The Blackgod

behind it all. So let one or both of us die today—and I hope for the sake of the world it is both. And if it is me, you may do as you will.” He raised Harka.

Karak sighed and reached to a sheath at his own side. “Very kind of you, to give me your leave. I could deal with you as I did him” he said, indicating the fish-thing. With a horrible start, Perkar saw that it had a man's face—the face of the Tiskawa, in fact. “But you I will give a chance to die with Piraku, for you have served me well, Perkar Kar Barku.” He drew his blade. ”Do you recognize this sword?”

Perkar stared, his mouth suddenly dry. “Yes,” he admitted unwillingly, haltingly. “It is my sword. The one my father gave me.”

“Is it? I found it in a pool of red blood, here in this very mountain. I had it retempered to suit me. But I must correct you in one particular; since you threw it away, it is my sword now.”

“Something very strange about that blade, ” Harka warned him, but Perkar was beyond reason. The sudden fury that filled him was greater than any he had ever known, a tenebrous joy that could not distinguish between killing and dying. He flung himself at the Blackgod, Harka curving out and down.

“HEZHI,” a voice muttered from very near. She turned to see Brother Horse, clutching a drum in one hand.

“Grandfather,” she whispered back.

“Can you see it? Can you see what you need?”

“Brother Horse, I'm dying.”

“Listen to me,” he snarled angrily. “I told you I wouldn't let you do that. Won't let you die! Listen to me …” But his eyes fluttered and he spat blood.

“What?” she asked, though she hardly felt concerned anymore—instead she felt strangely serene, light- headed.

“There.” He pointed at the thing that might have once been Ghe. “See, beneath the lake. Look beneath the lake.”

She looked. It was easy, for death was dragging her beneath anyway. She first saw Brother Horse, a fading warmth, his ghost already coming unmoored.

I can take him in, she thought. Like a god, keep him in my breast. She reached to do so.

But above the lake, his hand clutched hers. “No,” he barely whispered. “You don't have the strength for that. You need me like this.” His eyes gleamed with laughter, love, and comfort as he gripped her hand more tightly. “Tell Heen I said farewell,” he murmured. “Heen tells me he loves you …” Then his eyes lost their light as a flame surged into her, filled her with new strength.

And Brother Horse was gone, his hand already cooling, no trace of his heartstrands remaining.

Look beneath the hke, he had said, and, trembling, she did so, afraid to waste his last gift on anguish.

The “waters” closed over her. I am dying, she realized again. The Blackgod stabbed me. And, finally, she understood Karak's words, saw the use her blood would be put to, the results it would bring. She had to stop that somehow—and Brother Horse had seen how she could do it, seen some weapon she might use. He had pointed at Ghe.

She saw Karak still—a black thing of feathers and blue fire in the otherworld. She saw Ghe, too, knew him instantly. He still resembled some sort of inky net, with the scintillating bulbs of stolen souls bound to him like jeweled weights. But the net was rent, the pattern of his body in disarray. A few souls still glimmered there, however, and she reached, featherlight, to touch them.

Her swan and mare were still with her, though injured as she was. The swan guided her and the mare held her up, and together they brushed her fingers through the shattered remains of Ghe. One of the souls responded to her tentative inquiry, produced a voice that floated thinly to her.

“Hezhi?”itsaid.”Hezhi?”

She paused. She knew that voice. “Ghan?”

“Indeed,” he answered, gathering a bit of strength.

“Ghan, how did you—”

“I died. He captured my ghost—a fairly simple matter for him.”

“Ghan, I have so much to tell you,” she began. An image of him formed in her mind, his parchmentlike face, the knowing twinkle in his black eyes that could so often glare with irritation. She had lost Brother Horse, but here Ghan was back.

He laughed. “No time for that. No time for that at all.”

“No time for anything, I think,” she said.

“No, you are wrong. Ghe is stronger than the Blackgod knows, and I think if we can win his help, there is yet something we can do. But Hezhi, we must hurry.”

“Tell me what to do then.”

He told her.

HARKA slashed down as Karak's blade rose to meet it, and the two came together in a shower of sparks. In Perkar's ear, Harka shrieked piteously. He had never known the weapon could feel pain or fear, but now both shuddered through him, as if the blade had become his own arm, skin removed and nerves laid bare.

Karak hammered down a second blow, and Perkar raised his blade to meet it.

“No!” Harka screamed; then steel clashed and the godblade burst into a thousand bits. The hilt leapt from his hand, and in his ear, Harka's dying cry faded into nothing. Perkar swayed, weaponless, in the following silence.

“Now,” Karak said, “that silliness is over with.” He bent toward Hezhi's body.

An arrow shaft appeared in his eye. Karak shrilled and straightened, seeking his new attacker. Ngangata stood less than a score of paces away. Half of his body was soaked in red Human blood, but he raised his bow for a second shot. Karak darted forward, faster than a mortal eye could follow, and in that eye-blink his sword plunged into the halfling's chest. Ngangata snarled and yet tried to raise his weapon, but Karak twisted the blade, and Ngangata's eyes turned to Perkar. They brimmed with tears of agony, but his gaze held no self-pity or even fear—it conveyed apology. Apology—for having failed him. Perkar leapt once again, shrieking inarticulately, still unarmed, bent upon tearing the Crow God apart with his bare hands. With a flashed look of utter disdain, Karak turned and ran him through, as well, the blade sliding into his navel and out his back. He knew no shock at being impaled, because in the past year he had taken more than one such wound. But before, he might have fought up the blade, or at least quickly disengaged himself. Now he merely glared at his murderer, still refusing to admit it was over.

Karak held him up with the blade for an instant, yellow eyes bright with contempt. “See how you like that without a magic sword to heal you,” he spat.

“Ah,” Perkar moaned. Karak released the hilt. Sword still in his belly, Perkar felt his knees wobble and give way, and he sat down roughly.

He almost fell on Ngangata. The halfling was still alive, though just barely so. Karak regarded them for just a moment, then stepped toward Hezhi.

“I-I'm sorry,” Ngangata managed to stammer.

“Shut up, you dumb Brush-Man,” Perkar whispered. “You didn't do anything wrong.”

“I could have … I could have …” Ngangata seemed confused, unable to think of what he might have done.

Trembling, Perkar leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. “I'm the one who is sorry, brother. Piraku with you and about you.” He patted the dying halfling on the shoulder. “I've got just one more thing to do,” he said, feeling a little giddy but otherwise surprisingly well, considering. “Then I'll come join you here.”

Ngangata nodded but said nothing.

Perkar put both hands on the sword hilt, closed his eyes, and pulled.

GHE brushed his hps upon Hezhi's and felt triumph. He, a gutter scorp from Southtown, had kissed a princess. He stepped back from her, wanting to see her lovely eyes, hoping to see love there.

What he saw instead was urgency.