The Blackgod

That seemed wrong to Perkar, but it was just a feeling. And it was too much trouble to argue. “Save them,” he repeated instead.

“What of you, pretty thing? You don't want to die, do you?”

“No,” he answered, knowing at last that it was the truth. “No, I don't. But they should come first.”

“How sweet. But seeing as how you acted contrary to my wishes, I will heal none of you.”

“As if you ever acted in accord with anyone's wishes,” a voice boomed, shuddering the very stone beneath their feet. ”As if you ever accomplished the goal without twisting the intent.”

Karak and Perkar turned as one at the low, grating voice, a voice nearly below Perkar's hearing.

“Balati,” Karak said, almost a groan, almost an imprecation.

It was, indeed, the Forest Lord. His single black eye reflected the glimmering flames upon the water, but the rest of him seemed to drink in the light, a mass of fur and shadow and antlers that were really, Perkar could see now, trees that reached up and up, never ceasing to rise and branch. Near him stood a mare with a coat of gold and rust, the most magnificent mare Perkar had ever beheld. As Balati spoke again, the horse turned and sniffed first at the still form of Sharp Tiger, then at Hezhi.

“You have played a merry prank on me, Crow,” Balati muttered, his voice as solid and unyielding as stone. “You have killed my Brother.”

“He was dangerous,” Karak hissed. “In another thousand years—when it was far too late, and he was eating you—you would have understood that yourself.”

“That is what VW are for, Karak,” Balati said. ”That is my use for you, and you have performed it well. My Brother was ill—dead even. He was the ghost of a god, envying the living.”

“Ah!” Karak brightened. “It is well then—you do understand. In that case, perhaps I should fly and see precisely what has been wrought here. The new River God, like the old, has no sentience in Erikwer, but when he emerges from the cavern—”

“Oh, no, I think not,” Balati said, almost gently. “You need humbling, I believe, and I need you with me for a time, so that I can quicken enough to understand all of this.”

“Lord,” Karak said, “there is much I need to be about, much to be done in the world as it shall become.”

“Yes, I'm sure. But we will let mortals do it for a while, and the little gods of the land.”

Karak suddenly transformed into a crow and took wing, but as he flew, he shrank, and the Forest Lord reached out a massive paw and closed it upon him. Perkar heard a single, pitiful grawk and then saw no more of the Raven.

“L-Lord Balati—” Perkar stammered.

“I know you,” Balati said. “You slew my guardian, stole my things.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But I—and I alone of these here, and of my people—” Perkar groaned through thickening pain. “I was to blame, no one else.”

Balati cocked his head slowly to one side. Unlike the Raven, unlike the Huntress or indeed any other god Perkar had known, there was nothing Human in the gaze of Balati. He was the world before men or Alwat, the forest and the land before the forest came alive. There was no mercy, no compassion—nor hatred nor envy nor greed—to be understood in that nebulous single orb. “You wanted something before,” he rumbled. “What was it?”

Perkar blinked. “Before… ?”

“When you stole my things.”

A year ago, Perkar realized, when Apad and Eruka and the Kapaka and the Alwat all died. “We… we came to request more land for pasture, so that we need not fight the Mang.”

Balati gazed down at him for some time. “That is reasonable,” he said. “You may have them.”

“Have them?”

“Two valleys, the two which lie along west of the rim of Agir-uluta. You know the place?”

“Yes, Lord,” Perkar muttered faintly. “I know it. Thank you.”

But the Forest Lord no longer stood before him.

Now only the mare remained, stood near where Tsem crouched, weeping, beside Hezhi. The mare walked toward him, and as she did so, she became a woman, Mang-seeming, handsome. She looked angry.

“The girl Hezhi still has some life in her, and since she is the house my little colt lives in, I have healed her. Your friend will live.”

“Thank you,” Perkar murmured.

“Do not thank me yet.” She knelt nearby and put her hand to Ngangata's throat. Then she turned to him again. ”You slew one of my children in a foul and vicious way. You cut her legs from under her and left her to suffer.”

“I did,” Perkar admitted. “I have no excuse.”

“No, you don't. And so as punishment, I will give you a choice. I will either heal the halfling or you, but not both.”

Perkar closed his eyes. He did want to live. His goal was accomplished, and suddenly he could imagine a life that might have Piraku and perhaps even joy in it. He might once again sip woti, own cattle —and with Hezhi alive, he might even find a companion. And he was afraid', afraid of the hours of torture that lay before him, of the oblivion to come …

“You are cruel,” he said. ”Of course you must save my friend.”

The Horse Mother hesitated. “Perhaps I should do the contrary then. If you really want this one to live, then he shall die.”

His mouth worked, but he couldn't manage an objection, realizing the mistake he had made. After all, hadn't he used the same logic against the River long ago? Tried to guess his desire and then frustrate it?

But then the Horse Mother laid her hands on Ngangata. “No,” she said. “I haven't the heart for that sort of cruelty. I was just taunting you. Ngangata will live. But I will not help you—I will not go so far.”

“Thank you,” he managed.

And then she, like the Forest Lord, was gone.

He lay there for a moment, watched the now steady rise and fall of Ngangata's chest.

“Tsem,” Perkar whispered. Perhaps the half Giant could be persuaded to kill him quickly. But before he could utter another word, a sudden, sharper pain took him into oblivion.

IT took everything he had to stand still while the white-faced demon swung his sword again. But this time the pain and the shock meant very little to him. He was almost thankful to Perkar. To Hezhi and Ghan, he was thankful. “Good-bye, Hezhi,” he sighed, as shade descended.

He was a little boy, walking along the levee, looking for a dead fish, anything to eat. His feet were cut and bleeding from fleeing across broken shards of pottery; the soldiers had seen him taking a merchant's purse of gold, and of course he had dropped it in the pursuit.

Ahead on the levee he saw an old woman, basking in the sunshine. She had an apple and a salted catfish before her on a red cloth. And bread, warm black bread that he could smell, even on the fetid breeze from the marsh. He felt about in his pocket again—but his knife was really gone. He walked toward the old woman anyway, thinking hard.

She saw him and frowned—but then she waved him over.

“I saw you looking at my food,” she said. He nodded sullenly.

“I've seen you before, on Red Gar Street.”

He shrugged, unable to take his eyes from the fish.

“We'll play a game,” the old woman said. She reached into a little bag and withdrew three clay cups and a copper soldier. She lined the cups up, placed the copper under one of them, and then moved them about quickly.

“Keep your eye on the copper,” she said. “Now, tell which cup the coin is under, and Fll give you my bread.”

“It isn't under a cup,” he said. “It's in your hand.”

She opened her hand, and there it was. “How did you know that?” she asked.

“I've seen you on Red Gar Street, too.”