A Painted Goddess

by Victor Gischler

  She twitched again, so violently it startled Brasley.

  “Heart beating . . . so fast.” She gulped more wine.

  “It’s something like Feeding a God,” Olgen said, squinting at the scroll. “Or a Meal for God. No, that’s not quite right.”

  “Not now, Olgen,” Brasley said.

  “I’ve b-been reading the master magician’s spell b-book,” Talbun said. “The spells are . . . amazing. So . . . p-powerful.” She wiped sweat from her forehead. “B-been m-memorizing them.”

  Brasley swallowed hard. “How many, Talbun?”

  Talbun rubbed at her eyes with her fingers, her breath coming in short gasps. “It’s a b-bit loud in there. A b-bit crowded.”

  “Talbun.” Brasley made sure to make eye contact, kept his voice calm. “How many spells?”

  She blinked. “Twenty-nine.”

  Ohhhhhhhh, fuck.

  Olgen snapped his fingers. “Got it. The tattoo is called the God Eater.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  A knock at the door. The little office was tucked out of the way on the first floor of the ducal palace, across the hall from the guardsmen’s barracks.

  Captain Sarkham looked up from the parchments strewn across the little wooden table—supplies, troop numbers, guard rotations, all the clerical minutia that made a war happen. He was captain of the city guard, but the Perranese invasion obligated him to put his troops under the command of the army generals. The transition hadn’t been smooth. There’d been some dispute about exactly who commanded which companies.

  He rubbed his eyes and said, “Come in.”

  Three people entered, two city watchmen in leather armor, a short girl between them. He looked at her but couldn’t see much in the dim office. He took the single candle and circled the table, holding up the light to get a better look at her.

  She wore men’s breeches cut off at the knees and a shirt of some incredibly thin material. He knew it was incredibly thin, because the fabric clung wetly to her in a way that left little to the imagination. Sarkham could tell the girl had striking red hair and very fair skin even though at the moment the hair was matted and wet and she had a hue of deep pink across her nose and cheeks from recent time in the sun.

  One of the guards held up a belt from which dangled two sheathed daggers. “She had these on her when she snuck into the city.”

  Sarkham raised an eyebrow at the blades. “She give you trouble?”

  “No,” the guardsman said. “Said she wanted to talk to somebody in charge.”

  She said, “I need to—”

  “We’ll get to you in a minute.” He’d said it firmly but not too harshly. He asked the guardsman, “She came over the wall?”

  “No,” the guardsman said. “Under it.”

  “What?”

  “She told us she came in through one of the deep drains.”

  “And you believed her?”

  “Well . . .” The guard shrugged. “She’s wet.”

  “Do I need to dignify that with a reply, trooper?”

  The guardsman had the good sense to look chastised but said, “We found her at one of the high-tide gates this side of the inner wall. On the other side of the locked high-tide gate.”

  “Huh.” Sarkham scratched his chin. “Then someone put her there.”

  He could see she was aching to speak but forcing herself to be patient.

  “How about it, girl?” Sarkham asked. “Someone put you in there?”

  “I guess that would be more believable,” she said.

  Sarkham chuckled. “You wanted to talk to somebody in charge, eh?”

  “Would that be you?”

  “I’m about as far up the ladder as you’re going to get.”

  “I have friends,” she said. “A boat dropped them up the coast. I need to arrange for them to come into the city.”

  “The duke’s sealed the city,” Sarkham said. “That’s his order. Not a thing I can do about it, and you’re not likely to see him. Probably asleep by now anyway.” He glanced at the guardsmen. “Unless he’s still up asking Duchess Veraiin how to save the city.” He smirked as if it were a private joke.

  The girl’s eyes shot wide at the mention of the name. “Rina’s here?”

  “Rina?” Sarkham looked her over again as if possibly he’d missed something the first time. “You know the duchess?”

  Her face hardened a little, subtle but enough to be noticeable. “Yes. I know her.”

  Maurizan hadn’t been nervous down in the captain’s simple office with its rough wooden table and bare stone walls. Sarkham seemed like a man who took his business seriously, but there was nothing especially cruel about him. Even with her hair dripping and the guards holding her weapons, she’d never felt small or intimidated.

  She supposed the duke’s reception hall had been specifically designed to intimidate. High ceilings and hard floors, the sounds of boots echoing, men along the walls with spears, thrones raised on a platform—all designed to make her feel small amid the relentless bigness of the place. Castle Klaar’s reception hall looked like the inside of some tavern with delusions of grandeur.

  I swam in the sunken halls of the ancient wizards. What’s this compared to that?

  Maurizan lifted her chin, hardened her eyes. She was determined to at least look unafraid. Mother’s words rang in her ears. Show them the person you want them to see.

  A side door swung open, and a man in a red silk robe entered with a brace of men in plate armor. She thought he’d climb the stairs to the platform and look down at her from one of the thrones. Instead, he walked straight toward her. He seemed too young and handsome to be a duke. Wasn’t Helva ruled by sour old men?

  “Is this the girl?” he asked.

  “Yes, your grace,” replied Sarkham.

  Another man followed the duke into the hall through the same side door, older but tall, powerfully built with a barrel chest, dressed like a priest or—is that the bishop of Klaar?

  And then the duchess walked in.

  Rina saw the gypsy girl and gasped. “Maurizan?”

  “So you do know her?” the duke said.

  “Yes . . . I . . .” Rina abruptly turned back to Maurizan. “Is he . . . I mean is everyone else okay? Are they with you?”

  “Tosh is up the coast . . . with the ones who made it,” Maurizan said. “I’m here hoping to get them into the city.”

  Maurizan could see the question on Rina’s face. I’m not telling you if Alem is among the living. You can just wonder.

  Petty? So what? Let Rina hurt like she’d been hurt. Hadn’t Maurizan felt loss and resentment and pain? He’s mine now.

  “Rina, are you aware this woman claims to have swum under the wall to get inside the city?” the duke asked.

  Rina looked from Maurizan to the duke and back again. “I didn’t even know she was here until a moment ago.”

  Maurizan pinned Rina with a hard gaze. “Rina. This is important.”

  “Emilio, I sent her and some of my people on a mission south,” Rina said. “I need to talk to her. To find out what happened to them.”

  “I understand,” said the duke. “And I’m sure we can work something out. But we’re on a war footing. She’s lying about coming under the wall, and that means she came in some other way. I need to know how and plug the hole before we’re all neck deep in Perranese infiltrators.”

  Rina looked at Maurizan, the question plain on her face.

  Everyone else looked at Maurizan too, waiting for her to explain herself.

  Maurizan unbuttoned her shirt, turned, and lowered the garment to her waist. She looked over her shoulder to see the expression on Rina’s face.

  Rina stared a long time. Maybe she didn’t believe what she was seeing. Or didn’t want to.

  The duke, Bishop Hark, Sarkham, everyone in the room looked to Duchess Veraiin, awaited her reaction.

  “Those tattoos,” the bishop whispered behind her.

  “The Prime,” Rina said. “Sh
e’s telling the truth.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Brasley frowned up at Olgen. “Boy, can’t you see the lady is having a problem? Go away and— wait, did you say the God Eater?”

  “Yes, milord.”

  “That’s rather ominous.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  “Well, what does the tattoo actually do?” Brasley asked.

  Olgen shrugged. “Eat gods?”

  Brasley shook Talbun by the shoulders. “Listen, woman, we need some wizarding. We’ve got a tattoo to figure out, and the boy here is useless.”

  “Honestly, milord, I’m trying my best to—”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “Shhhh, shut up, both of you!” Talbun tapped the side of her head with trembling fingers. “So much jabbering in here. I can’t take your jabbering too. There’s too many. Too many spells. Got to let something out.”

  “Careful!” Brasley said. “We don’t want to be fried or zapped with lightning or melted in a puddle of goo. Let’s be calm about this.”

  Talbun rocked back and forth in her chair, a strained bleating coming from deep in her throat. “I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t.”

  Shit, she’s going to pop. And when wizards pop . . . what? Well, not anything good, probably.

  “Look, Talbun old girl, you’ve got to pull it together before—”

  There was a dull thud from somewhere in the depths of the library, almost like an explosion or somebody dropping an enormous barrel of water onto a cow. That’s the problem with distant thudding sounds. Very hard to identify.

  When it happened again, it was closer, and the floor shook.

  Definitely something smashing something else.

  Talbun shot to her feet, eyes suddenly focused, hands rock steady. “What was that?”

  “Something utterly and terribly bad,” Brasley guessed.

  When it happened again, it was a sharp crack that sounded more like an explosion with all the fire and destruction that entailed. Mostly it shook the room so hard that Olgen and Brasley went hard to the floor. The spherical lights overhead swayed and trembled. One broke free and smashed to the floor next to them with a startling pop.

  Brasley raised himself to his hands and knees, looked up at Talbun.

  She still stood upright, face stoic, no sign any longer she was losing her mind.

  Typical. Now that I’m about to shit my pants, she looks right as rain.

  The doors to the magician’s chamber slammed open.

  A tide of milk-faced servants flooded into the magician’s chamber. In spite of the fear radiating from them, they were calm and orderly. Hundreds of them crowded the room in seconds, turning as one and slamming the doors shut again. They pressed forward, the front line of them putting their hands against the door to hold it shut. The next line pushed the backs of those in the first line, and the third pushed the second and so on. Whatever was on the other side of the door, the servants wanted it to stay there.

  Brasley gawked at the display and felt cold sweat drip down his back. “Oh, that can’t be good.” He turned to Talbun. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  But she didn’t hear him. Arcane syllables flew from her lips impossibly fast, her mouth a blur. A flash of red light engulfed her. It was brief but so bright that Brasley had to turn away. When he shut his eyes, he could see the glowing shape of full plate armor and a helm outlined in red.

  Before he could figure that out, something slammed against the doors. It made him jump, and he drew his sword. He’d forgotten he’d even had it. His palm felt sweaty on the hilt. Another slam on the door rattled the hinges, and Brasley had to exert all of his self-control to keep his bladder in check.

  He spared a glance at Olgen. All the blood had drained from the boy’s face.

  Talbun babbled another spell, and Brasley felt something in the air that made his hair stand up on his arms and the back of his neck. He didn’t know what she was doing but guessed it was something powerful. A bright yellow light formed around her fists. The more spells she cast, the calmer she seemed to be as her mind became less crowded.

  “Hey.”

  She looked at him. “What?”

  He swallowed. “You okay?”

  Talbun locked eyes with him a moment, and then an insane smile spread slowly across her face. “No.”

  The next thunderous smash, and the doors flew open inward, crushing a number of servants against the walls and sending others flying backward into the crowd. They shrank back, leaving an open semicircle for the intruder. Every part of Brasley went watery with fear. He would have thrown down his weapon and fled if there’d been anywhere to run.

  The intruder was a huge brute of a man, bald, muscles from head to foot. Tattoos covered every inch of him save for his gleaming metal leg.

  An ink mage! What else could he be?

  Except for the slightest hitch in his step, the metal leg might have been a natural part of his body. He stomped into the room, backhanding servants out of the way. Some flew far enough to hit the wall with a sickening crack, eyes rolling back as they slid into a limp heap. The other servants rushed past him, making for the wrecked doors. They squealed in a single, uniform, high-pitched sound, none of them looking back with any concern for Brasley, Olgen, or the wizard.

  The chamber cleared of servants, and the hulking ink mage doggedly moved toward Brasley and the rest. When his flesh-and-blood foot came down, the room shook with the sound of a bass drum. When the metal foot came down, it cracked the stone with an earsplitting clang.

  “Give me the ink magic,” he bellowed. His voice had been magically augmented somehow and filled the chamber, cowing Olgen and Brasley. “I want it now!”

  Olgen looked down at the inkwell, stencil, and scroll case in his hands and went white as a sheet. He rushed to Brasley, dumping the items into his arms. “I think these are yours, milord.”

  Brasley had to drop his sword to catch the items. “What are you doing?”

  “My fists are thunder! My voice is a storm! To stand against me is to stand in the path of an avalanche!” shouted the ink mage.

  Each word made Brasley flinch. His knees almost gave out. Panic stricken, his eyes darted around the chamber for a hiding place. Olgen was already scooting under the table.

  Talbun lifted her hands, both still glowing with yellow light. “If you’re looking for easy fodder, you’ve come to the wrong place, you big son of a bitch!”

  Her hands flared blindingly bright, and two yellow streaks of light crossed the room in a flash, striking the ink mage in the chest. He stumbled back, wincing pain, metal foot scraping a deep gouge across the floor. He righted himself immediately and came roaring back.

  “That attack would have killed a mountain bear,” Talbun said.

  “What do we do?” The words came out of Brasley’s mouth embarrassingly high-pitched.

  “Run.”

  I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die.

  Talbun spat more words, and a two-handed sword glowed red in her hands. She charged at the ink mage, screaming a war cry so savage, Brasley almost didn’t recognize the woman.

  He bent down and shouted at Olgen under the table. “Come on!”

  “I’m not going out there!” Terror in his eyes.

  Talbun swung the sword, but the ink mage’s skin had turned a dark metal. The glowing blade scorched a dark mark across his chest, but it didn’t penetrate. He punched Talbun square in the face with a huge iron fist. Brasley gasped, waiting for Talbun’s head to fly off, but the glowing outline of armor appeared around her upon impact.

  She flew back and smashed into the table, the magical red armor saving her again. She shattered the table into kindling, her and the debris tumbling away and leaving an exposed Olgen, squatting with his arms over his head.

  The ink mage strutted forward and opened his mouth so wide it almost seemed like his jaw had come unhinged. An orange light stirred in the black abyss of his throat.

  Bras
ley froze. Oh no.

  The ink mage belched a long gout of fire that completely engulfed Olgen and Brasley. The sudden searing heat shocked a prolonged scream ragged and hoarse from Brasley’s throat. He stopped screaming abruptly when he realized he wasn’t being burned to death. But he still heard a scream.

  Olgen writhed on the ground, every inch of him aflame. He screamed and screamed, and Brasley thought it impossible the boy could still live, but he continued to scream as the skin melted from his bones and he slowly turned black. The smell of charred hair and flesh—

  Brasley fell to his knees, dropping the magical items, and vomited. It splashed hot and acrid in front of him. He spit, feeling dizzy, gagged once, again, then turned his head toward Olgen, who finally lay still, contorted body turning to charcoal.

  Dumo help the poor bastard.

  An enormous shadow fell over him, and he looked up into the smirking face of the ink mage.

  “You intrigue me, little man,” the ink mage said. “Why aren’t you a cinder like your friend?”

  Brasley’s eyes shifted to the inkwell, scroll case, and stencil, half-covered with his sick.

  The ink mage followed his gaze to the items and grinned. “Alas, no time for curiosities. I see what I came for.” He bent to reach for them.

  The ink mage suddenly flew straight up, slamming into the ceiling. The ink mage grunted in pain.

  Brasley gathered up the ink-magic items and staggered to his feet. He turned his head and saw Talbun holding out a hand toward the ink mage pinned to the ceiling.

  “I can’t hold him long!” she yelled. “Get out of here.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere!”

  He hesitated, wondering if he should stay and help her. She’s a wizard with spells overflowing her head. If that’s not good enough, then there’s nothing I can do. Still, just to run off and leave her . . .

  Brasley ran for the doors, understanding it would take him right beneath the spot where Talbun had trapped the ink mage.