The Blackgod

“Until now, at least he has been lying in one bed, and so he eats only what he can reach from it. But he tries to throw pieces of himself out, toss them away but keep hold of them, too. This is so that he can wander where he does not flow and eat what is there, as well. He wants it all, you see?”

Perkar nodded, even as he coughed. The pain in his ears was sharpening, and he could not tell if that was Harka healing him or just the fading of shock and the return of sensation.

“Well, this girl Hezhi is such a piece of him. But you and I, Perkar—we took her away from him before she could be whole. Before she could be him. It was a near thing; you don't even know how near.”

“But now she is safe?”

“Safe? Oh, no, pretty thing. No, now he wants her back. She is his best hope and his most terrible danger. He is awake now—you awakened him—and he bends his huge will to reclaiming her. And he knows you, too, of course.”

“This Mang gaan, then. He serves the River?”

“Yes, in a sense. The River sends him dreams, shows him visions of greatness. He is one tool the River wields now.”

“There are others?”

“I can't see them well. They are still in his shadow, where my vision has trouble walking, with him awake. But something waits there in Nhol, ready to spring out across the plains. When it comes, it will be a whirlwind.”

“What then?” Perkar groaned. “What am I to do?”

“She can slay him,” the Blackgod answered, eyes narrowed to milky slits. “She must be brought to his source, to the spot he was born. There she can slay him.”

“Hezhi?”

“Good. You understand. Take her to his source.”

“And then?”

“Then she will slay him.”

“How?”

“That is not your concern. Suffice to say she will do so.”

Perkar opened his mouth to speak again and then thought better of it. He was afraid, and he realized that it was a sensation that bearing Harka had muted for some time. He searched for his earlier disdain, his passionate anger, and found it buried beneath terror.

“Take her to his source,” he said, repeating the Blackgod's words. “How shall we find it?”

“You know where it lies—in the mountain at the heart of Balat. And I will leave you roadmarks in any event. But have a care—do not travel upon him to reach it. You must go overland.”

“Even I know that,” Perkar muttered.

Karak squatted before him, so that his beak nearly touched Perkar's nose. The Blackgod smiled fondly, reached over and tousled Perkar's hair, the way one's grandfather might.

“Of course you do, pretty thing, little oak tree. I just remind you.”

Before Perkar could reply—or even flinch from the god's touch—Karak suddenly curled in upon himself, knotted into a tight white ball, and bloomed into flame, like a dried rose consumed by fire. He uncurled his body as the heat licked up from him, black again, completely a bird. A Raven larger than any man. The Raven hopped back from Perkar, regarded him with its head cocked.

“Just reminding you,” the Raven said, and strutted over to where Ngangata and Good Thief lay. Both had begun to stir, to watch the exchange between Perkar and Karak with dull eyes.

The Raven stooped over Ngangata, and ice formed in Perkar's chest. He desperately willed his hand to reach for Harka, commanded his legs to bring him erect. He could not govern his limbs; they refused him.

Karak regarded Ngangata for what seemed an eternity, and Ngangata stared back at the god, his expression set and unreadable. Then the god hopped on, to where Good Thief lay.

“Hello, pretty thing,” the Blackgod cooed.

Good Thief looked not at Karak but at Perkar. His eyes held a desperate mixture of fear and anger.

“My horse,” he shouted. “His name is Sharp Tiger. Look after my horse, Cattle-Man.”

It was not a command, it was a plea. It was the last thing Good Thief said; Karak's talons dug into his belly, black wings opened and boomed, and the god was rising up, the Mang dangling helplessly, his eyes still fixed on Perkar.

He watched the god and his prey until they dwindled to a speck, were gone.

* * *

PERKAR barely had enough energy to help Ngangata into the tent—the fire was scattered, the night chill sinking into their bones. The tent was warmer but still uncomfortably cool, and the two huddled together, not speaking. Perkar thought of talking to Harka, but that seemed useless, somehow, and instead he lay there, remembering Good Thief's face growing smaller. He certainly did not believe he would sleep, but suddenly it was morning, light glowing in through the tent skin.

Ngangata was still asleep, and Perkar did not disturb him. Instead he got up and pushed as quietly as he could through the tent flap. The sun was already well up, feathering the rolling clouds above with shades of gold, pink, and gray. Blue sky peered through cheerfully.

Perkar—not cheerful at all—gathered wood and started a fire. He found the corpse of the dead archer, his back open in long stripes, his eyes wide and uncomprehending. He dragged the stiff body to where its companion lay, and there he sang a song for the dead, offering what little wine he had to them. He did not know their names, of course, except for Good Thief, but there was an appropriate song for dead enemies, and he sang all of it. After that, he began to search for stones to cover the bodies.

After a long search, he found only a few fist-size stones. He looked down at the horse and the man, wondering how best to deal with them. Not far away, Sharp Tiger whickered, further reminding Perkar of his obligations.

“Let the sky have them,” a voice croaked from behind him. Perkar turned to see Ngangata, bleary-eyed, standing near the tent.

“They were valiant enemies,” Perkar told him. “They deserve some consideration.”

“Let the sky have them,” Ngangata repeated. “They are Mang; that is their custom.”

Perkar puffed out a long, steaming breath. “You mean leave them here for the wolves?”

“Yes.”

“There should be something more we can do than that.”

“For dead bodies? No. Offer to their ghosts later, if you still feel guilty. Now we should leave this place before their kinsmen arrive.”

“How did they know to come here, in the first place?”

“Their gaan saw us, no doubt.”

“Then he will see us wherever we go.”

Ngangata shrugged. “If we are moving, there will be no place to see.”

Perkar nodded reluctantly. “I have to take Good Thief's horse.”

Ngangata gave Perkar a somewhat painful flash of a grin.

“That is a Mang war horse. No one but his rider may approach him.”

“Good Thief asked me to. It was his last request.”

Ngangata raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I will pack the tent,” he said.

Perkar stared at his fallen enemy for a few more heartbeats, then turned his attention to Sharp Tiger.

The stallion eyed him dubiously as he approached. Sharp Tiger seemed a fitting name; though most Mang horses bore stripes upon their flanks and hindquarters, his were pronounced and black, laid upon a tawny field. His mane was jet. Of course, his name would have nothing to do with his appearance. Mang horses were named after dead Mang warriors, just as Mang warriors were named after dead horses. Perkar wondered, as he approached the beast, whether a man or a mount had first borne the name in the long ago.

Sharp Tiger watched him draw closer, eyes flaring; he dipped his head up and down restlessly.

“Shununechen, ” Perkar said gently, as he had heard Mang say to mounts not belonging to them. “Smell me, cousin.”

Sharp Tiger allowed him closer, until he could place his cupped hand near the animal's nostrils. The beast sniffed him uncertainly.