Death's Paladin

by Christopher Donahue

  They hobbled through nearly deserted streets. The heat coming with noon had a lot to do with the silence. Kestran found herself quickly readapting to the schedule of life in the Delta. She would be happy to nap the afternoon away. But the clutter in the streets and the fearful murmurs behind slatted shutters reminded her that the Tuskaran Ward remained a city under siege.

  They stopped at the fountain before the ward council building. Zamkrik rummaged through his backpack for Kestran’s slippers while she removed her boots and bathed her injured foot.

  She had taken the injury when she led a group of other noblewomen and their retainers to open the northern gates of the city during the battle. Criminals, slaves and skulking swampies had risen up and shut the gates when Voskov’s army won the day.

  Battlemaster Nendakos refused to use the ward’s militia to rescue their men trapped outside the city. He had been unable to stop Kestran and the other noblewomen from going to the aid of their kinsmen and soldiers. His timidity solidified Kestran’s opinion.

  By the time the noblewomen had fought to the wall, the soldiers had blasted back through the closed gates. When trapped between militia soldiers and the noble’s retainers, Voskov’s criminals melted like ice in the sun.

  Kestran shot several of the treacherous swampies before a thrown cobblestone smashed her ankle. While Zamkrik and the other retainers chopped the criminals into stinking bits, Kestran sat near the gate and methodically shot Voskov’s supporters off nearby roofs. It had been a bloody day and worse was yet to come.

  She pulled on her slippers, gave Zamkrik her light helmet and splashed some water on her face. “Now I’ll see what wisdom awaits.” Zamkrik’s sour face cheered her as she prepared for another meeting with hereditary Battlemaster Nendakos.

  The building’s thick stone walls made the interior blessedly cool. Open windows cleverly situated in ventilation spires pulled cold air through underground shafts. Even on the most miserable days, a steady flow of cool air kept this building comfortable.

  Zamkrik took a seat inside the Council building entrance. Kestran limped up the broad granite stairs leading to the meeting chamber. Dozens of influential citizens filed into the hemispheric chamber. Kestran followed the leaders of the ward. She doubted Nendakos summoned her for a private audience.

  She stopped at the portal to the Grand Chamber and closed her eyes. Of course! The guns in the Chutaroo Ward fell silent this morning. The heat is turning my brain into pudding. The citizens’ faces were pale. Their voices no more than whispers.

  Inside the chamber a ramp of stone seats fanned upward from the speakers’ dais. Thick tapestries, depicting important events in the ward’s history, kept echoes to a minimum.

  She heard wisps of conversations moving past. “Only three days…” “Nendakos said the swampies would break their teeth on harder shells than ours.” “Think of all of the Reds working for those Hykori witches…”

  Kestran sat on a long marble benches at the wings of the chamber. The Guests’ rows soon filled to overflowing with non-residents like her. Sitting was a relief for her leg. Her cramping calf muscles had threatened to fail her at any moment. Massaging out the ache hurt nearly as much as the cramping muscles did earlier, but she kept kneading along the length of hard knots.

  She glanced around the steeply banked Chamber. Some of the citizens looked about wildly. A core sat with arms crossed, dying might be an option for them, giving up never would. Nearly every man and most of the scattering of women wore armor. The fearful citizens talked among themselves and became more panicked as they traded rumors. The stubborn ones did nothing to quiet the rest.

  Battlemaster Nendakos shuffled onto the speaker’s platform. He wore the mantle of Temple officer―gray tabard and cape with the circle and eye of the True God on each. A last few white hairs hung limply from his bare head. He raised spotted hands and motioned downwards for silence. His weak gestures inspired no confidence.

  Last to pass through the door of the leaders came the chiefs of those Devoted to the Greater Servants.

  The Devoted of Auros wore an expression of disgust. Physically, the short, dark man appeared the total opposite of Karro. Kestran had seen the Knight lead sallies against the swampies. The man was utterly fearless. He contrasted Karro’s precise combat style with the determination of a swamp-dragon in season. Countless pale scars highlighted the swamp water color of his few unmarked patches of skin.

  The Devoted took their seats, disapproval on their faces. But none spoke as the babbling grew louder.

  The Tuskaran civil leaders were clearly not up to their tasks. The men who should take control merely sat and frowned. Anger with the latter prodded Kestran to her feet.

  She bit back a furious shout at the Devoted. A glance at the dissolving Grand Council told her that hers would just be one more scared voice. Hollering and politics would not meet the challenge. Only their faith would save them.

  She closed her eyes, clearing her throat and her mind. Charitable instructors told her that she had a sturdy alto voice. She put that tool to use.

  “With the eye of the True God upon me, I face the dark.

  I have nothing to fear, he guards my heart.”

  The noise continued, but the rumbling baritone of the Devoted of Auros joined her in the next verse.

  “Carranos has cleared my Sight and

  Braxos has given me weapons of Might.

  Auros strengthens my arm and

  Makes my blows fall for the Right.”

  Voices broke off from arguments and joined in song. When the Creed’s last verse echoed away, only silence remained. Kestran looked around the Chamber. Some determination had replaced fear.

  She doubted that any citizen who had earned a place on the Grand Council had any illusions that their lot had improved. But the reassurance that dying was not the end had a calming effect.

  The Creed echoed away while Nendakos still waved for silence. “I have called you together to decide how we shall deal with the probable fall of the Chutaroo Ward. We have a proud heritage to uphold. The Tuskaran Ward has never suffered a conqueror on its sacred ground, but we must consider the future.” His head rocked from side to side as he continued. “We might write all of our names into the most noble of histories through our defiance, or we may doom every person here and be forgotten as more victims of this unholy attack. We may―”

  Artolan Mintolbo, the Devoted of Auros, cleared his throat and stood. Nendakos’s face twisted in annoyance at the interruption and relief at a rescue from an ill-thought message of reassurance to the Council.

  Not even bothering to approach the podium, Mintolbo asked the question that quickened Kestran’s pulse, “Does any person here fear to face the Light for the actions in his life? Do any of you think that we can”―he spat the next word as if it were an indecency used for shock―“negotiate peace with the queen of the Dark Empire?”

  The booming of Tuskaran cannon-fire rolled into the Chamber. An attack on the gate! Kestran reached for the empty pistol holster that lay along her right thigh. Groaning, she pushed to her feet. All around her, the armored council members mirrored her actions and filed toward the doors.

  “Wait, we haven’t reached a decision.” Due to the hall’s acoustics, Nendakos’s reedy voice carried above the rattle of armor. Kestran looked back long enough to see and hear the Devoted’s response.

  Flinging his cape over his shoulders, Mintolbo said, “Decide whatever you want with the councilors who stay behind. Just remember that you have to answer to those of us on the wall. If we best our fear of the undead, we can certainly make our will known to the likes of a few old men.”

  Kestran was swept up with the mass of armored councilors. Zamkrik met her on the steps outside the council building and returned her pistol and short sword. He slung her boots over his shoulder as it became clear that they would not have time for her to force them on.

  When they neared the causeway gate, Zamkrik pulled her into an alley. “We’ll never
see anything in that press. I’m sure Wenricos has a better view.” She pretended not to hear as Zamkrik softly finished the statement with, “If he’s not running for home.”

  A few people milled in the alleys the pair followed to the wall. Old men dragged out crates and benches to make barricades. Women holding cleavers or long knives leaned stood at windows.

  Wenricos and a few sketchily armed men leaned out over the river wall. Zamkrik helped Kestran up the ladder to the creaking walkway. Hot stabs of pain made her gasp. As she leaned into a crenelation, she grunted with relief.

  The land ramp connecting the Market Ward to the Tuskaran Ward was packed with dark Riverines. A diminishing crowd clustered beyond the arched gateway where the causeway connected to the open field of the Market Ward. Cannon roared as swampies rushed onto the far side of the Market Ward. Dozens of bodies joined the scores laid down earlier.

  Kestran shook her head. Zamkrik tapped her shoulder and said, “Look at the refugees. Too much green. They aren’t from Chutaroo Ward or they’d mostly be wearing Red.”

  Shouts came from the river. A long barge with over thirty Riverines drifted toward the wall and then bounced away. A boy desperately grabbed for a hold on the wall and. fell into the water.

  Wenricos tossed a rope to the barge. Zamkrik and several other men helped him secure and then pull in the rope. Kestran leaned back over the wall to watch shouting Greens struggle up the rope. A Tuskaran commoner pulled the first Riverine over the wall and brought the man to Kestran.

  The Riverine’s shredded green doublet had once been a fine velvet garment. He had the look of a man used to command, but suddenly out of control. Kestran did not understand the Riverine language, but recognized stammering in his speech. Several more Riverines made it to the top of the wall before a young man who could translate into Tuskaran was brought to Kestran.

  Screams and gunfire increased at the gate connecting the causeway to the Market Ward. Kestran bit her lip as the gate closed on the last of the refugees. A mob of swampies slaughtered the abandoned Greens and began hammering on the gate. Steady arquebus and cannon fire soon drove the attackers away. She turned back to the young Riverine.

  Silent tears streaked his cheeks. “To die at the gate of rescue … I hope your gate guards are proud of their duty.” He gave a slight bow. “You don’t plan to throw us back, I hope. There is nowhere else to flee. We come from Sinhara Ward. Only this place remains.”

  Kestran shook her head. “What of Chutaroo? Its walls are higher and thicker than these.”

  The Riverine shrugged. “Dead, all dead and worse than with Sinhara. Something got inside Chutaroo right after the battle on the field. The swampmen surrounded the island and drove the people back in. I doubt even Reds deserve what happened after.”

  The sheer power displayed in Chutaroo had impressed her on her visits. Towers bristled with light Riverine cannon. Armored pikemen stood at every corner, evidence of strength that had driven the Greens across the sea as refugees to settle in the Delta. The Reds had meant to take their place here by raw force. “How could that happen? Even with sorcery aiding the Hykori, the Reds had so many soldiers.”

  The Riverine spat. “Soldiers, yes. But they were of the Reds. They are only truly dangerous in large numbers.”

  “He’s right, my lady.” Zamkrik said. “But the Greens running away from battle cost the Chutaroo pikemen heavily.”

  The Riverine hissed in anger but said nothing.

  “What of your own sorcerers?” Kestran asked the Green. “Your people have metallurgy and other skills. Surely your people can forge clever spells as well.”

  “Pha,” the young man snorted. “Sorcery is a thing of this benighted continent. Science is superior to ignorance.”

  “Can’t argue with a man of science,” Zamkrik said before leaning into a crenellation and watching the growing horde of undead.

  The last refugees had to be pulled up using a sling tied into the rope. In all, thirty-four rescued Riverines clustered in the shade of the river wall. Taking their cue from Wenricos and the Tuskaran commoners, the Riverines looked to Kestran as the lone noble present. The Tuskaran-speaking Riverine left the wall to rejoin his party.

  Zamkrik touched her shoulder. “My lady, you’ll need to take them to the parade ground. It’s near the gate and certainly where the other Greens’ll be gathered and dealt with.”

  She nodded. Across the river, another wall or undead, mostly Riverines with wounds visible over a bowshot away, shuffled into a line. Some shifted their weight from foot to foot. All carried weapons, although only a few appeared to have been soldiers in life. They stared across the river in ever-growing numbers. The sluggish wind brought the stench of this force over the water. Kestran gagged.

  Today is the equinox. Karro’s army should be assembled, but they are so far away.

  She turned from the river-facing wall. High above the trees facing the Tuskaran Ward’s northern wall, a large white bird glided. It wove from side to side, but steadily toward the ward. As it drew nearer, she saw the distinctive scarlet breast of the watcherbird, the symbol of good luck in adversity.

  She smiled and looked directly northward. Karro, I pray you get here in time.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Duke Voskov?” Ice called into the workshop.

  Voskov looked up from the Book and found the weird-eyed man standing in the doorway. Like many of the swampmen, Ice had shaved his head although the look did not suit him. Ice’s stance relaxed and he strode into the room, a covered basket at his side.

  Death had been dormant this morning. Those with whom Voskov worked most closely seemed to know when Death was active. Although Voskov felt the presence and heard Death’s voice inside his head, there must be visible signs too. When Death asserted himself, that presence chose not to look at reflecting surfaces.

  Ice cleared a space on the workbench and set down the basket. He pulled the cloth aside and laid out bits of silver wire, glass beads and other components for their trinkets. He did not look Voskov’s way.

  Ice seemed too quiet.

  “Are you glad you escaped your master last fall and joined us?”

  Ice glanced over as if reassuring himself he would only be answering a man. “Born a slave. I had no home, nothing. Some stinking swineherd’s family owned me. Now I have status, good food, women when I please.” He went back to his task.

  Voskov crossed his arms, recognizing an almost-answer. “Yes, your life is better. But are you glad you joined this army, joined with me?”

  Ice’s shaved head looked like a pale, ill-fitted skullcap against his tanned face. After a moment, he sighed. “I’m glad to be my own man and to live well.” He looked up at Voskov, defiance in his pale eyes. “I doubt any of us will be alive by winter and I don’t care to die with nothing but shuffling corpses and demented Hykori at my side. I’d leave in the night, but I’ve sworn myself to the only man worth a damn in this whole army.” He grabbed Voskov’s shoulders and whispered, “And I’ve watched you become the host of some parasite.”

  Ice stood back as if expecting Voskov to kill him with a word. Death had proved such words existed several times now.

  With only the slightest concentration, Voskov shifted his perception to see Ice’s spirit. This sensing was one of the few positive improvements Death had worked in Voskov’s body.

  Death referred to the spirit shape as an aura. With practice, Voskov had learned to discern shading in auras and these shades carried very useful information. Ice’s colors, vivid reds and blues, swirled restlessly. The man was sincere and very upset.

  Death stirred. In the month since the battle outside the city, he and Voskov had reached a kind of balance. Death rarely took full control. More often, he whispered suggestions or merely observed. Ice did not look away as he invariably did when Death became dominant.

  “Thank you for your honesty. Even more for staying on. This has been difficult.” The wounds along Voskov’s wrists itched furiously, even aft
er Death had accelerated his healing.

  He leafed through the Book and showed Ice a page Death had pictured in his/their mind. The sketch and script were in Qu’s tight, precise hand. The page showed the first steps in making a book of sorcery, forging a link between the author and a mentor. The symbol was a blend of the runes for knowledge and shadow: Awareness.

  “Ice, I’ve watched you grow as my servant. You betray your knowledge in small and usually helpful ways. With proper training, you could be a more powerful and much more subtle sorcerer than I’ll ever be.” Voskov’s thoughts blended with those of Death. As he and Death came into closer balance, Death’s knowledge came to him like his own memories.

  Shod hooves clattered outside the workshop. Voskov glanced out to see a score or more Hykori troopers bouncing on captured horses. He doubted any living Hykori would ever master riding a dragon. One hapless warrior tumbled off his high-spirited mount and landed with a metallic crash.

  “Pathetic,” Voskov muttered. He closed the Book and forced Ice to meet his gaze. “I’m going to give you the choice I didn’t have. I am linked with the entity that has chosen the symbol of Death. You have the potential to link with another of these entities. Death is the balance to Auros. You’re suited to host the balance to Carranos.”

  Ice shook his head. “This is too much for a slave.”

  “What you mean is that you’ve seen me go to the brink of madness. When my lips move, you don’t know who is talking. You’ve seen nothing of my role with Death that would appeal to any sane man.” Death’s irritation rose. If Voskov spoke too freely, his balance with the entity would swing quickly away.

  With a slight shrug, Ice nodded, avoided Voskov’s gaze.

  Voskov slowly let out his breath. “The so-called Greater Servants and their True God have been dominant across the Plains and surrounding lands ever since the sun-cultist Masters were thrown down by the Tuskars.