The improbable-looking Unogovpi ship drifted out to where the channel current picked it up. A flotilla of swamp canoes flanked the ship, but made no attempt to close with it. The floating remains of scores of similar canoes had taught them a lesson when the ship arrived two days earlier. Its small cannon were deadly.
They may be aliens and unbelievers, but the True God grant these Unogovpi don’t run up on a mud flat.
The abandoned Greens left the pier before it collapsed. They clutched golden chains, jewel bags and bricks of dyes they had offered in exchange for passage. These riches would again be hidden when the refugees came begging for food and shelter among the Tuskarans.
She pressed Zamkrik’s arm. “I want to get back to the house before the streets are full of Greens again.” While calling her late husband’s family apartment a house was an overstatement, she was better off than most of the refugees in the Tuskaran Ward.
By custom and law, the apartment was well-stocked with dried foods and her husband’s family had paid dearly to keep the well in good condition. She and Zamkrik shared a tiny room. The apartment had been crowded when she, Zamkrik and five of her late husband’s relatives took shelter before the siege. When they took in a family of six Unogovpi of the Greens, it became little better than living in a crowded alley near the Temple charity kitchens.
She hurried Zamkrik along. It broke her heart to turn down shelter for the hundreds of Unogovpi who were unable to find a Tuskaran acquaintance to take them in.
Zamkrik didn’t share her concern. He blamed the Greens for losing the battle outside the city. When any Unogovpi beggar approached, Zamkrik loudly criticized that so few of their men were willing to take part in the ward’s defense.
We should go to the Temple. Few Unogovpi go near the worship hall, so Zamkrik won’t try to start a fight. We should stay in the True God’s favor, for we may be judged by him very soon.
The cannon by the main gate began firing again.
Chapter Twenty
Rain blew under Voskov’s visor. He blinked the water from his eyes to see the tallest towers of Blue Harbor in the distance. Pleasantly cold water ran under his breastplate, soaking the bandages around his chest.
The rain decreased to a steady drizzle. No question, the sporadic booming had to be cannon fire and not thunder.
Suvlochin raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t expect the Dead General to crack a nut like the Tuskar Ward, did you?” The Shushkachevan mercenary’s opinion of Vishtanatar had never been high.
Although every hint of the blue fire was gone, Voskov still felt it burning across his chest wound. It had cost all of his trinkets to smother the fire left from that damned peasant’s dying blow.
Voskov had been forced to rescue his Hykori lancers from a band of Tuskaran swamp farmers. He never imagined their leader was a Worker of Sullos. Even the Greater Servant for dung spreaders sends his chosen against me.
<
The cursed peasant’s attack had raised fear in Death. The mystic component of the peasant-Paladin’s scythe harmed Death as no regular weapon might. Not that Voskov wanted to trade blows with any of the Devoted again. Even using Madman and the “Words of Withering” supplied by Death, he barely managed to hack the burly farmer down.
If some stinking peasant pumped up by Sullos could do this to me, I can’t face that damned Paladin again.
If only it were Karro’s head instead of that peasant’s tied to Voskov’s saddle horn. Still, killing their leader would surely send the swamp-dwelling Tuskarans back to their tiny farms. In all, Voskov felt good about the battle.
His own injury came from saving Suvlochin’s life from that amazing peasant’s scythe. Considering how many Shushkachevan mercenaries had deserted during the battle and the ambush of Karro’s army, any tie of loyalty became doubly precious.
Swamp mist faded to reveal the moss draped trees flanking the road. The mounted force wound through the debris of the queen’s last camp outside of Blue Harbor. The one hundred or so Shushkachevans and their dragons made less noise than the exuberant Hykori lancers. as Silent as ghosts, Chenna’s pack loped along the flank. Voskov ordered the rest of the swampmen and undead to stay back and harass any further advance by Karro’s army. Voskov had seen it in the swamp-leaders’ eyes; those men were going to sink back into the swamp. No doubt Bringer’s acolytes would throw their puppets at the army and return as soon as possible.
Tuskaran cannon boomed again. The thunder of cannon fire echoed through the empty streets of Blue Harbor’s outskirts.
A weight slammed onto Voskov’s back, knocking the breath from his aching chest. When the wound reopened, he winced. Sharp claws dug at his cheek while the winged scout fought for balance on Voskov’s new Riverine-made cuirass. The creature leaned around to look Voskov in the face. Unprecedented excitement lit its furry face.
In a mocking tone, it said, “Hail to you, victorious duke. The Paladin’s army still pursues. Most of the Macmar and the few remaining followers of Sivek are crawling home. The rest, the ones who really want your head still come.” Unable to keep its balance, the creature hopped from Voskov’s shoulder to perch on the dragon’s saddle horn and face its master.
Voskov ran his fingers through his beard, grimacing at the scratches the scout’s claws had dug. “I’m not surprised. The whole purpose of that attack was to reduce the Paladin’s army to a manageable size.” He glanced over to include Suvlochin in the conversation. “If the truly committed men continue into the swamp and none ever return, there will be no second invasion.”
The mercenary commander nodded, a smile spreading across his sharp-featured face. His attention shifted to cuffing his crimson dragon as it snaked its head back to snap at Voskov’s new cobalt mount … again. Warhorses were less trouble.
Turning back to the scout, Voskov said, “I want you to stay on Karro. Return to me before they reach this camp. I should have everything ready for them.”
The scout beamed. It bowed and said proudly, “Yes and no, Duke Voskov.”
Voskov reined his dragon up short. The scout had never hinted at a refusal in the past.
“Yes, I will return to the Paladin’s army.” It’s small frame twitched and jerked, but its grin remained. It peeled out of the fur on its chest, like a small man shedding a winter coat. Fine silver fur sprouted behind the gray. The fur around its face faded to a matching silver. Its wings furled to accommodate the shedding process, only to unfurl as translucent white. When it completed its work, it hopped up to hover near Voskov’s head. Old skins shed, it was smaller than before, but Bors’s face remained the same.
No, not the same. This face radiated contempt. “Yes, I return to Karro the Avenger. My year of final service to you ended with the rising of the sun. One year ago this morning, you drove a knife into my chest as I propped you up to dress your wounds. The last thing I saw as a living man was you pealing the flesh from my face.” It dodged Voskov’s fist and circled beyond reach. “I’m in this form while you live, but now I choose my own master.”
It darted away. As it turned to say something more, an arrow from Suvlochin’s bow brushed past. It screeched and threw up tiny arms then flew away to the north.
The Shushkachevans near Voskov stared at him in silence.
<
Viciously, Voskov kicked his dragon to a heavy trot and led his troops back to the queen’s palace.
Inside the palace, Voskov cast the Riverine cuirass aside and had Chenna replace his blood-soaked bandage. Suvlochin stood nearby. Seeing the wound again, the mercenary’s uncomfortable expression was replaced by one of resolve.
<
Voskov fought the urge to tell Death to find some less obvious truths. The mercenary skirmishers desertion still irked.
/> When Chenna finished her work, Voskov picked the richest silk robe from a pile of loot and settled it over his shoulders. He led his companions through the nearly deserted halls. They met no swamp folk or undead before reaching the throne room. Only furtive highland Hykori moved in the rest of the palace.
A single Hykori warrior stood guard at the throne room door. He sagged at the sight of Voskov. “Lord Duke, the queen will be relieved to see you. Having the army back will set everything straight.” The pale young man pushed open the bronze-faced door.
Torches around the throne did a poor job of lighting the long, dark room. Wood panels now covered the high windows. Eyes rimmed with white and teeth bared, Mallaloriva looked toward the intruders.
Recognizing Voskov, she settled back onto the throne and flicked open her fan. Vishtanatar and the quartet of warriors near him turned to face Voskov’s party. The warriors spread out beside the Demon Lord as if arraying against an attack. The ancient Hykori removed his bat-winged helmet, revealing a white face tight around red eyes and lips.
Tuskaran cannon boomed three times in quick secession. Mallaloriva glared at Vishtanatar’s back. The Demon Lord locked gazes with Voskov and then slowly lowered his eyes. His tightly clenched fist shook.
Dressed in a loose mist of sheer white cloth, Mallaloriva set her elbow on an armrest and fanned herself slowly. “We are pleased to see our victorious general. Visht perhaps more than most. It appears he needs your help clearing the Tuskaran Ward.”
Glancing up from Vishtanatar’s back, she addressed Voskov directly. “You’ve destroyed the Paladin’s army and brought back all of the troops I gave you. I knew you wouldn’t fail me.”
<
“My queen, the attack did what I expected. We turned back most of the army. Afterwards, we slaughtered their native scouts and killed the Devoted of Sullos leading them. Karro comes on with less than a five hundred men. But we took losses. Half the mercenaries and none of the swampmen return with me.”
Vishtanatar’s voice held bitterness, but no accusation. “Did you bring a thousand men back? You make it sound as though Karro is alone with a mere five hundred men. Do you have a thousand you can truly count upon?”
Mallaloriva snapped her fan shut. “My consort has excused his failures by blaming our swamp folk for a lack of fervor.”
Voskov felt sorry for Vishtanatar as the souldrinker whined, “The undead aren’t enough. They do as commanded, but only the few old ones fight with spirit. I need warriors and you keep the reliable ones here with you.” Vishtanatar grew animated. “With Voskov’s sell-swords, we can clear the ward and turn all of our efforts against the Paladin.”
“Visht is right. We have to take the whole city and face the Paladin with our backs secure.” Voskov looked around at the quiet hall. “This hasn’t worked as I hoped. If we crush the Paladin and his troops, pile all their heads at the northern edge of the swamp, perhaps no one else will disturb us.”
Nodding vigorously, Vishtanatar spun to face the queen. “The swamp rats are scuttling back into their holes. We win, and we can drag them out by the hair, one coward at a time. We’ll have all the time we need to forge them into a useful weapon. If it takes a decade or more, we can change the land to suit our needs. Turn all of these swamp rats into undead we can trust.”
The queen leaped to her feet, shouting, “I will not spend years in this mire. Voskov, you will take that cursed ward. Visht, you will give him your unquestioning support.” She turned on her heel, tapping her chin prettily with her golden fan. After a moment, she faced Voskov again. “You need only clear the causeway. I will show you the results of my own work and we’ll break the ward open like a melon.”
“Shuma!” Voskov’s call startled the swamp warrior standing at Vishtanatar’s far left. The man looked to the Demon Lord before giving Voskov a short bow.
“Gather men who you think can be trusted,” Voskov ordered. “Bring them to the old camp outside the city. Send the rest back to their homes with the command to return in the spring.”
Mallaloriva opened her mouth to protest, but Voskov cut her off. “My queen, if they desert you now, they do so after deciding to break with you and they’ll never return. If they leave at your order and spend some time in their squalid huts, they may return in the spring with more loyalty in their hearts. They’re useless to us now, in either case.”
She frowned but kept her peace. He would broach the idea of sending a seed force of Hykori lancers back through the Pass of Oblivion later. He knew which of the Hykori were worth saving if this drive for empire failed.
Voskov was appalled at the waste. The dead were heaped before the gate at the Market Ward end of the Tuskaran causeway. A few broken guns in the open square showed Vishtanatar’s only attempts to direct Riverine cannon against the Tuskaran Gate. “Inept” was too kind a label.
Visht had merely thrown masses against the gate. Tightly pressed mobs of swampmen and undead had been easy targets for the Tuskaran guns. No wonder the swampmen were deserting by the hundreds. The dozens of drained swampmen bodies hanging at the street corners leading into the square Vishtanatar’s method for “inspiring” troops.
From the shell of an ornate Riverine temple, Voskov surveyed the Tuskaran Gate. Beyond the island that lay the Tuskaran Ward. An arc of small boats carried the remaining loyal swampmen. Shuma impressed him by delivering some fifteen hundred men willing to fight. The boats bobbed outside cannon range.
Hidden behind the rubble facing the causeway gate, Voskov’s mercenaries, Mallaloriva’s surviving Hykori and nearly three thousand undead awaited his command. He threw out a bright blue flag to catch the wind. It drifted into the empty square.
With a massed groan, the new undead staggered up and over the rubble. Thousands of walking corpses, mostly Riverines, poured across the square in loose formation. Scattered among them were dismounted Shushkachevan archers and the best Hykori arquebusiers.
“Wonderful. Those Tuskar cannon only claim one or two victims each.” Chenna clapped Voskov’s uninjured shoulder. The undead stopped near the gate, keeping their ranks spread. Using the corpses as walking shields, the Shushkachevan archers sent arrows at the cannoneers and arquebusiers defending the gate. With typical stubbornness, the Tuskarans suffered scores of casualties while maintaining their largely ineffective fire against the attackers.
This trading of death continued as the sun rose past noon. Creaking on massive hinges, the causeway gates opened. Fifty heavily armored Tuskarans rushed out on foot.
The last man had barely cleared the gate when the Hykori arquebusiers opened fire. The volley added dozens of men to the stream felled by Shushkachevan arrows. The undead pressed in to envelop the rest. From above, the Tuskaran gate force hesitated to fire into the struggling figures. The Hykori and Shushkachevans had no such reservations and the sally broke in moments.
One Hykori dragged a body back to Voskov. He didn’t recognize the ruined Riverine-like face, but the body wore the tabard of a Devoted of Auros. Voskov recalled hearing of a Riverine hero who had scandalized his people by adopting the faith of the Tuskaran fanatics.
Chenna grabbed Voskov’s arm. “My lord, have the rest of the bodies brought back for Bringer to work on. Seeing their comrades in our front ranks will upset the defenders.” Voskov nodded and Chenna ran off to give the orders.
At nightfall, the defenders abandoned the causeway gate. Chenna’s pack scrambled over the wall to open the gate for the rest of the queen’s army. The Tuskarans had to have lost over two hundred men in the long battle. This, stacked up against his dozen fallen archers and arquebusiers and an irrelevant number of undead, counted as a clear victory to Voskov.
The causeway now lay open. At its end, the more heavily built entry gate to the Tuskaran Ward awaited.
Voskov left his post and rode toward the palace to inform Mallaloriva it was time to reveal her labors. The early evening streets were quiet. The emptiness depressed
him. Citizens who survived the sack had been killed in droves to rebuild the undead ranks. With most of the swampmen abandoning the city, many of the citizens also ran away. The few remaining must have had reasons to prefer taking their chances with the queen over venturing into the swamps. Either way, this dynamic city resembled the architectural version of the undead. He wanted to rule, not just destroy. Voskov felt his father’s ghost frown.
Reaching the plaza before the palace, Voskov found the queen and her servants in furious preparations between the two pools. Hundreds of headless serpents and swamp dragons, none with diameters less than Voskov’s forearm, lay in a grizzly, oil-soaked braid half a bowshot long. He forced his hissing mount to approach the source of the reptilian reek. Mallaloriva directed a trio of servants in placing a head on the massed body. A stylized viper’s head, made of woven reeds stared at him.
A look of triumph lit Mallaloriva’s face. She grabbed a torch and shouted, “Stand away.”
Needing no further urging, Voskov joined the rest at the edge of the plaza.
The queen cast aside her dark cape and stood in a wisp of pale cloth before the reed head. Voskov didn’t recognize the language of the queen’s chant. Death chuckled knowingly.
She danced around the reflexively twitching mass of serpent bodies. Starting at the “tail,” she set the torch to the oil-drenched body of the composite snake. At each step, she touched the torch to the thickening trunk and fire caught at each contact.
The fires spread. Mallaloriva reached the woven head and spoke to it in commanding tones. With a shout, she thrust the torch into its open mouth. The reeds blazed up. The other fires, burning with streaks of green, blue and white, rose to match. The flames did not consume reed or reptile body.
Braided bodies coiled like muscle within the flames and the head rose from the ground to look down on Mallaloriva. The queen turned toward Voskov and the waiting servants and danced forward. The flame serpent followed. No crackle of flame or hiss from steam-filled bodies sounded, only the rasp of scales on stone.
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