The Fire Goddess was different. Hezhi saw warmth and comfort, an offer of aid rather than of power, an acceptance of her will and self that she did not fear. The Cairn God had threatened to sweep her away, like the River. The Fire Goddess only filled her with light and hope. It was still uncomfortable, but it was not terrible, not unbearable.
“Oh,” Hezhi murmured as comprehension waxed. She glanced at Brother Horse, to show him she understood, and her jaw dropped.
Brother Horse still sat watching her, but his body had gone gray, insubstantial, and within it, dark shapes swam about. She got the fleeting impression of fangs, of flickering yellow eyes, of hunger. There was also something there that reminded her of raw fish, of fish in the kitchen, just after Qey gutted them for steaming.
“What?” she gasped, and violently yanked her hand from his. She staggered to her feet, and, though Brother Horse called after her, she scrambled as quickly as she could out of the shelter and into the wide, bright eye of the sky. She did not stop running until she could no longer hear Brother Horse at all.
V The Blackgod
PERKAR watched the stranger advance, keeping his grip on Harka firm, despite his sword's assurance that the approaching god—or whatever it was—posed no immediate threat. Whoever it was seemed, at least, to be in no hurry to threaten them, ambling across the eighty or so paces separating them, pausing to examine the sky now and then.
As he watched this, Perkar caught a movement from the corner of his eye. He turned reluctantly and saw the Mang warrior whose leg he had injured crawling across the snow, a fierce determination shining through the glaze of pain over his eyes. Perkar started, wondered why Harka had not warned him. Stepping quickly back, he was able to put both the Mang and the approaching being in his field of vision, and then he understood Harka's lack of alarm. The injured man was not crawling toward him, or even Ngangata. He was clawing across the frozen ground toward his companion's downed horse, which, despite the fact that Perkar had severed both front legs at the knee, was still panting heavily.
As Perkar watched, the man collapsed, ending the crooked red trail he was painting in the snow an arm's reach from the stallion.
“Gods curse you, Perkar,” Ngangata hissed. “How could you—kill him. Now!”
For a moment, it was the old Perkar, the old Ngangata. What was the half man jabbering about? Why kill an injured man? And who was Ngangata to curse hunt
“The horse! For pity's sake, kill it!” Ngangata had his bow trained on the approaching figure. Perkar was nearest the suffering animal.
Of course. The Mang had been trying to reach the horse, put it out of its pain.
“Watch him, then,” Perkar answered, waving at the stranger. He turned on the beast.
It was gazing up at him, flanks heaving but its eye steady, a pool of black incomprehension.
“Oh, no,” Perkar whispered. “Harka, what did I do?”
“Bested two mounted men, I would say, ” his sword replied.
Perkar said nothing to that, but he swung the blade savagely down, cut through the handsome neck. The body heaved once as blood spurted, steaming, onto the snow, and then, mercifully, ceased to move.
Sickened almost to vomiting, Perkar turned as much of his attention as he could focus on the newcomer, who was by now only a score of paces away.
He had the appearance of a Mang man, though taller and rangier than most, features regular and handsome. His clothing was rich and spectacular; a long split coat of midnight-blue sable, ermine boots, a fringed elkhide shirt adorned with silver coins. Thick black hair, unbound, flowed from beneath a cylindrical felt hat, also banded with coins, both silver and gold.
“Huuzho, ” he said, uttering the typical Mang greeting in a sibilant, musical voice.
“Name yourself,” Perkar snarled back, still fighting nausea.
“Name yourself or come no closer. I have slain gods and will gladly do so again.”
“Have you?” the man said, bowing politely. “How interesting. In that case—I have no wish to die—I name myself Yaizh-been, and I present myself to you most humbly.”
“Yaizhbeen?” Perkar looked blankly at Ngangata, who was more fluent in Mang. “ Yai” meant a god of the sky, he remembered.
“Blackgod,” Ngangata translated. Perkar caught his friend's peculiar tone.
“At your service,” the man answered. “And so good to see you both again.”
“Again?” Perkar asked, but already puzzlement was grading toward dismay.
“Blackgod,” Ngangata said, without ever taking his eye from the man, “is one name that the Mang give Karak, the Raven.”
PERKAR snapped Harka up, flicking thick drops of horse blood through the air. A bit of it splattered on the Crow God's cheek, but he did not bunk, maintaining his somewhat condescending smirk.
“Karak,” Perkar gritted, “if you have a weapon, I suggest you draw it.”
“Perkar, this is useless, ” Harka's voice came in his ear.
Karak looked mildly surprised. “I fail to understand your mood,” he remarked, his voice smooth, confident. “And let me remind you that I named myself Blackgod. You asked me for a name, and that is the one you were given. Please call me by it.”
“I will call you as I please,” Perkar retorted. “Find a weapon.”
The Blackgod stepped forward until Harka was a fingerspan from his heart. His yellow eyes were steady on Perkar's. “What quarrel do you have with me, Perkar?” he demanded, though softly.
“Must I name them all? You tricked my friends and me into slaying an innocent woman. You yourself killed Apad. That is sufficient, I think.”
“I see,” the Blackgod replied. Perkar could feel the tension in Ngangata, but the halfling said nothing, though he surely wanted to. From the corner of his eye, Perkar could see that his friend's bow was still raised.
“Ngangata,” Perkar said, “please leave us.”
“Perkar—”
“Please. If you have come to care for me at all, if you have forgiven me at all, Ngangata, mount and ride from here. I could not stand it if you died now.”
“This is sweet, but there is no need for anyone to die,” Karak assured them reasonably.
“I believe otherwise.”
“Then let me answer your charges, mortal man,” the god said, a trace of anger showing at last. “For though I love carrion, I would prefer that you live for a time. Now, first, the woman. Who summoned my aid to enter the cavern and find the weapons she guarded?”
“We did not summon you.”
“Does it matter whom you intended to summon? You wished a guide to take you precisely where I took you, true?”
“Don't play games with me.”
Karak leaned into Harka until blood started on his skin. The blood was gold in color, dispelling any doubts Perkar had as to his identity. “True?” he repeated.
Perkar flattened his mouth into a grim Une. “True.”
“You wanted the weapons. They were bound to her blood, and she to the cave. The only way to take them was to kill her.”
“I would not have chosen to do that.”
“You did not. Your friend Apad did. Because you led him there, because he thought himself a coward and was proving himself to you. Apad got you what you wanted, Manchild.”
“And you killed him.”
“That was war. I obeyed my liege, the Forest Lord. I might remind you that disobeying your liege was what got you into that mess, by the way. Apad attacked me, and he died a warrior, rather than a coward or a murderer. He did considerable damage to the host of the Huntress before losing his ghost. What better death can a seeker of Piraku desire? How better to redeem himself?”