Godbond by Nancy Springer Page A

and hooted their derision. “We do not speak of Sakeema!” one of them cried, his head flung back so that he yelled up at the sky.
    And another shouted at me, “You ask us of Sakeema! You, who killed our tribesmen with your bright knife!” He drew back his lash hand to attack me, but the one who had shouted at sky stopped him with a hand to his forearm.
    â€œWhere did you get that strange, long blade?” he asked, not entirely taunting, and looking back at him I saw him with an odd clarity, his small eyes narrowed and bright on me, like a ferret’s sharp eyes, or a pine marten’s, and his grin—or grimace—his teeth were brown, they must have been causing him some pain.
    â€œOut of black water,” I told him. “Why do you not speak of Sakeema?”
    He spat. “Whoreson bastard,” he said, and I did not know if he so named me or the god.
    The spittle fell against Muku’s curly-haired forehead, and the little horse shook it off, as he did everything, tamely, and the Fanged Horse youngsters laughed. There was no fire in Muku, only a humble obedience. Red Hart ponies are meant for walking sturdily through long journeys, standing quietly while the deer are stalked and shot, hauling the fresh, bloody meat calmly on their backs. Hot temper helps for none of these things, but only wastes strength and makes noise. Small wonder Muku had no such mettle as a fanged mare might, though if I demanded it of him he would die as he had lived: steadily, bravely.
    One of the Fanged Horse cublings told me, to mock me, “Our old tales say that Sakeema will return riding a fanged steed.”
    Under the scorn in his voice I heard the wistfulness I knew well. It was because I had spoken of Sakeema that they had not yet attacked me, say what they would of me or the god. With softened voice I asked, “What else say you of Sakeema?”
    â€œWhoreson!” the one with the aching mouth burst out, and this time I knew he spoke of the god. “We tell the tales no more. Where is the bastard oathbreaker now, when the world is dying?”
    â€œHe sleeps,” I said when I should have kept silence. I spoke, and far too quickly, because my own dark doubts were muttering and fingering their whips like the enemies I faced.
    â€œHe sleeps no whit!” cried out one of them who had not yet spoken.
    And the one who had cursed Sakeema said, “The stable stands empty, it always has. Yet the wise women say he is not dead.”
    â€œNo more is he,” I declared, speaking like a fool again when I should have kept silence. “I have been to the Mountains of Doom, and I have spoken with spirits. Sakeema is not in Mahela’s realm.”
    Five of the six who faced me stared and murmured. But the one with the bitter mouth took no pause. He thrust his jaw toward me, and his eyes glittered marten-hard.
    â€œBetter he would be dead,” he said. “For if the god is not dead or asleep, he is awake, and our betrayer.”
    And all my own half-formed doubts rose up and lashed my heart. If Sakeema was awake and roaming the world somewhere, why was Mahela having her way with us all? Had the god forsaken us? Was there a devourer in him?
    Our betrayer—as my beloved father had betrayed me—
    â€œNo!” I roared, a madman’s bellow, and kicked Muku hard, so that he leaped forward like a startled hare, blundering into the one with the hurtful mouth. Alar blazed, lifted. Before the youngster knew what was happening, I felled him with a single stroke to the throat.
    Life is a twisting dance. These Fanged Horse whelps, they had gone against all their warlike dreaming and training to parley with me, and I, a treacherous outlander, had attacked them. I was their betrayer.
    But the combat was now well joined, and I thought no such thoughts at the time. I saw only enemies, and I thirsted for their blood as much as my sword did. I kicked Muku again, pulling at his reins,