The Tattooed Duchess (A Fire Beneath the Skin Book 2)

by Victor Gischler

  Talbun knelt next to one of the bodies that wasn’t so badly damaged and took a dagger from the dead warrior’s belt. She stood, dagger held at the ready, her other hand clasping her robe closed in front of her. Her eyes darted around the burning camp. She braced herself.

  No more enemies came at her, at least not at the moment.

  She moved in the direction of Rina’s tent, walking at first and then breaking into a run.

  ***

  Brasley woke up in the narrow space between tents when he heard the racket. He’d crawled out of the tent to vomit and hadn’t made it back before passing out. It had been a long night of drinking.

  At first, Brasley thought all the noise came from the soldiers breaking down the camp. He had a vague memory of General Inshaw saying the army would march at dawn.

  Dawn certainly does come early these days, he thought, rubbing his throbbing head.

  He stumbled to his feet, and the fog in his brain cleared. He smelled smoke. Screams split the night.

  Oh, shit. They aren’t breaking camp. This is . . . something else.

  He stumbled to the front of his tent, blinked at the spectacle before him.

  The row of tents across the aisle was in flames. Against the fiery background, armored silhouettes flung themselves at one another, swords crossing, the ring of metal blades against armor rising above the screams of the dying.

  Brasley recognized the overlapping shingles of armor and the flared helms of the Perranese.

  What the fuck are they doing here?

  Inshaw’s men were fighting them toe-to-toe. To Brasley’s untrained eye, there didn’t seem to be any battle strategy. Just men slamming into one another, swinging blades, some falling and bleeding and yelling.

  He knelt next to a slain soldier and pried the sword from his hand, a long blade with a plain guard, unadorned but solid. He backed into the shadows between the tents, hoping not to be spotted. If the battle passed him by, that would be just fine.

  It almost worked out that way.

  A few dozen of General Inshaw’s cavalry crashed unexpectedly into the fray, horses rearing and smashing aside Perranese foot soldiers. The horsemen erupted from between the tents on either side of Brasley’s hiding place, their pikes scattering the Perranese warriors. In seconds, the entire battle had shifted to another part of the camp.

  The bodies of dying men writhed in the wide, muddy aisle between the tent rows. Brasley stepped out of his hiding place slowly, ready to turn and run if need be. The smell of blood and loosened bowels hit him hard.

  A figure came toward him, and he wheeled, bringing his sword up.

  “It’s me,” Talbun said.

  Brasley almost didn’t recognize her. Hair mussed and matted, torn robe held closed in front of her with a little fist. She gripped a dagger tightly. Her bare feet were covered to the ankles in grime, a mix of blood and mud and feces, the standard unsavory mix of any battlefield.

  “What’s happening? Have they invaded again?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Have you seen Rina?”

  “I haven’t seen anyone. Just you.”

  A column of Perranese soldiers spilled from between the tents fifty yards up the aisle. They jogged across, but the last two spotted Brasley and Talbun and broke off to run toward them.

  “Oh, fuck me,” Brasley said raising his sword.

  Brasley and Talbun stood close to each other and braced for the attack.

  The first Perranese warrior thrust, and Brasley smacked the sword aside with his own. He brought the blade back just in time to parry an attack from the other one. He gave ground, completely on the defensive.

  I’m not going to last long two against one. He was acutely aware of the wizard at his side. So . . . yeah . . . some kind of awesome magic right about now wouldn’t be the worst thing.

  The galloping thud of horse hooves in the mud grew suddenly loud behind him. A spilt second later the horse was right next to him, a thick arm sweeping down and smashing a mace on the helmet of the closest Perranese.

  The warrior’s helmet crushed almost flat, brain and blood oozing from beneath as the man toppled over, dead before he even hit the ground.

  The second warrior turned and ran. A futile effort.

  Bishop Hark rode him down, smashing him in the back of the head. A sickening crunch of armor and skull.

  Hark turned the horse back toward Brasley and dismounted in front of him and the wizard. “Are you okay?” He let the horse wander off. There were no more foes in sight.

  “Thanks to you,” Talbun said.

  Brasley frowned. “I helped too, you know.”

  The ground suddenly shook. A score of Perranese warriors on horses rode straight down the aisle toward them. Brasley and the bishop brought up their weapons, stood shoulder to shoulder.

  The horsemen split apart and rode around them, followed by dozens of Perranese foot soldiers. None raised a weapon. Soon they were gone as fast as they’d arrived, not even sparing a glance for Brasley, the bishop, and the wizard.

  Brasley gawked. “Didn’t they see us?”

  “They were ordered to withdraw, I’m guessing,” Hark said. “Either they were losing the battle, or they accomplished whatever they came here to do.”

  Brasley’s eyes went wide as he looked back down the row of tents. “Rina.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  She hadn’t really been asleep, just barely dozing, skimming the surface of slumber. Rina’s mind raced. So many problems. Too few solutions.

  And the eyes. If she fell asleep, she risked the eyes.

  She sat up, swung her legs over the cot, bare feet on the cold grass. The tent left much to be desired as far as creature comforts. She’d pay real money for a feather bed in a warm inn.

  She chuckled. It was something Brasley would say. She wished his tent were closer. Maybe he was still awake. Rina wanted somebody to talk to. As duchess, etiquette demanded someone of her rank had a tent closer to the general’s, but she had no desire to see Inshaw.

  I’m not that desperate for conversation.

  The man had been a tiresome blowhard all through dinner, constantly touting his alleged military prowess. She’d thought Brasley was doing her a favor by engaging the man in conversation until she realized Brasley was simply drunk.

  That made her laugh again. She had only a few friends, but Brasley was one of them.

  Who would ever have guessed that?

  Tosh was something of a friend, as was Klarissa, the de facto leader of the gypsies. Meeting Talbun for the first time had been completely intimidating, but she was growing fond of the woman. Rina wasn’t quite ready to define Stasha Benadicta as a friend, but the woman was certainly somebody Rina respected and trusted.

  And then there was Alem.

  Where was he now? What was he thinking? She hoped he was safe.

  The thought she might never see him again created a sickly, heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  The chances of her going back to sleep now were zero.

  Rina stood and stretched. The night air was cool and broke her skin out in gooseflesh. She wore only a thin silk shift and a man’s pair of underwear. She’d quickly found her own underwear incompatible with armor.

  She dug through her pack, found a chuma stick and stuck it in the corner of her mouth, realizing there was no way to light it, no lit candles or lanterns in her tent, and she didn’t want to fumble in the dark for flint. The only light came from the outside, a campfire or torchlight leaking in through the crack in the tent flap.

  Rina blinked at the light, noticing for the first time that it seemed a little . . . off. Torchlight flickered orange red. This light was a bright pink, shimmering strangely like some kind of rapid blinking.

  She cautiously eased aside the tent flap.

  A glowing pink hummingbird the size of her fist floated in front of her, its wings a bright blur.

  Rina stepped back, startled.

  The bird was translucent, obviously
magical. She had no idea what it was doing here. It bobbed and fluttered but didn’t follow her into the tent.

  When she took a step forward, it backed away, hovering and waiting.

  Uh . . . okay.

  Rina moved forward slowly in an attempt to slip around the hummingbird. It backed away from her immediately, and she froze. The bird didn’t seem frightened. Nor did it act hostile. She experimentally reached out her gloved hand, and the bird backed away. When Rina withdrew her hand, the bird floated back into position.

  Rina walked toward it, exiting the tent, and the hummingbird backed away, maintaining a distance of about three feet.

  The aisle between the tent rows was deserted. Not a sound.

  Looking back down the aisle, she saw a pink trail like glowing dust hanging in the air. It led to the hummingbird. Rina turned and jogged away. She looked back over her shoulder and saw the hummingbird following, still maintaining its distance. The glowing pink dust trailed behind it.

  Rina zigzagged as she jogged, and the bird followed, the pink trail zigzagging along with it.

  It’s laying down some kind of trail. But why? To what?

  Rina ran in a circle, and the hummingbird drew a pink circle in the air.

  Her eyes widened and her breath caught.

  To me. It’s a trail leading to me.

  Rina could not immediately think of a scenario in which this was a good thing.

  She turned abruptly, looking behind her and going into a fighting crouch as if she expected some dire creature to be sneaking up from behind. The aisle was empty save for the pink trail. Quiet tents and the damp night.

  She grew acutely aware that she wasn’t really dressed, not properly, no armor or weapons. Not even boots.

  Because you wanted to play with the pretty magic hummingbird. Idiot girl.

  She stood poised for trouble, feeling equally ready and foolish. It was the middle of the night. Nothing stirred. The obvious course of action was to go to Talbun and consult her about the hummingbird. Maybe she would know what the thing was for. Wizardry was her business, after all. If anyone would have answers, it would be her.

  As she pondered this, something moved at the other end of the aisle, stirring in the darkness between tents.

  Rina tapped into the spirit.

  Her eyes immediately absorbed all available light, allowing her to see clearly in the distant darkness. The vague, shadowy shapes resolved clearly into armored men—at least twenty—skulking in the spaces between the tents.

  She assessed the situation in a split second.

  And ran toward them.

  Realizing they’d been spotted, the warriors abandoned stealth and charged her, armor clanking as they sprinted down the aisle.

  As always when she was tapped into the spirit, her eyes saw everything, mind cataloging every detail. None had drawn their weapons. She discarded the wild possibility they’d all simultaneously forgotten they had swords. That meant they had orders not to use them, which meant Rina was to be taken alive. Too bad for them. She didn’t value their lives quite so much.

  She also noticed many pieces of their armor were tarnished and even dented, pocked with rust in places. These were not fresh troops with new equipment. Rina’s guess was that they were left from the force that had landed in Klaar.

  In her mind, she processed each of these thoughts methodically, but to the outside observer she was a blur of motion, the lightning-bolt tattoos on her ankles lending her incredible speed.

  She dove under the lead warrior’s sluggish grab for her, tucked and rolled, reaching as she came out of the roll to pluck the sword from the man’s scabbard. Rina sprang to her feet, spun, a backhanded swing opening the man’s throat before he even knew his sword was missing.

  Rina turned to the others coming for her. One was already reaching to grab her, and he lost the arm a split second later. She wheeled to her right and hacked down two more attackers. The sword flashed and spun in her hands, striking, biting, slashing. The air filled with screams and a bloody mist. It spattered hot across her face.

  Another group of warriors surged from the tent rows to support the first group.

  So many.

  Rina felt the drain, knew she’d soon have to either break off the fight or replenish her spirit. The latter would mean taking off the glove.

  They rushed her from three directions at once. She opened bellies and slashed through helms. With the strength from the bull tattoo, their armor might as well have been jewelers’ foil. One managed to get close enough to lay a hand on her.

  He lost it at the wrist.

  Rina guessed a few of them must have abandoned the plan to take her alive, because they drew weapons. Or maybe they were just tired of dying in droves. And once the rest saw their brethren loosing steel, they all did.

  Now they crowded in on her, slashing and trying to thrust, but they couldn’t get past her defenses. Kork had taught her well. She parried, lunged, and caught one in the throat. He went down, and another warrior stepped over the twitching body to take his place. He died a second later, but Rina took a long, deep gash on the forearm.

  As quickly as the pain flared, Rina locked it away. She felt the wound tingle as the healing rune went to work, saw the gash close up, new flesh knitting over the damaged area. Even as it healed, she took another long gash down her back. She twisted, stabbed her attacker in the face, then turned back to the men in front of her, slashing left and right, fountains of blood punctuated by the warriors’ death cries.

  Rina’s entire body was red and slick.

  Above her, the magic hummingbird bobbed and hovered along with her as she moved, its bright pink trail obscene amid the carnage.

  Rina was intensely focused on her attackers, but a peripheral awareness took in new developments transpiring in the camp. The clamor of fighting and men shouting, the acrid stench of something burning. She glimpsed flames three rows over. Tents on fire.

  Inshaw’s men had joined the fight at last, but whether any were close enough to help, Rina couldn’t guess.

  A jab deep into her thigh made her stumble back. The blood ran hot down her leg. The warriors sensed the severity of her wound and pressed in, redoubling the savagery of their attack. Rina went on the defensive, batting aside their sword thrusts, favoring the wounded leg as she gave ground. She felt the healing rune go to work, but she also felt her well of spirit running dry.

  Another blade grazed her shoulder and drew blood. Another thin slice across her belly.

  It’s just like the battle in front of the temple gate. There’s too many. I can’t make it through this unless . . .

  Rina bit the thin silken material at the end of her middle finger and tugged the glove off with her teeth.

  She waited for the next warrior to lunge, sidestepped the thrust, and grabbed his wrist. The effect was immediate, skin on skin, the Hand of Death draining the man’s spirit. He screamed as Rina knew he’d never screamed before, his very essence ripped away.

  She parried three more attacks as she drained the man, thrilling to the spirit that filled her even as she felt sick at the hideous thing she was doing. A greasy layer of distaste wrapped around the pure, bright energy that filled her.

  Rina released the man, his husk falling and tripping the next warrior who moved in to attack. She caught his throat on the way down and drained him as well.

  The bones in Rina’s body hummed with the spirit. There was a mad glee in her trying to surface, but a saner part of her feared letting it out. This wasn’t what she wanted. It wasn’t who she wanted to be.

  And yet the part of her that yearned for more was undeniable. She would drain everyone here if she could, revel in the intoxicating power of the spirit. She wanted the power like nothing else she’d ever wanted before, and knowing that made her realize how dangerous the magic was.

  She was of two minds. Rina Veraiin wanted the power. But she wished she were the type of person who didn’t. She wanted to be good. She wanted endless spirit. She
wished none of this had ever happened. She relished that it had.

  The Perranese warriors came at her again, and she added to the pile of bodies surrounding her. She swung her sword and heads flew from necks, tumbled through the air, disbelief on the faces of their owners.

  Rina stomped through the bloody mud, grabbed another warrior and drained him. Everywhere she swung the sword, death reared its bloody head. The Perranese fell back before her now. Only death could be the result of continued conflict. They backed up, stepping over the bodies of their comrades, swords up in the feeble pretense they might be able to oppose her.

  Rina plunged into the middle of them, her sword rising and falling and cutting a red path. They would all die. The spirit sang a song of power in her ears. Rina danced to the tune, each move sending another warrior to his end.

  The mob of warriors split and ran, fleeing between the tents on either side of the aisle, scattering like children in a game of tag. When the aisle cleared, she saw the horsemen at the end, galloping toward her.

  Come and die, then. She realized how eager she was for their blood. She didn’t care.

  The two lead horses were each riding double. The first horseman sat straight backed in the saddle, a lean no-nonsense face. Rina wasn’t familiar with Perranese military insignia, but a red band with three slashed circles around his arm probably marked him as some kind of officer. The man mounted behind him was older, with braided moustaches and flowing silken robes. No armor. Definitely not a warrior. The rider of the other horse was burly and gruff, an eye patch over one eye. The man holding on to him from behind wore similar robes to those of the man with the mustaches, but was younger and round faced. He held one hand aloft, a glowing pink globe around it. The pink trail stretched from his hand to the hummingbird like a leash.

  Wizards.

  The round-faced wizard waved his hand, and the pink trail and hummingbird dissolved and vanished. The other wizard began chanting arcane syllables.

  Rina ran. Whatever spell was coming, she wanted no part of it. She ran fast, the lightning-bolt tattoos sizzling with spirit.