Death's Paladin

by Christopher Donahue

  Long before that, souldrinkers and the Demon Lords drove Death and his brothers from the Hykori Empire. The souldrinkers were competitors with the demons rather than opponents. That defeat had left Death out of touch with humanity for a long time.

  “Death and I could make your accommodation with Awareness a painless action. This time, the souldrinkers need us as much as we need them so that threat is, well, lessened.”

  Backing away, Ice held up his hands. “Your offer is too generous. I am only a slave and not fit to, ah, fit to serve a god.”

  Voskov opened the Book again. It fell to the page with the Book of Awareness depicted in the center. He pointed to the page and then walked to the door. “Think about the offer. You have the skills and with a mentor, you could become so much more than you are now.”

  From the doorway, he watched the Hykori heroes from Raven’s Crag attempt to wheel their mounts as a troop. As a man born to the saddle, Voskov had to turn from the inept display. Ice had backed away from the Book, but his eyes never left it.

  “Tell me, Ice, have you ever wondered where the Greater Servants got their names?”

  The unexpected question drew the man’s attention.

  “Auros was the name of a Macmar warrior who became linked to an entity known as Valor,” Voskov said. “The same goes for the other servants.”

  Ice locked eyes with Voskov. “You’re pleased that the name Voskov will be connected with the actions of Hopeless Death?”

  Growling, Voskov stomped out of the workshop and headed toward the former governor’s palace in Chutaroo Ward. The idea that he would be forgotten and the name Voskov would only be a verbal tag for a symbol disturbed him deeply.

  He passed over the bridge leading to the reeking mess that had been the Red citadel. Ash and broken tiles crunched under his boots Death slipped in a thought with its own voice rather than the disturbing feeling of Voskov’s own thoughts coming from an outside source.

  <>

  Voskov stopped midway across the bridge. He gripped the stone rail, looking down upon the debris-choked brown water. The stench of old slaughter still rolled out of Chutaroo. No one other than Voskov had willingly ventured across that bridge in days. Even looting parties had to be flogged into the abattoir that had once been Blue Harbor’s richest district. He stood alone under the hot morning sun.

  “You say the Book will lure Ice with knowledge. You say this with certainty.” The lure for Voskov’s soul had been simple power. He told himself other reasons, but they were lies.

  He sat on the stone rail. “Will I become some creature like the Paladins of Auros―so Devoted to an outside spirit that living just goes on as one labor after another? I don’t want that. Karro the Avenger is no more alive than Visht or Bringer or any of the undead.”

  He sensed Death’s apprehension. They were too tightly linked. If Voskov committed suicide now, it would dispel the entity for decades.

  <>

  Death had left something unsaid. Voskov had only a glimpse of Death’s lust for a corporeal form. Somehow Death could not come to the world in his own flesh. The wisp of memory faded.

  At a touch on his elbow, Voskov jumped to his feet.

  The small scout rocked on the railing and spread his wings for balance. “Duke Voskov, you demanded the progress of Auros’s slave.” For all that the scout resembled Bors, it lacked that faithful servant’s proper air of deference.

  Voskov reached into a pouch at his side and drew out a short length of peppery sausage. The scout grabbed his favorite treat and clutched it to his chest with an all-too-human look of bliss.

  “Duke Voskov, the slave of Auros comes with an army. He leads five hundred trained infantrymen from the Plains cities, along with around one hundred Tuskaran lancers and nobles.”

  Voskov held up his hand, digesting the information.

  The scout gnawed on the sausage until Voskov lowered his hand. It continued the report. “At HighGround, they joined with another company of two hundred Tuskarans under banners of the Old God Sivek and a thousand Macmar from at least seven clans. The Macmar are hard to count since new ones drift in constantly and these troops cause some of the old ones to leave. The slave of Auros has forbidden the Macmar to continue their feuds when they march with him.”

  The scout peeled away more of the sausage casing, waiting for questions. How nice to face a simple situation with direct action required. Even if that situation happened to be an army under a Paladin marching to kill him.

  “How large is his supply train?” Karro’s temple hirelings and the Tuskaran troops would be well-supplied. The Macmar tended to let supplies take care of themselves and suffered for it in distant campaigns. Feeding over a thousand of them could be difficult in the Delta.

  The scout scratched the gray fur on its chest. “The Plains force came with enough supplies for the whole army. The Tuskarans brought enough for themselves for three months and several of the Macmar clans each brought a dozen or more wagons of food.”

  Voskov spun toward the Tuskaran Ward. Cannon-fire echoed through the convoluted streets leading to the bridge. The Tuskarans had systematically demolished the buildings of the Market Ward and were using their longest ranging guns to smash the docks of the Low Ward and Tulara Ward. They fired as if their stocks of gunpowder were unlimited. With the Tuskaran passion for defiance, it might nearly be so.

  A Paladin army was on the march and Visht had not secured the last ward in Blue Harbor.

  “Where is this army, and how steady is their approach?”

  The scout licked the last grease from the casing before tossing it away. “The slave’s army should be at the Norachev plantation by noon. The few swamp folk who did not join the queen’s army have attached themselves to him as scouts. His forces will move as quickly as your own.”

  Voskov nodded. “Go find Suvlochin. Tell him to assemble the mercenary captains at my house by the third hand before dusk. Go, go.” He waved the scout off.

  It was a long walk through the newly-ravaged Sinhara Ward to the queen’s palace. As with all the captured wards except the Chutaroo, most inhabitants were still alive. By the time Sinhara fell, even the bitterest swampmen had had their fill of butchery.

  Those men sent to loot the treasures of Chutaroo after Death and the shapeshifters had sated themselves even showed mercy in the Low Ward and Sinhara. The city would take years to fully recover, but many parts already showed signs of recovering commerce.

  As Voskov passed, survivors, mostly Macmar peasants and Unogovpi Greens, ducked into doorways. If they had anything to say, they kept it to themselves.

  Unlike the intricate ironwork and decorative painting in Chutaroo and other Reds’ wards, the Greens had limited themselves to planting gardens in the areas they took over. Fragrant roof gardens had largely survived the sack. Voskov was glad for their scents as he neared the queen’s latest palace.

  He stopped on the bridge connecting Chutaroo and the queen’s palace to the merchant section of Sinhara. Looking back, he saw hundreds of signs of a city recovering from a disaster. After nearly a year of leaving nothing but desolation in his wake, Voskov seized onto this.

  Although in the Chutaroo Ward, the queen’s new palace was one of the few structures the Greens had built and showed their unique architecture. The outer walls were unadorned, other than the brightly painted green gate. Copper cones topped the narrow towers at each corner. The crenellations along the curtain walls were shaped like open flowers. He shuddered to think of Green architecture painted by Reds.

  Newly constructed pools, heavy with reptilian stench, flanked the palace gates
. The pools churned with movement and reeked of penned animals. From the right-hand pool came the unmistakable keening howl of untamable swamp dragons. Mallaloriva had plans for them, but chose not to share them with Voskov. Teams of swampmen tossed bits of meat to the animals while others used poles and whips to keep their charges in the pools.

  Inside, the palace featured cooling fountains and shaded walkways. Unaccounted loot, mostly acid-smelling blocks of dye, covered much of the central courtyard. In concentrated form, most of the dyes appeared dark and dull. Servants and guards rushed about, despite the heavy afternoon air.

  At the entry to the throne room, Voskov saw a haggard Durinetav. He looked a decade older than before the last battle.

  Voskov concentrated Death’s enhanced sight on the listless Durinetav. The young man’s aura flickered. Like a tentacled swamp creature, another aura, sickly green, sprouted from the bracer on Durinetav’s forearm. The linked javelin and bracer were slowly draining life from the Hykori warrior.

  Durinetav motioned Voskov to follow him to the throne room. They walked through quiet halls, past old and relatively odorless Hykori undead. A dozen highland Hykori stood guard at the throne room entrance. All carried arquebuses of Unogovpi crafting. Most had abandoned their cast-bronze armor in favor of garish Unogovpi plate.

  Inside the throne room, Mallaloriva watched with little apparent interest as a dozen young men danced with bared blades.

  At Voskov’s entrance, Vishtanatar leaped to his feet. With no warning, the Demon Lord hurled a javelin which buried itself into the door a handspan to the right of Voskov’s head. Flinching from the unexpected action, Voskov cursed silently. Shouts of surprise erupted from the scores of Hykori and swamp folk attending the queen. Mallaloriva simply raised an eyebrow.

  Vishtanatar stood straight and held his hands out before him. The javelin remained motionless in the door.

  When Mallaloriva spoke, all the other voices fell into silence. “My consort is displeased. Your gift no longer serves him. He wonders how many other failures may haunt you.”

  Regaining his wits, Voskov motioned Durinetav to the queen’s dais. Death spoke to the entity dwelling in Durinetav’s bracer, forcing it to release its grip. Voskov slipped the bracer off Durinetav’s arm and handed the paired weapon to the Demon Lord.

  “It is only right that your consort have the best weapons to guard your person. This one will last for months, but the power of Visht’s presence overwhelms my craft.” He smiled at Vishtanatar. After drawing so heavily on Durinetav, the entity in Vishtanatar’s new bracer would survive for a while before the souldrinker drained it.

  If Durinetav resented the exchange, he gave no sign. Voskov felt pleased to save the young and useful man’s life.

  “I have news, my Queen.” Voskov lay face down on the floor before her, in the ancient Hykori form. His Shushkachevan pride had prevented him from doing this in the past. Death gave him a … different perspective. After several heartbeats of silence, he pulled himself to his knees.

  Mallaloriva slowly fanned herself, but her eyes glittered. “I am content only if my consort is satisfied with the exchange. He might have preferred the heft of the other javelin.”

  Vishtanatar grunted. “I dislike these toys. They make us weak. I simply wanted this sorcerer to know his gift had failed. And for you to see it, my queen.” He stalked off the dais and down a dark hall behind the throne.

  “My queen, the news,” Voskov prompted. She nodded absently and stood before him. The deep red silk gown clung to her every curve. As she motioned Voskov to his feet, he continued, “An army under the surviving Paladin has entered the Delta. They follow the road we built this past spring. They are a mere two weeks away and your consort has not taken the Tuskaran Ward as he promised.”

  Mallaloriva made the hand passes to shore up her glamour. Since Death had modified his vision, Voskov had to concentrate to see the spell rather than see through it. Mallaloriva paced around him, a turquoise-lacquered fingernail tracing a line across his shoulder and down his forearm.

  A thrill shot through him along with an unexpected reaction of pleasure from Death. Partially to cover his confusion, Voskov said, “Of course, I will take the mercenaries and any undead you can spare and turn back this army. Or I will try. With possible direct intervention by Auros, I can promise nothing.”

  Mallaloriva brushed against Voskov’s shoulder. Death tensed within him. Physical contact with a souldrinker drained any living entity. Since the days of slaughter in Chutaroo, Death’s strength had grown. The slight drain from Mallaloriva’s touch seemed to give the entity some pleasure. Voskov felt nothing beyond the touch of a woman, but Death made no attempt to hide or to force Voskov to break away.

  Mallaloriva clapped her hands and a dozen courtiers crowded in. “Who will go with my general and strike down these invaders?”

  The area around Voskov opened quickly. A taste of success and luxury made them less than anxious to sacrifice themselves.

  Voskov chuckled, hardly surprised. “My queen, I would like to take your Hykori cavalry. They will be of little use against the Tuskaran Ward, but will add some weight to my mercenaries and the experience will make them better riders. I’ll also have Chenna’s spiritshifters, but some undead and a necromancer would be useful. I only need enough swampmen to serve as scouts and a screen.”

  Mallaloriva wrapped her hands around his biceps. Death gave a surge at the contact. Her eyes widened at the pain this must have caused, but held on. The first time Death had done this, long ago in the Pass of Oblivion, Mallaloriva pulled away as if stung by a hornet. She drew breath in sharply, artfully, but her eyes glittered with excitement.

  “Shuma, Bringer, see to the details. Tell Vishtanatar he has … six days to reduce the Tuskaran Ward. The rest of you, leave us now. I have matters of strategy to discuss with my general.”

  <>

  Voskov pressed down the bitterness that came with the memory of Denevia. As punishment for the suicide attempt, Death had forced Voskov to strangle her.

  “My general, what brought you to offer me proper obeisance after all of this time?” She pressed against his back, her breath chill across his neck. The cool of her body now was as welcome as Chenna’s warmth during the winter in the high valley. The throne room doors boomed shut behind the last guards.

  Before Voskov answered, she slid around to face him and pressed a finger across his lips. “It doesn’t matter. I enjoyed having you on your knees before me. Seeing my foreign general show me that respect gave the court a sense of rightness.” The look in her eyes had nothing to do with court politics. He felt her draw strength from Death again. The entity gave a shock of resistance with the parting. Mallaloriva licked her lips and pressed more tightly against Voskov.

  His head began to spin. The disorientation of his own reactions to Mallaloriva’s physical contact and Death’s essence exchange with the souldrinker left him reeling.

  She whispered, “Perhaps the queen should show her general some respect.”

  <>

  Voskov thought he might enjoy this but cavorting with something less dangerous than a souldrinker would be wise.

  Mallaloriva nipped at the base of his neck. Tomorrow became less of a concern. Thoughts of Paladins dwindled into nothingness.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Karro groaned at the sound of wood splintering. Shouts of frustration and rage followed as Macmar teamsters jumped away from a slowly toppling wagon. The clay of the roadbed stopped the wagon at a sharp tilt.

  Karro glanced up and estimated the sun no more than two hand-widths into the morning sky. Thick air lay like a hot, wet blanket. He felt an unfocused sense of futility gave him the urge to smash something, anything.

  This was the second wag
on to break an axle since dawn. Dozens of Macmar troopers sauntered up to unload the wreck. Karro suppressed the desire to shout at them to hurry. Suffering in the wet heat, the men moved as if in a dream.

  Blocked by the wagon, over a thousand Macmar shuffled to a halt. The single road winding through the swamp limited progress of the army to the pace of the slowest. Each mishap stopped the entire army.

  Karro wheeled Vision around, heading to the van of the army. If he stayed with the Macmar, his temper would get the better of him. The miserable weather, swarms of biting insects and the viscous makeup of the road made brawls a constant. The commander shouting in frustration would only make things worse.

  Directly ahead of the broken wagon, more Macmar clansmen sat on along the road’s margin. Other kilted warriors wandered into the fringes of the swamp in search of dry ground with shade. Karro clenched his fists in anger. The rearguard must still be in sight of their previous camp. Kestran could die of old age before this army reached Blue Harbor. He kneed Vision into a canter.

  Ahead of the leading Macmar clans, the Plains troops marched at a steady pace. At Aruna’s suggestion, his wagons had been fitted with air bladders. The entrumas pulled the floating wagons through the open water parallel to the road. It worked well and left the road in better condition for the Macmar.

  The sweating Plains infantry marched in loose order. Every movement told of Temple training. In an instant, these men could form up to repel an attack from either flank. Unfortunately, the progress of the army was so slow Voskov had no need to send out harassing forces. Karro’s frustration turned bitter.

  The captain of the Plains spearmen raised his hand, palm upwards, for a blessing. The rest of the spearmen stopped to face Karro and removed their simple bowl helmets.

  Karro’s bitterness turned to embarrassment. Slow as the progress was, all of these men marched through this vile swamp to fight for him.

  He pushed up the visor of his new-style helmet, a parting gift from Kestran. Slowing Vision to a walk, he repeated the short version of Auros’s blessing to each rank of his Temple troops. He could not think of them as mere mercenaries.