Death's Paladin

by Christopher Donahue

  Voskov tried to vomit, but had nothing in his stomach, not even water. With the stink of death so heavy around him, he could not have eaten a loaf of peasant bread.

  Stumbling out of the Riverine High Temple, Voskov looked around for food. The courtyard was a wasteland of broken tables, cages emptied of the sacrificial birds or serpents the Riverines used. Just a scattering of human bodies. The air smelled slightly fresher.

  As Voskov leaned on the wall guiding him away from the temple, he was glad Death was asleep or he might have made the rotting meat look like the food Voskov desperately needed.

  Outside the temple, a low mound of Red pikemen lay where they had attempted a last stand. He couldn’t discern their number, between the shriveled bodies of those killed by the souldrinkers mixed with those ripped open by the shapeshifters. Many of the men had died in ranks without obvious marks on their bodies.

  Voskov staggered to a wrecked stall near the temple gate. He found a body collapsed over a dried round of bread and a gourd of water. He took the sustenance in and thanked the East Wind.

  The sharp snapping sound of a Riverine arquebus drew Voskov’s attention to a nearby alleyway. Rather than try another shot at him, the gunner shrieked and darted back into the shadows.

  As Voskov turned back to his food, the pangs of hunger loosened. He knew better than to eat more now. He held the crust to his chest. When he spotted a simple public fountain, Voskov’s skin began to itch furiously. The dried blood and other fluids on his skin cracked with each movement. He staggered to the fountain and stripped off his fouled clothes. He scrubbed until the trough-like basin was as red as day-old blood.

  I still feel like an over-ridden horse, but I’m myself again. He tried to suppress the next thought. I’m myself until Death wants to resume control.

  None of Qu’s scrolls or the Temple histories had even hinted at his plight. All spoke of binding demons to items using death as the tie.

  He felt sick.

  He considered the clothes, armor and possessions lying on the ground. With the afternoon heat, he didn’t want any clothes. His armor was ruined. He started to leave it all behind and remembered the bloodstone knife tucked in his boot.

  He started to pull on his boots and thought on how strange he would look wearing nothing but gore splattered boots. A bit of scavenging turned up loose, comfortable clothes from a few of the less ravaged corpses of wealthy Riverines.

  With Death now inside him, Voskov had nothing more to fear from Madman. He picked the filthy, clotted scabbard up and drew the sword to see what cleaning it would need. No drop of blood stayed on that blade. He banged the blood-crusted scabbard against a delicate jade statue, knocking the worst crusted gore away.

  The simple tasks cleared his head. The carnage near the Riverine temple gate was not as random as it seemed earlier. He could see where Death and the souldrinkers waited while Chenna and the swampmen drove the cream of the Riverines there like cattle. Dark men in armor had fallen in knots where they tried to protect their rulers.

  Through the ruined gateway into the temple, the bodies or viscera of priests and the most expensively robed rulers dangled from altars and statues. Death and the souldrinkers slapped insult into the faces of those invading gods of distant lands.

  Hints of memory tickled Voskov’s mind. Those hints were enough to make him think of other things.

  As he walked through the blood-spattered streets, his headache added to the press of self-pity. He hated it even as he recognized it.

  Skulking survivors ran from his sight. Even swampie scavengers avoided him.

  When he reached a main gate, a score of swampmen in Riverine armor hailed him. Their officer walked over, steps as unsteady as Voskov’s own. “Hail General Voskov. The witch-women said you would come out this day and we’re to take you wherever you want to go.”

  The swampman’s breath triggered more despair. The loot of the richest city in this part of the world at hand, and this idiot swilled the same fermented roots he could have had back in the swamp. Voskov had no illusions about discipline among them, but he had hoped seeing a city might improve their tastes.

  “Has the whole of Blue Harbor fallen?” Voskov’s voice sounded bad. It hurt to speak.

  The swampman made a sweeping gesture toward the east. “The Plains Ward surrendered and the queen ordered it patrolled but not sacked yet. Of the Riverine wards, only Sinhala is untaken.”

  The man’s face tightened as he looked away from the bloody streets behind Voskov. “You know more about what remains in Chutaroo Ward than I know. It’s been more than a day since rich men tried to buy passage away or women bartered their bodies for escape.”

  From the loot piled near the gate, these guards hadn’t tried to seal the ward very tightly.

  The echoing thunder of cannon drew their attention to the west. A heartbeat later, deeper guns roared from the same general direction. The swampman nodded westward. “Like I said, Sinhala Ward stands and of course, the Tuskaran Ward stands.”

  Durinetav rode up at the head of a dozen highland Hykori in battered Riverine armor. Some had daubed Hykori runes over their armor. None if it made them horsemen.

  Durinetav slowed his mount, seeming reluctant to draw near.

  “Lord Voskov,” he said partly as a hail, but with a hint of question in his tone.

  “Yes, Durinetav. It’s me.”

  The Hykori nodded warily.

  Voskov asked, his voice scratchy and painful, “Do you have word from the queen?”

  “No. I saw her, but she is sleeping it off.” Durinetav no longer wore an expression of worship. “Do you have orders for us, lord general? All the High Ones gave commands to take what we want in the other Riverine wards but to keep Chutaroo sealed. The army has had no command since and the swampies…” He tilted his head toward the gate where the swampmen had gone back to their “duties.”

  The swampmen’s officer had pulled a young Riverine woman out from a coffle staked near the bridge and pushed her to the ground. A rich city destroyed the discipline of good troops. The swampie mob would be worse than useless after days of pillage and rapine.

  “Durinetav, gather the officers at the camp by sundown. Do you know where Suvlochin is?”

  Durinetav turned away from the guards with a look of distaste. “Yes, lord general. The mercenary has taken a house in the Plains Ward. His troops keep order there and have taken whips to any swampies trying to loot. The Shusks have been all over themselves keeping his mercenaries happy.”

  At least his old friend managed to mix his duty with some advantages for himself. “I want Suvlochin at the meeting, just to keep him abreast of my plans. His other men can stay in the Plains Ward. I’ll want as many leaders of the queen’s loyal local subjects as you can find. There are cannon scattered through all of the Riverine wards and we’ll need the locals if we’re to crack the last wards and finish the conquest.”

  Durinetav wheeled his horse smartly enough. Few of the other highland Hykori riders had that level of skill. Even with a simple turn, they seemed too ready to use spurs.

  Voskov scratched at the cuts Death made in his chest. He had a siege to complete. He stalked past the swampmen guards and their crying Riverine girls.

  The bridge took him from the Chutaroo and into another Riverine ward. Each street ended with a totem indicating the services to be found on that street. He looked for one with a bath house. Even one of the peculiar Riverine steam houses would do. He still felt dirty.

  Voskov followed one street, looking for a bath, but found only broken marble and ruin. The pieces of carved stone told him more about the services offered in a Green faction bath house than he ever wanted to know.

  He strode through the wrecked streets, cursing his riding boots. They weren’t suited to this kind of trek and he had no idea where Death had abandoned their dragon. He felt a twinge of annoyance at Death for casually killing the horse Voskov had brought from the Plains and cared for all those months.

&nbs
p; The Riverine ward held the types of scenes Voskov expected after a sack―wasted loot, tortured bodies nailed to gates, spitted children and women lying in their own blood. The city chose to defy Mallaloriva and got what it deserved.

  He passed through unguarded gates and piled bodies of the scum who tried to hold the gates against the defeated Blue Harbor army. They hadn’t fought for Voskov, but for a bigger piece of the loot and were unlucky. Random bands of looters, swampmen and the like ignored his hails. By the time he reached his camp outside the city, his feet throbbed.

  He staggered into camp and found the pavilion he had set up for his last bits of sorcery. No one would voluntarily come near the blood-drenched tent.

  He still felt dirty. The basins were empty.

  The afternoon sun burned on the tent’s western walls. Death gave a psychic belch, digesting whatever it had taken during the slaughter in Chutaroo.

  It came to Voskov like the flash of insight he had had above the queen’s camp in the high valley.

  If I wait for Death to awaken, my path is fixed.

  Ice entered the tent from a side slit. He bowed a shallow salute and went to the Book. Voskov couldn’t say anything to Ice without alerting Death. Voskov moved to the gleaming rim of the bronze sacrificial bowl where he had formed the passion amulets. Ice left him without a word.

  A slim, well-tempered dagger lay near the bowl.

  I’m not some demon’s horse, its slave. I won’t just be the man behind the concept of Hopeless Death!

  Moving slowly, in the hope of not awakening Death, Voskov picked up the sacrificial dagger. He couldn’t remember if he had last used it on those perverted Greens, but it didn’t matter enough now.

  How did the Hykori nobility open their veins to guarantee death and erase dishonor? They cut their wrists in some manner to bleed out without hope of healing. He silently cursed his tutor for not beating him into learning those details. He slashed across his left wrist, where muscle and sinew raised with his clenched fist.

  Fumbling with the blood-slicked grip, he turned a smooth cut across his right wrist into a ragged sawing motion.

  Death stirred at the pain, stumbling around in Voskov’s head like a man waking from a night of drinking rich wines. Voskov sank down and propped his back against the sacrificial bowl. He could no longer force himself to stand. Death snatched the control of their body to itself. Voskov had prevented Death from doing anything else.

  Death’s frantic thoughts were too alien for Voskov to understand―an elemental panic, but no coherent words.

  Voskov let his weight drag him to his right side. As Death fought to do something, Voskov’s muscles twitched. He held on, focusing on keeping his jaw clamped shut.

  “Lord Voskov!” Chenna shrieked.

  Voskov could do nothing beyond holding his jaw tight.

  “Ice, get in here with wrappings! Our lord is injured.”

  Voskov wanted to tell her to leave, but if he opened his mouth, Death’s words would come screaming out. He moved his opened wrists to his chest, away from Chenna’s probing.

  The wench pulled his wrists out and pressed calloused hands against the lessening flow of blood. He felt too much of his life intact while he fought against both Death and his body’s will to survive.

  Ice rushed in with a basket of healing paraphernalia. The pale-eyed man yanked Voskov’s wrists out, and glanced up at his master’s eyes.

  The apprentice wrapped clean strips of linen around Voskov’s wrists. “This should stop the flow. He’s lost a lot of blood, but he’ll survive this … accident.”

  Dropping into a cesspool of despair, Voskov sensed the taint of a creature like Death inside of Ice.

  Awareness.

  <>

  Within himself, Voskov gave up all hope. He was nothing but a mount for Death now. He tried to curl in upon himself and cease.

  <>

  Voskov couldn’t go away. With each pulse, the beat of his treacherous heart turned him back toward Death.

  <>

  Desperation resonated from Death. The being meant its promise.

  <>

  Voskov tried to fade into weakness and oblivion, but it wasn’t in him to do so.

  <>

  Against his will, Voskov responded to the offer. He drew in a deep breath. The noise of Ice and Chenna began to register.

  <>

  Voskov still fought to return to the beckoning Void.

  <>

  Chenna held his head on her lap. At the edge of sight, Ice threw herbs into a clay vessel suspended over a low fire.

  The chill in his arms didn’t spread. Voskov chose to live.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kestran’s right ankle ached as she paced her section of the river wall. Either a drop of sweat or another blood-sucking insect tickled at the back of her neck. She ignored the familiar irritation and leaned over the wall. The slight swirls in the water came from fish or the sluggish current. When the undead approached through the river, the surface rolled with churned up mud. Scavenger fish gathering made a good indicator as well.

  The flat metal tolls of the Tuskaran Ward’s Unogovpi-made clock echoed from the center of their island-fortress. Three bells, the end of her watch. Within moments, her replacement shuffled from a nearby alley.

  Wenricos barely fit in his borrowed but well-oiled mail. Gold and gray hair flared out from under his copper-bowl helmet. The cobbler’s Tuskaran ancestry earned his family refuge in the Tuskaran Ward, while obligating him for military service.

  He nodded to Kestran from the bottom of the ladder to the low wall’s walkway. “Any sign of”―he stopped for a deep breath of the heavy air―“of the swampies or the rest?”

  Kestran swept the river with her gaze rather than watch Wenricos struggle to hoist himself up the ladder. Steady creaking announced his progress. “A few boats hurried past shortly after sunrise. I had time for two shots.”

  She turned the arquebus and bandolier over to Wenricos. He inspected the weapon quickly and blew on the slowmatch. His appearance left much to be desired, but he showed attention to his tools. In the dull hours of standing watch, Kestran had decided that Wenricos must keep a tidy boot shop. She planned to visit it if they survived.

  The cobbler leaned into a crenellation to search the river. He gave an appreciative whistle when he saw the swampie floating against the far bank. Kestran took that as the only praise her marksmanship would receive.

  Wenricos sighed heavily. “You know, it isn’t right to make a man work on boots until late in the night and then make him stand watch like one of his own customers. Non-paying customers, I might add.”

  The first times Kestran heard this lament, she had nodded in commiseration. Now, she answered, “You’re right. You shouldn’t have this burden. If you want, I’ll ask the Battlemaster to forget your Tuskaran blood and your family can return to Sinhara Ward.”

  He paled; peeling skin standing out like feathers and guilt stabbed her. She pitied him for having the midday watch. With his bulk and fair skin, it would be a trial. But her whole leg hurt. She patted his shoulder and climbed down to the flagged road backing the river wall, her right ankle stabbing each time it bore weight.

  She had limped three paces before Zamkrik arrived to take her arm. The lastman had as stiff a gait as her own. She chuckled thinking how ridiculous they must look hobbling through the streets.

  Zamkrik was not the usual eunuch; his change in status had come late in life. Before, he had served as a Temple trooper and as a Craftsman in the foundries of Braxos. Half of his stories ended with him being gelded in a battle near the Heart River. He gave rueful, detailed descriptions
involving a Shusk raider’s pistol and parts of his anatomy. The other half of his tales, usually after a few cups, were unlikely exploits intended to make her think what a loss his injury meant to all women.

  His presence reassured her. Maybe it was the comfort of not really standing her watch alone. He often stayed near her after standing his own watch near the gate.

  More likely, it was the fact that his beardless face reminded her of Karro’s―male, yet smooth-cheeked.

  She could do without Zamkrik’s bitter humor that cropped up at inconvenient times. When he served her in a backwater manor, it didn’t matter. Here in the last bastion of Blue Harbor, politics were desperate and deadly. His outspoken opinions about local Tuskaran leaders had already damaged her standing.

  Each day, Zamkrik escorted her to her post. He sat in the shade near the wall, shifting locations as the sun rose. When her watch ended, he returned her wheellock pistol and escorted her on other business.

  As he handed the weapon to her this day, a boy wearing the livery of the Blue Harbor Temple ran over and bowed.

  “I’m sorry, Lady Kestran, but you’ve been summoned to the Council Chamber. The Battlemaster said you could get a meal after the meeting.”

  Zamkrik’s already thin lips pressed into a fine line. Kestran also found the promised meal to be unlikely.

  Zamkrik ran a three-fingered hand through sweat-slicked iron-gray hair, but stayed quiet for the moment.

  She placed a hand on his arm. “Cheer up. Old Master Nendakos may be seeing daylight.”

  Zamkrik settled his cast-iron mace on his shoulder and glanced around for eavesdroppers before saying, “If he sees the light of day, it’s because his head has gone all the way up through his chest again.”

  Kestran leaned more of her weight on the man’s arm. It countered some of the spasms shooting up her calf and stopped any more dangerous comments on his part. He grunted under the extra load.