A Painted Goddess

by Victor Gischler

  Just run!

  But the hesitation cost him.

  A strangled cry escaped Talbun’s throat, and the ink mage dropped from the ceiling, landing ten feet in front of him, smashing a crater in the stone floor, cracks radiating from him in every direction.

  Brasley turned on his heels and ran back the other way.

  “Little man!” roared the ink mage. “You have something that doesn’t belong to you.”

  Just drop it all. Let him have the tattoo.

  But he found some hidden storehouse of courage or perhaps just foolishness and clutched the items to his chest. He ran for the tomb. It was the biggest, most solid thing in the chamber, and he meant to hide behind it. As he ran, he spared a glance for the wizard.

  Talbun had drawn her dagger and cut a deep slice in her thumb. She sucked a mouthful of blood and then spit it as far as she could. Before the blood drops could hit the ground, they grew and formed into shapes at an incredible rate. In two seconds, a dozen drops grew into exact duplicates of Talbun. They were naked, but that didn’t stop them screaming and running straight at the ink mage.

  Brasley dove behind the tomb, popping up again just enough to watch the scene unfold.

  One of the ink mage’s forearms and fists had grown into a giant stone hammer. He swung it back and forth, swatting away the fake Talbuns, a crack and crunch of bones each time the hammer connected. The Talbun bodies piled up around the ink mage’s feet.

  With an overhand swing he brought his hammer fist down on the last duplicate’s head. It exploded in a mist of blood, chunks of brain and skull flying.

  Brasley felt a strange vibration and turned to look at the archway he’d examined earlier. Where once there had been stone, there now swirled a shimmering darkness, color and light slowly bleeding into the mass as it turned in a clockwise motion. He gasped as it resolved into the scene of a room with people in it, but it was blurry, like he was looking into the room through a glass window smeared with a thick layer of chicken grease.

  He looked back at Talbun.

  The ink mage crossed the room so fast, Brasley almost didn’t see it. The brute grabbed Talbun in an unbreakable bear hug, lifting her from her feet. She babbled another spell and grabbed the ink mage’s shoulders. Blue lightning erupted from her hands and played all over the ink mage’s body. The ink mage went stiff, gritting teeth.

  Brasley looked back at the archway. It bubbled out toward him, and then the surface broke and a man stumbled out, knocking into him. Both were equally surprised.

  Brasley blinked at the man. “Lord Giffen?” He’d met the man on a few occasions when he’d still been Duke Veraiin’s steward. Before he turned traitor. “What are . . . how . . . ?”

  But Giffen was looking past him at the battle between the ink mage and the wizard, his mouth falling open at the sight.

  The hulk had nearly let her go after Talbun’s shock attack, but he recovered quickly and took her head in his meaty hands.

  Don’t.

  With appalling ease, the ink mage twisted. The snap was so loud, it made Brasley flinch even from across the chamber. His mouth fell open to scream.

  “No!”

  The brute’s mouth twisted into a contemptuous grin as he let the limp body fall from his hands. Brasley watched it happen in slow motion, almost like she was floating, eyes closed, face peaceful, hair floating up around her. It was as if life had been some tremendous weight, and now that it was gone, her shell drifted down to the floor like a dry leaf.

  Talbun’s body hit with a dull thud that brought Brasley back to reality.

  He turned without another thought, knocked Giffen out of the way, and ran full speed for the shimmering doorway. He dove for it, and even as he did, he saw that the surface was bubbling up again. Somebody else was coming through.

  He saw the pretty face of a tall red-haired woman a split second before her eyes shot wide, and he slammed into her, his momentum carrying both of them back the other way.

  Then there was a moment he felt like he was frozen in the center of a block of ice, not cold but immobile, like the entire world had stopped around him. In the next instant, Brasley felt like he was being pulled down a long hallway, stretched thin, and just when he was about to come apart, he popped out the other side, falling onto the red-haired women. He fell to the stone floor, looking up into the other gawking faces in the room, and immediately recognized Stasha Benadicta.

  “Close it! Close it!” Brasley screamed. The redhead was trying to shove him off her, but he ignored her. “Close it now!”

  Stasha’s eyes shot wide. “Baron Hammish, what are you—”

  “There’s no time!” Brasley shouted. “He’s coming! Close it now!”

  Stasha made a violent gesture at a dark-skinned man Brasley had never seen before. “Do it!”

  The man rushed forward and pulled a red gem from its housing at the top of the arch. Immediately, all of the other gems went dark. The shimmering portal vanished, leaving only the smooth stone wall.

  Brasley fell back against the stone floor, a groaning sigh leaking out of him. “Thank Dumo.”

  And abruptly he started to cry.

  Ankar released his hold on the spirit. Steam rose from his sweat-slick skin. He’d drunk deeply from his spirit well but hadn’t reached his limit. Many times he’d pushed himself further. He would again. He felt something coming. Something that would test him.

  Ankar would need rest. The wizard bitch had sprung some surprises on him.

  He kicked her limp form with the metal foot. Her head lolled to one side, eyes open and vacant. A shame. A good-looking bit of ass. But he was glad she was dead. One less dangerous thing to worry about.

  Some slight noise drew his attention. His eyes narrowed, head cocked to listen.

  It was coming from behind the great slab of a tomb.

  Ankar circled the tomb and found him cowering up against it, a greasy nebbish of a man. He tapped into the spirit. Just a little more. Enough to finish off the straggler they’d left behind when the magical gateway had closed.

  The man threw up a hand to fend him off, a gesture more of fear than defiance. “Please, no.”

  Ankar grabbed a fistful of the coward’s robe and hauled him to his feet. “Calm yourself. I’ll make it quick. It will only hurt for a second.”

  “Ankar, wait!”

  The ink mage paused at the sound of his own name. He looked at the man, again reached back into his memory. Tapping into the spirit gave him perfect recall, and it only took him a fraction of a second to realize where he’d seen the man before. “Klaar. You were General Chen’s puppet. He put a local in charge to help keep the native rabble in line. Giffen.”

  “Yes, exactly,” Giffen said. “We’re on the same side.”

  “I’m on my own side. Now make peace with whatever deity you prefer.”

  “No, please!” Giffen pleaded. “I can help. I can open the portal again. Let me serve you, and I can tell you many things. I am privy to many secrets. They can be yours.”

  Ankar considered. There was not a single thing pleasant about the man. It would probably be in service to the greater good to snap his neck and leave him here. On the other hand, Ankar sensed he was getting close to the end of a long journey, and the ending was still in doubt. Information could be helpful. And if the man really could make the portal work . . .

  “Very well,” Ankar said. “Talk.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Lugg was the master sergeant on duty at General Braxom’s side door as the day slowly slid into evening. He stood atop the wall looking out at nothing at all, just empty countryside and forest. Empty was good. A lot better than a harborful of enemy ships. The regular army had to deal with that. As a city watchman, he had the easy duty on the northern wall.

  Okay, that was sort of bullshit. There was no easy duty, not these days, but Sergeant Lugg had pulled some strings to get himself assigned to General Braxom’s side door. He wasn’t keen to face the brunt of the Perrane
se attack. He wasn’t, frankly, keen to fight at all. Word had been spreading rapidly through the troops that the situation was hopeless.

  Ten thousand ships? Fuck that.

  The good thing about being assigned to the side door was that Lugg could make a quick escape if the Perranese topped the wall and overran the city. He had saddlebags packed and a horse picked out and set aside. Frankly, he was seriously contemplating cutting out before the attack began, but after fifteen years in the city watch, he didn’t like the idea of everyone remembering him as a coward.

  But ten thousand ships? Fuck. That.

  “Corporal!”

  A kid ten years his junior hurried to stand in front of him, snapping off a salute. “Sergeant?”

  “Sundown in a few minutes,” Lugg said. “Make sure the shift change goes smoothly. See to it, then report back.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.” He saluted again and scurried away.

  Lugg shook his head and laughed. Easy job.

  Still, tomorrow or the next day. Soon. He’d need to quit the city. He’d been saving his pay for years. He’d head north, maybe west over the mountains.

  A gleam coming out of the forest caught his eye, a flash of light from the setting sun on something metal. Lugg leaned out over the rampart, squinted. A line of mounted men in armor emerged from the tree line, twenty-five or thirty of them.

  Shit.

  The Perranese had circled around to attack the north wall. He knew he should have headed north when he had the chance. Now the whole fucking city was surrounded, and Lugg would have to work even harder to sneak away.

  He drew breath to shout the alarm.

  Then stopped himself.

  They wore the armor of the Sherrik army and the ducal livery. It was one of the patrols returning. That puffed-up popinjay Urlik, Lugg guessed. The way they slumped in the saddle with their heads down, they obviously hadn’t accomplished anything.

  Relief flooded Lugg. Still, that fool Urlik today could be a legion of Perranese warriors tomorrow. Yeah, that decided it. Lugg would take off tomorrow. He’d make some excuse and ride out tomorrow and wouldn’t look back.

  He yelled down for the gate guard to lower the bridge and raise the portcullises. Urlik’s patrol crossed single file, and when the last horse had entered the narrow tunnel into the city, Lugg ordered the bridge raised again.

  He took the side stairs down from the wall to the courtyard to take Urlik’s report, dispatch grooms for the horses.

  In the courtyard, the patrol dismounted, none of them speaking. They were even more somber than they looked from a distance. Poor bastards having to follow that empty set of armor, Urlik. The man was all big talk. Just because he was from a prominent family, he thought he was a leader and a hero. Lugg found that to be a common error among the nobility.

  Whatever. Not his problem.

  The man wearing the officer’s sash had his back to him, but it had to be Urlik. He approached, trying to summon an air of respect.

  “Milord, how went the patrol?” Lugg asked.

  Urlik turned, took two quick steps to close the distance, and jabbed a dagger into Lugg’s throat.

  Lugg opened his mouth to scream but . . . well . . . a dagger in the throat. Blood came out instead, dripping hot down his chin.

  The man stabbing him wasn’t Urlik. A foreign face. A sneer and an eye patch.

  Lugg tried to fall down. That’s what you did when you were being killed, right? You fell down. But two other soldiers had moved in to hold him up. Lugg just kept bleeding and bleeding but never fell down.

  But he did die.

  “Don’t let him fall,” Yano said. “The ones on the wall will see.”

  The other soldiers held him up and walked him out of sight. Yano gave orders for men to sneak up the stairs and take out the guards on the wall. The rest made as if they were taking saddles off horses and securing gear. A few minutes later, one of his men signaled down into the courtyard. The other guards were dead.

  “We have the side door and the inner courtyard,” Yano told his men. “The sun will set completely in minutes, and then we’ll lower the bridge and bring in the rest of the men.”

  “And then?” asked his second in command.

  Yano grinned. “And then we take the city.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The view from the throne platform was off-putting.

  Looking up at the seven thrones had been one thing. Looking down the length of Sherrik’s great hall from the same perch was another.

  Rina decided she didn’t like it. Her parents had been murdered before she’d been ready to be duchess. She’d been a child. She could see that now. Spoiled and safe, with no concept her world could ever be disturbed. But it had been—completely turned upside down. She’d been forced to grow up, to take responsibility. Had it really only been a few months? She looked back on the girl she’d been and almost couldn’t recognize her.

  But she didn’t recognize the woman sitting to Duke Sherrik’s right either. The little girl she used to be would have adored the silk dress of deep green, high collar, matching gloves. Emerald earrings. The duke had been generous with his hospitality. It surprised her how much she itched to get back into the black armor. Part of her hated it, hated the need for it. But what was she accomplishing sitting there on display in a pretty dress? Every moment she spent sitting idle seemed another moment closer to doom. The Perranese ships were nearly in position. Already troops disembarked and crowded the wharfs.

  She didn’t like sitting there on the platform, looking down at people. Didn’t like sitting in one of the high seats with the duke, Maxus, and his advisors, and Bishop Hark too. It was an honor she didn’t deserve. A responsibility she didn’t want.

  Get over it, she thought. It’s just a chair. So I don’t like the view. So what? It will be over soon.

  The doors at the far end of the hall opened, and she nearly came out of her chair. She was that anxious. Eager.

  A squad of the duke’s personal guard in gleaming plate ushered in the small group. Too small. Maurizan had warned Rina that not all of the people she’d sent south had made it. Tosh walked beside a fierce-looking woman with a scar, one of his Birds of Prey, obviously. Behind them, Maurizan walked next to—

  Alem.

  Rina’s heart slammed against the inside of her so hard that she actually reached up to touch the middle of her chest. She gulped a lungful of air to calm herself. Tears almost came to her eyes, but she willed them away. This wasn’t the time, wasn’t the place. No way would she allow herself to make a scene like some little girl.

  But it’s Alem. Alem!

  She realized she was grinning like an idiot but didn’t even try to stop herself.

  He’d been in the sun, cheeks red, hair bleached a little lighter than she remembered. It seemed like decades since she’d seen him, held him. Why had he run away like that? Oh, yes. The nonsense with Gant. She’d explain. She’d fix it.

  Alem!

  The guards brought the small group before the platform, and Tosh bowed low, the other following his example.

  “Your grace,” Tosh said. “I know it’s a time of war. No time to be letting strangers into your city, but you have. We thank you for this.”

  Simple words from a simple soldier, but Rina approved. Brasley would have stretched the speech out to five minutes with flowery talk.

  The duke stood, and so did the others on the platform.

  “You are most welcome,” the duke said. “Duchess Veraiin is a friend to Sherrik, and as you are her people, then naturally our hospitality extends to . . .”

  His voice faded to benign background chatter. All Rina could do was stare at Alem. He was real. He was alive. Why wouldn’t he look at her?

  When Rina finally did catch his eye, he didn’t return the smile. He seemed nervous.

  Something’s wrong.

  A knot of worry formed in her stomach.

  Maurizan saw the exchange of glances, and defiance lit her eyes. She sco
oted closer to Alem, and her hand found his down at their sides. The gypsy girl held the hand tightly, possessively. Her mouth flattened into a tight line. The defiance in her eyes hardened to a challenge, as if to say, Mine now. Just try to take him back.

  The worry in Rina’s gut turned to a heavy, sick dread. This wasn’t happening.

  But it was.

  Alem looked away. Embarrassed. But he didn’t let go of Maurizan’s hand.

  “Duchess Veraiin?”

  She started, realized the duke had been speaking to her. “Wha—” Words stuck in her throat. She swallowed hard, then said, “Your pardon, Emilio. I’m so happy to see my people, I was just lost in the moment.”

  “Of course,” the duke said. “I thought you might like to address them.”

  Rina turned to Tosh and the others. She tried to force a smile to her face. She might as well have tried to lift a draft horse over her head. “Tosh, I want to thank you. I understand you’ve been through difficulties. That you’ve lost people because I asked you to do something for me. There’s no time to thank you properly. No time to hear your story. But you have my promise if we live through this war, I’ll think of a way to reward you.”

  Tosh opened his mouth as if to say something but then simply nodded.

  “You’ve had a long journey. You’re weary in probably too many ways to count,” Rina said. “You need food and rest, and the duke has kindly offered you his hospitality. I think we all know there’s hard work ahead, but for now, be at ease.”

  She titled her head toward the duke, pitched her voice low so only he could hear. “I need the gypsy girl, the red-haired one.”

  “Of course,” the duke whispered back. “I have a place set aside. You can eat and drink with your friends and catch up on—”

  “No,” Rina said. “I mean, thank you, but there’s no time. I need the girl. And Maxus. Let the others rest. But the gypsy found something, something that could help. Do you trust me, Emilio?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “I trust you.”

  “Then bring her to the wizard’s workshop,” Rina said. “And we’ll see what Maxus can make of what she’s brought us.”