enough.
“Lilit,” he repeated, and felt himself smile. “The chieftain’s daughter. I am Zandakar, son of the Empress.”
“Yes,” said Lilit. “Dmitrak’s brother.”
“You know my brother?”
She shrugged. “I see him look.”
“Does his look upset you?” Suddenly, that was important. He did not want this woman upset.
“Many boys look Lilit.” A delightful smile flashed, revealing white teeth. “No boys touch.”
He laughed out loud. “I will tell my brother. He will not touch, or look.”
“Looking not hurt. Eyes are eyes.”
Aieee, she was wonderful. “Why have we not met before?”
“I was away in other village, warlord. I am here now.”
“Where is your father? He does not come to speak?”
Sorrow touched her face. “Father sick. Begs you go to him. This is wrong? Forgive, if wrong.”
It was very wrong, warlords held audience, they did not visit the conquered. He did not say so. “If it is important, I can go. How is he sick? What do my godspeakers say?”
The patches of pale skin on her face flushed pink. She looked at the bare ground inside his tent. “Godspeakers not see father. Father is conquered.”
Of course . He thought of Vortka, and wondered what the high godspeaker would do. Then he remembered one of Dimmi’s favorite sayings: It is easier to seek forgiveness than permission . “I will see your father, I will send him a godspeaker. I am the warlord, this is my word.”
“Aieee!” she cried, and clapped her hands. They were small hands, and slender. He wondered if they would feel soft on his skin. “Thank you, warlord. When you come?”
“After lowsun sacrifice, I will visit your father. I have work to do now, I cannot leave. Wait for me until the god’s business is tended. You can take me to your father then.”
She tipped her head a little to one side, she considered him gravely. “Your god is a god that drinks much blood.”
“My god is your god. It is the only god, it rules the world.” He leaned forward. “The godspeakers tell me you accept the god. Are the godspeakers mistaken? Have you told them a lie?”
Stepping back, her eyes frightened, she seemed to shrink. “Lie to warlord? No, no ! God is god, Harjha knows this. In Harjha god is green, it is gentle, it floats in clouds, it sits in flowers. God in Mijak lives in scorpions.” She spread her hands, a helpless gesture. “No scorpions in Harjha, warlord. We have looked.”
He stared beyond her, to the imposing godpost newly placed in the village center. “There are scorpions now, Lilit. Do not forget that.”
She shivered, there was no more mischief in her eyes. “Yes, warlord. I go now. I wait for you after lowsun sacrifice.”
He watched her leave, conflicted, unsettled. She was a piebald woman, the Empress would call her unclean, born of a slave-race, imperfect, impure. He could not agree with that. She seems pure enough to me . Something about her attracted him, but not the way Dimmi was attracted. He did not feel lust, he felt . . .
Curious. Protective. Aieee, perhaps there is a little lust. That does not matter. She is not for me.
Banishing her smile, he returned to his letters.
Empress , he wrote, his stylus stabbing swiftly, distractedly. We are come to a green land, sparsely peopled, they call it Harjha. It is a small country, rich and fertile, I think no larger than the lands of Et-Raklion. Its people are grateful, they know the god. Not as we know it, the godspeakers correct them. We saved them from the demonstruck of Targa, those sinners would raid them and steal their children for food. The god does not ask me to smite the Harjhans, Yuma. My hammer sleeps and the warhost rests. We build godposts and godhouses, we serve the god. Vortka’s godspeakers whisper of Targa’s demons returning, we must not ride onwards until they say all are destroyed .
He put down his stylus, and re-read the letter. Nowhere had he mentioned that the Harjhans were piebald. He did not wish to say it, his mother would despise them and order him to enslave every last one.
Empress , he continued, moving on to a second tablet, here is a good place for the warhost to wait some small time, before pushing onward. I trust that you trust my judgement in this, I trust you trust me in the god. Send godspeakers to Harjha, send settlers, send slaves and sheep and cattle and horses and grain. But please, I beg you, do not send another virgin, or endanger your godspark by locking Vortka in a cupboard. The god will send me a wife when a wife is its desiring. Feel my lips, Yuma, they kiss your cheek. Dmitrak greets you, he sees you in the god’s eye .
Satisfied with that, hoping she would be satisfied also, he put the tablets aside to dry, and reached for a new one that he might reply to Vortka high godspeaker.
“Zanda!” said Dimmi, striding back into the tent. “Enough of this scribe’s business, it is why we have slaves. Come speak to Akida, she and her warband have thrown down three villages, they have word to tell you of other lands.”
The world must be conquered, even though it felt endless. Even though he feared he would grow old as the hammer and never know peace, only war and slaughter. He stood, felt his muscles groan, complaining, and went with his brother to the warband camp. His warhost was so vast, the chieftain’s village and its surrounding lands could not contain it. He had split his thousands into thirty warbands, some still scoured Targa to rid it of demons, some waited and rested, the remainder, like Akida’s band, rode the length and breadth of Harjha, bringing the god to the godless places. His warbands knew where to find him, they would return in the god’s time.
“Akida,” he said, pleased to see her unhurt. He loved her father, and had played with her when they were children. “My brother says you have news for your warlord.”
Akida pressed her fist to her heart. Not even her father could call her beautiful, her nose was skewed half-over her face, her jaw was jutting, her neck was thick. But aieee, she could knife-dance. He loved to see it. “Warlord,” she greeted him, smiling. “I am told two things, you must know them both. First, at the far edge of Harjha there is a great desert, more vast than the Sand River, more difficult to cross. The Harjhans who told us this believe there is no world beyond it, the godspeaker’s omens say this is a lie. Second, there is a rich land to the newsun side of Harjha. They call it Na’ha’leima. That is all I am told.”
Zandakar and Dmitrak traded glances. “This is good news, Akida. You have served the god well. Your warband is stood down, you have a day to rest. I meet with the village chieftain after lowsun sacrifice. I will see what he knows of this Na’ha’leima. When you are rested you will ride with Dmitrak to its border, and see what must be seen. As soon as Targa is demon-free, and the omens are with us, it will be our next conquest.”
With his warlord business done, and Dimmi pleased to be scouting, he mingled with the warband, hearing their stories, praising t
The sight of them saddened him, but he did not show his warriors how he felt. He did not show Dimmi, who praised them and laughed.
What is wrong with me, god? They were sinners, they died. It was your desire, why do I hurt? I have killed so many thousands, why care for twelve?
The god did not answer. He would demand another tasking, he must scream out his sin. It was his wickedness that kept the god from speaking, sorrow for the smitten was a terrible crime.
If I scream loud and long enough, I know the god will hear. It will hear, it will answer, I will not be alone.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Tell me again, Zandakar,” said Lilit, smiling, “how you saved your brother crossing the Sand River.”
Zandakar laughed. “Again, Lilit? I have told you already, more than once!”
It was the soft time before lowsun, that Lilit called dusk . A little more than one godmoon had passed since the first time they spoke and yet his world had been made anew. They walked the banks of a lazy stream, picking their way through bluebells and starshine, as birds called owls soared through tree shadows overhead. The air was warm and moist, sweetly scented. Frogs croaked tunelessly in a nearby pond, they were ugly creatures. He must draw one on a clay tablet so his mother could see.
Lilit’s fingers tightened around his, they walked hand-in-hand. When he walked with Lilit he was not alone, the screaming thousands were silenced. Now in his dreams he saw her face, not the rubble of hammered cities. When he walked with Lilit he was a man, not the warlord.
If that is a sin, then god, I am sinful. But could I walk with her if you had not sent her? I think I could not. I think this is meant.
She said, still smiling, “It is a good story, warlord. There can never be too many good stories in the world.”
“Then I will tell it,” he said. “If that will please you.”
“Yes,” she said, and raised his hand to kiss it. “It will please me very much.”
So he told her again of that bad time when Dimmi, impatient, had galloped ahead of the warhost to see if the next rocky outcropping held hidden water fit to drink. He had blundered into a quicksand sinkhole, already three hundred and nine warriors had perished that way and they were barely halfway across the Sand River, so the godbones said.
“I heard my brother screaming, my blood turned to fire. I galloped too, though it was madness. I was so afraid, and I was angry. With his dying breath Raklion warlord said I must protect my little brother but I had failed him, now Dmitrak was dying!”
By the time he reached Dimmi, his brother’s horse was gone. Dmitrak was sinking fast, his head, his shoulders and one arm in the air, that was all, and not for much longer.
“That was when the god spoke to me, Lilit, it showed me in my heart how to save my brother. I used the hammer, the god’s mighty weapon, I fused the sand that swallowed Dimmi’s body so I might walk upon it, and pull him free.”
Why he had not thought to do it for those other fallen warriors he could not explain. He had loved them also, but they were not his little brother. They were not angry Dimmi, brave Dimmi, laughing, fighting, infuriating Dimmi, begging Zanda to save him with tears in his eyes.
“Aieee,” sighed Lilit, leaning against him. “How mighty is Zandakar warlord. If I were in danger, would you smite with your hammer to save me, too?”
He pushed her against the trunk of a moss-covered tree and leaned his forehead against hers. “You know that I would, Lilit. I would smite anything, anyone, to save you from harm.”
In the dusk-light the pale parts of her skin glowed, translucent. He smoothed the dark hair away from her face, kissed her eyes and her cheeks and last of all, lingering, her pliant lips. Kissing her was not like kissing a vessel. The vessels felt duty, what he felt was lust.
He lusted for Lilit, too, but in a pure way. The need rising in him was for more than flesh, the fleeting release of a hard, fast fuck.
What I feel for Lilit, I think it is love.
Drawing back, breathless, marveling at how she could move him, he said, “You never ask to hear of my other smitings. You do not ask for stories of Drohne, or Bryzin. Not even of Targa, when you say yourself the warhost saved you from those sinners.”
She looked at his chest, played her fingers along the edge of his linen tunic. Her touch woke fires in his flesh. “I have heard those stories. Your godspeakers tell them. They are stories of death, Zandakar. I do not like death. The story of Dmitrak, that celebrates life. Here in Harjha, life is important. Life is a beautiful thing, we do not waste it.”
Her words stung him. “Nor do I, Lilit. I do not smite for the sake of smiting, every city I have thrown down, first I have given them the chance to kneel. If a city does not resist me, I do not destroy it. Did I destroy your village? I think I did not. You did not resist me, I have left you in peace.”
She smiled at him, and stroked his cheek. “I know. You do not like to destroy those cities, the dead sinners in them haunt you. I see it in your eyes, Zandakar. When you sleep you hear them screaming, I hear you weeping in your heart.”
Stunned, he stared at her. “I do not speak of that. Only the god hears my weeping heart. How do you know this? How do you know ?”
She stood on tip-toe, she kissed him gently. “I know because I love you. Your heart is my heart, what it feels I feel. When you weep in your dreams, beloved, Lilit weeps with you.”
They had been lovers for seventeen highsuns. Though he’d wanted it badly, he had not meant to fuck her. She was conquered, she was piebald, the Empress would not approve. But the Empress was in Mijak, and he was in the world. For six seasons uncomplaining he had slaughtered for Hekat. Only the god knew how many more seasons he would fight. He did not want to live his whole life without softness, with nothing but blood to warm his skin.
He told himself: the god sent Lilit to me. We do nothing wrong .
He’d learned swiftly that with Lilit, it was not fucking. It was gentler than that, it was sweeter, kinder. He was her first man, she was his first love. They’d wept together, afterwards, as she held him close.
“ Zandakar ,” she whispered. “The god wants us together, I know this. You know it.”
He wanted to believe her. “The godspeakers have not told me so. They take omens daily, they did not tell me this.”
“Tcha,” she said, a word she had learned from him. “They are men of blood, they look for reasons to kill. They see the god in dead animals, you hear it in your heart. You do not need them to tell you things that matter. Those things you know yourself. Tell me I am lying.”
He kissed her. “You are not lying.”
She smiled, she laughed. She filled his aching, empty heart.
The god must want this. Lilit sees my godspark. She is my gift from the god.
That was their first time. Every time since, it grew sweeter and sweeter. With each passing highsun, his feelings deepened. Strengthened. Loving her, he began to change.
There is more to life than war and killing. She has shown me this and I hardly know her. What else will she show me, as time goes by?
Entwined together, they walked through the fading light back to the village. Before reaching his warcamp he let her go, reluctantly, so she might return to her dying father. The godspeakers had eased the chieftain, as far as they could. He was an old man, and failing. His life was almost done.
The warband camped outside the village was two thousand warriors strong, the rest of his warhost in Harjha still scouted, preparing the way for the godspeakers and settlers to come. As he approached his private warlord lodging, a mocking voice greeted him out of the dark.
“When I said she was a fuckable woman, brother, I did not think she was fuckable by you .”
Aieee, Dimmi, returned from riding with Akida and her shell. He slowed, he turned, he joined his little brother at the opening to his tent. “Are you jealous?”
“And if it does not?” Zandakar said, grinning.
“Then I will have to find a piebald of my own.” In the lamplight, Dimmi’s face was wryly amused. “I confess, you surprise me.” He sat on a camp stool, kicked another closer. “I was come to think you are not like other men, with their urges.”
Zandakar lowered himself to the other stool, and rested his elbows on his knees. The business of nightcamp continued about them, without imminent battle snapping at the warhost’s heels the camp felt almost restful.
“I have my urges,” he said, after a moment. “But still, you are right. I am not like other men.”
“I know,” said Dimmi, and reached out with a comforting hand.
His brother’s touch on his shoulder was almost his undoing. “I love her, Dimmi.”
For once, Dimmi did not shout at the use of that name. Instead he sighed, and tightened his fingers. “I would not do that, if I were you. She is a prime piece of she-flesh, fuck her till she bores you. Do not give her your heart, Zanda. That will be your undoing, so our father would tell you if he were alive.”
Always, always, a knife-jab at Hekat. “It is not so simple, Dmitrak,” he said, almost sharply. Then he relented. “It is also too late. Lilit is so sweet. Vortka would like her, they share the same kindness. She is gentle with her father, you should see them together. When I am with her, I do not feel old. I do not feel weary. I do not smell the blood.”
“Tcha,” said Dimmi. “What sadsa-froth is this? You are not old .”
“No. Not in seasons counted on my fingers. But I tell you, there are times . . .”
Dimmi did not want to hear that. He said, grinning slyly, “Vortka might like the girl, but the Empress won’t.”
“I know,” he admitted, after a moment.
Dimmi laughed. “No, she will hate her. So I say fuck on , brother. Hekat is in Mijak, let her stay there and rot. You are the god’s hammer, I say fuck who you like, even if it is a piebald bitch. It’s your life, Zanda. You don’t belong to the Empress.”