Death's Paladin

by Christopher Donahue

  Voskov pushed out of bed and splashed the dried sweat off at the golden basin by his bed. He ran a towel across his face, dried his tangled beard and then said, “It doesn’t sound like she saw much of the island.”

  Chenna chuckled. “She’s clever. When the guests passed out, she’d slip out to scout for a family of thieves. In the morning, she was fed well and taken back to the shack. She was safe and got a cut of whatever the thieves took. It was the only life she knew, and not a bad one for an outcast.”

  “Why leave such a good life and come here?” Voskov stomped his boots into place before he realized Chenna hadn’t answered him. He wiped at his face and turned toward her.

  The shapeshifter stood rigidly, clearly struggling to keep her temper under control. Despite the morning heat, he felt a chill as she whispered, “Is this all some game to you? She came for the same reason I’m here: a better life. Sneaking through forests or living a whore’s life is bad enough for one of you. A trap like that is worse for a spiritshifter.”

  Chenna looked him squarely in the eye. “It’s a better question for you, Lord Duke. You had lands and power. Why did you gamble it away for more of the same?”

  She smiled and waved away any answer. All the shifters changed moods swiftly.

  Denevia glided into the room bearing a lacquered tray. She had changed into a less revealing day-gown and rearranged her hair as he liked it. She set the tray onto the largest table and put him between Chenna and herself. Chenna would only kill her, but the wench looks to me for protection.

  As Voskov sipped the tea and hoped it would clear his head, Denevia said, “Master, the queen left word for you to join her after the dawn meal.” She shuddered. “The Demon Lord and many of those necromancers arrived at the palace since you retired last night.”

  Chenna wandered over and snuffed the lamp. Morning light filled the room and any unnecessary heat was to be avoided.

  Visht and Bringer back? It’s time to drive on Blue Harbor. Voskov suppressed a shudder of his own. The approach to the only city in the Delta would be grim. Unlike in the outer plantations, most of the farming near Blue Harbor was done by Tuskaran small freeholders. There were few slaves who would betray their masters at convenient moments in an attack. The Tuskaran freemen knew the land and had defended the outskirts viciously.

  Vishtanatar and Bringer had been sent to hurl the rotting undead into the fights in the swamp. They broke the major Shushkachevan and Riverine plantations, driving the survivors into the city.

  With the mudlands cleared of enemies, Voskov had no choice but to take the fight to solid ground. His army had nothing to match the refugee plantation cavalry or the trained infantry and artillery of the city militia. This battle rested squarely on his shoulders.

  Chenna gave him a lop-sided grin. “I’m glad the nastiness in the muck is over.”

  Voskov shook his head. Chenna and the shifters had proven their worth repeatedly in the scores of ambushes and skirmishes. They’ll be swallowed in an open-field battle.

  He smeared willow paste onto a piece of bread and ate it quickly to minimize the bitter taste. He followed it with the last of the tea and stood. “Chenna, I’ll want you with me at that meeting. Visht might forget some details about our efforts in the swamp.”

  “Of course, my duke. It would be a shame if he forgot others fight for the queen besides himself.” She fell into step with him as they left the room. Thick carpets muffled their passage down the blue and green tiled halls of Untolo House, the new Hykori palace.

  Voskov entered the lavishly decorated hall serving as Mallaloriva’s throne room. Yellow ceramic tiles covering the upper portion of the hall reflected sunlight to brighten the chamber. Dozens of low Riverine couches lined the walls. The small dais at the head of the hall held the queen’s new throne and a low table with an open chest at its side.

  Vishtanatar was the hall’s only occupant. At Voskov’s approach, the Demon Lord rose, leaving his bat-winged helmet on the couch. Instead of his archaic bell-cuirass, he wore a garish Riverine breastplate inset with a lacquered gryphon on copper.

  Vishtanatar’s unexpected silence made Voskov examine the souldrinker closely. The Demon Lord’s plaited hair and embroidered and colorfully fringed clothes were impeccable in a style of long ago. To a casual glance, the souldrinker looked fit. His red eyes were clear and his cheeks fleshed out in the manner of a well-fed souldrinker. In a human, Vishtanatar’s red-rimmed eyes and unsteady hands would signal exhaustion.

  The Demon Lord’s voice held no quaver as he said, “At the queen’s command, I’ve pushed through every bog and mud bar in the Delta. Your campaign has used our undead faster than we can raise more. We now hold everything in this swamp that has no value. I’m sure you will enlighten us on how this will restore the Hykori Empire.”

  Chenna snorted. Voskov said, “I’m pleased this long campaign hasn’t made any permanent changes in you. Court would be so dull if a minor war sapped away your personality.” Voskov smoothed his beard while Vishtanatar narrowed his red eyes and muttered some comments he must have picked up from the warriors.

  For his own part, Voskov envied Vishtanatar. Despite the sweltering heat, the souldrinker radiated cold. Biting insects avoided Vishtanatar the same way sane men would.

  Delicately chiming bells announced Mallaloriva’s arrival. Rich, imported cherry-wood doors opened behind the low throne. A pair of serving girls entered and split to either side of the throne. The girls, highland Hykori, wore layered silks of ancient and immodest cut. They shook silver bells to a steady heartbeat while two pairs of guardsmen took station around the throne. Two of the guards were Hykori from the Raven’s Crag battle. The others were swamp men who had distinguished themselves recently.

  Voskov recognized Shuma, the survivor from the interview in the high valley camp, under the gear of an ancient Hykori warrior. A white grin flashed out from the shroud of Shuma’s bronze, eagle’s-head helmet.

  Bringer followed Mallaloriva through the doors then turned to close them. The queen wore a tight-fitting, brightly patterned gown of Riverine fashion. All styles flattered the queen.

  Bringer put a hand on the back of the throne to keep his balance. The skeletal necromancer shocked Voskov. Bringer needs his own services.

  Mallaloriva snapped her golden fan open and settled into the velvet-padded throne. Her sultry look flowed over Voskov. He gathered his bruised wits.

  The queen’s smoldering smile disappeared in a flash, overwhelmed by the hardness in her eyes. “My consort has swept the mire of enemies. My loyal Bringer has nearly spent himself raising the dead to serve me. Only my sorcerer has been lax. Why is this, Duke Voskov?”

  The smirk on Vishtanatar’s face washed away the signs of his fatigue. Voskov focused his thoughts. Every audience with Mallaloriva carried the threat of death. He wiped his sweating face and then locked eyes with the queen.

  “There have been problems. I’ve had success making all of the amulets involving one sacrifice. The larger spells have opened some unexpected complications. I will work them out.”

  The queen’s kohled eyes narrowed. Bringer spoke before Mallaloriva passed sentence. “Perhaps I can shed some light for your living servant, my queen.”

  She waved her fan slowly but said nothing.

  Bringer stepped to the queen’s side and asked, “You have a proper basin for passion amulets. You do not lack for fodder. What has stopped you?”

  Voskov ran his fingers through his beard. Why not lay it at Bringer’s feet?

  “The main opposition at Blue Harbor will be from the Riverines,” he began.

  “Fah,” Vishtanatar interrupted. “They huddle in their city along with most of the Tuskarans. The free farmers and Voskov’s own folk have offered the only real resistance, such as it was.”

  Voskov let his breath slip out slowly. When he regained his composure, he said, “The Riverines and Tuskarans have pulled back to defend the only site that matters in the Delta. I’ve observed that
passion amulets are most effective against the same blood that goes into their forging. This gives us little edge against the Tuskarans as few will be taken alive regardless of the situation.”

  Bringer nodded and whispered in Mallaloriva’s ear.

  Lacking an outburst from Vishtanatar, Voskov continued, “Some of my Riverine prisoners have shown tendencies which disrupt the forging of a proper passion amulet.” His lips curled in distaste, though he saw himself as the dispassionate craftsman.

  Mallaloriva leaned forward in her throne. At least she seemed interested. Bringer bobbed his head, urging Voskov to continue.

  Voskov cleared his throat and pressed ahead. “In forging a passion amulet, I must drug and spell the participants to draw out their deepest lusts. When they are in the flow of these forces, I link them to certain outside factors and contain all of it in death. Unfortunately, some of the Riverines don’t behave correctly.”

  Mallaloriva knitted her brows. Even that action was alluring. Bringer’s attention was focused. Voskov sighed. “Some Riverine men push the women aside and attempt to couple with each other. The women go to other women. This reduces the force available for the amulet. It disrupts the symmetry.”

  Vishtanatar rumbled a low-pitched laugh. “And so our sorcerer sends all of those slaves, live, to Bringer’s stewpots.”

  The queen shook her head, muttering. As master of an estate, Voskov had made the same gesture when faced by an idiot servant. His face flushed.

  “It’s not prudishness. If the symmetry is lost, the amulet could do more damage to the caster than the targets.” It wasn’t fair for them to judge his work. Bruised pride pushed aside his fear.

  “My queen,” Bringer said. “There is something to the duke’s problem. His amulets are based on a balance of forces between male and female sources.” He reached into his deep, loose sleeves and drew out a wax tablet. He stepped down from the dais while making swift cuts into the wax with a silver stylus. Bringer handed the tablet to Voskov.

  Many of the marks in the wax were familiar. He used some in the making of passion amulets. The symbol of Zhumak, the Lord of Corruption, held a central position. Others Voskov had seen on offered spells that he hadn’t used.

  By the time he examined each of the marks, Bringer had returned to the dais. Puzzled, Voskov called out, “Bringer, this is not your necromantic magic. What are you giving me?”

  The necromancer shrugged. “Believe me in this, Duke Voskov. If you have equal numbers of the right kind of male sacrifices with these sigils, the spell will possess a new kind of symmetry.”

  Voskov held the tablet out toward Mallaloriva. “My queen, you know a necromancer and a sorcerer can’t work in the other’s craft. You wouldn’t take my advice on the needs of a souldrinker, or a horse’s views of baking bread.”

  Vishtanatar and Mallaloriva broke out in laughter. The unexpected reaction was appealing on the queen.

  Voskov could not identify the mix of emotions on Bringer’s face as the necromancer said, “Duke Voskov, who do you think wrote the book you so rely upon?”

  The question confused Voskov. Surely Bringer had heard of the greatest Hykori sorcerer. “I’m certain that I have the true Book of Qu. How it survived the fall of the Empire is unknown to me, but I have it now.”

  Bringer waved the objection away. “Duke Voskov, you have my Book. I know what it contains better than you since I wrote every page and laid every spell and counter.”

  Chenna grabbed Voskov’s shoulder and whispered, “How can a sorcerer become…”

  Voskov pushed her away. “Bringer, I’ve read everything that remains of the wars between Qu and the Demon Lords.” The cold part of his mind screamed that those words could condemn him in Mallaloriva’s eyes. He drove on. “All the records say that Qu was overcome by his enemies.”

  Bringer gave him a sad smile. “I, Qu, was taken by my enemies. I counsel you not to defy Queen Mallaloriva. A simple death is far more than you can hope for.”

  Crossing the compound toward the prisoners’ pens, Voskov studied the scroll Bringer had painted for him after the audience. Chenna paced at his side, interrupting his thoughts on a regular basis.

  After Qu explained some of the Book’s basic structure, Voskov’s hard-earned secrets from the Book seemed so haphazard. He felt embarrassed at how he had misused some of the spells. Knowing the relationships between many of the symbols of power opened a whole new world to him.

  He ground his teeth in resentment. In the time it took to eat a bowl of olives, Bringer had made Voskov into twice the sorcerer he had been that morning. Bringer had given him a great gift, but at the cost of his pride. Each time Voskov’s judgement told him that he had no cause to resent Bringer, the real source of his anger would whisper to him.

  Even as master of all the Book’s secrets, Qu had been overthrown by the Demon Lords and sentenced to an eternity of unlife.

  I’ve killed a Demon Lord, I know some of their weaknesses. I just need to choose my moment with care. The cold part of his mind stayed silent. He couldn’t lie to himself.

  As he passed the slave pens, living odors drew his gaze from the scroll. The Hykori guards saluted him.

  The last symbol in a column of death-sigils was the most powerful one. He had used it in forging Madman. That particular symbol was the basis for both the Hykori and Macmar runes for “hopeless death.” He curled the scroll and slid it into his pouch.

  Chenna wrapped her long fingers around Voskov’s forearm and whispered into his ear, “When are you done with this witchery, my duke? We have the power. We don’t need this. Lead your army into Blue Harbor and let us celebrate in a way to make Raven’s Crag fade into memory.”

  He glanced her way. “My work here is our best chance of living to see that day. Now assist me or leave me alone.” Voskov smiled at the leader of the guards. “Durinetav, why the sour face? I’ve never seen you more fit.”

  The Hykori warrior’s dark eyes were surrounded by darker rings. Rich cloth poked from under plundered armor. He leaned on a javelin of Voskov’s make. “Well-fed is what you mean. I feel like a goat being readied for a feast.” He jerked his sweat-slicked head toward the pen filled with fearful Riverines. “It’s like they have a better chance of seeing next spring than I have.” The young highlander looked at his feet.

  “I promise you will live longer than any of these. I need ten adults. Their age and condition don’t matter. I also need…”

  The evening of the sixth following day, Voskov collapsed at the rim of the copper basin. The shallow bowl had a two-stride radius and a deep depression in its center. Even falling from exhaustion, Voskov was careful not to land inside the rim.

  Eight bodies, limbs still tangled in passion, lay on the copper surface. These bodies were the last of the Riverines of the Green faction that had been taken by the queen’s army.

  Deeply carved symbols peeled back from bloodless wounds on the backs of the men. In the center depression, the jewel forming inside of the amulet’s silver frame rose above the diminishing pool of blood. No stain remained on the copper surface.

  When the workroom lost its spell side-effect chill and the heavy swamp air returned, Voskov nodded to Redbeard. The man stepped carefully to avoid the bodies as he retrieved the amulet. “With the others, master?” the former serf asked.

  “Of course, where else?” Voskov pushed away from the bowl. He and his servants had performed dozens of these sorceries, or variations. To do it and not end up as a victim himself required Voskov to perform each as carefully as his first. He sighed and rocked his head to one side to stretch a tight muscle. “No, not in that pouch. Place this last amulet in the green pouch. Have you been putting all of today’s work in the same pouch?”

  Redbeard’s eyes showed nearly as much white as the wide streak in his hair. “No, master. Each has been placed as you’ve ordered. I’m sorry.” He fell to his knees in a serf-bow. “I’m just so tired.”

  The man’s brush with Morishtevar had sapp
ed his stamina. Voskov just shook his head and pushed through the tent flap and into the fresher air outside the shop.

  Twenty-seven passion amulets. He arched his back and let out a groan as his back popped. These amulets promised to be more effective as he used Bringer’s information to balance them in more powerful combinations. He tailored some of the amulets against specific targets. Many of the Green faction men seemed drawn to each other rather than their women. Odd and distasteful, but it would be useful against massed Riverine formations.

  His scouts said Blue Harbor was a well-fortified city―actually a series of island-fortresses. Some individual islands could withstand an indefinite siege. His trinkets would have to be much more powerful than any he had made before.

  The size of the militia, bolstered by thousands of refugees from the plantations, made a siege unlikely. With the forces at their disposal, the men of Blue Harbor would come out and fight as soon as Voskov offered battle.

  Voskov needed that. If the distant Riverine emperor stirred himself to become involved, he could send a dozen phalanxes of men. The plan would fail against that kind of force. Deep divisions among the Riverines should stall any serious aid until too late.

  He felt tired, and Bringer’s example of a sorcerer’s fate left him so despondent that a simple death in battle looked tempting.

  Voskov took a deep breath and the mood fell away. He turned back toward the workshop when a commotion near Untolo House attracted his attention.

  Forty or more Shushkachevan dragon-mounted warriors paced into sight from the maze of tents serving the new palace. At their head, Chenna loped at an easy pace. Voskov’s little flying scout bounced on her shoulder.

  Voskov squinted. At the head of the column rode Marotan Suvlochin, the first noble to join Voskov’s rebellion three years previous. Voskov knew the wealth looted from the Delta would bring him men willing to sell their swords to any buyer. With mercenary Shushkachevan cavalry and the queen’s various forces, he would lead something like a proper army. His worries diminished.