A Painted Goddess

by Victor Gischler

  The junior officer took it as a real question. “The engineers assure us the landside gates are thicker and much stronger and better defended.” He pointed across the waterfront at the knot of men making their way to the last gate all the way to the right of the harbor wall. “The gate on the far end is the best choice. The bulwark overhangs there, making it difficult for the archers to target the area below.”

  Thorn almost told him he knew all of this already but let it go. The boy was nervous.

  “Tell them to proceed,” Thorn said.

  The officer saluted again and ran off, shouting at the men with the signal flags.

  A few minutes later, Thorn heard the iron-capped battering ram strike, a low booming sound that echoed across the harbor.

  Thorn smiled, wondering what it must sound like within the city.

  It sounded like a long, lazy clap of thunder rolling slowly down the empty city street, Yano thought.

  He grinned. Good. That meant the assault had started. Yano had hoped to bump into a Perranese patrol before infiltrating the city so he could coordinate with whoever was in charge. Never mind. He’d improvise. And when the leadership found out what he’d done in aid of the battle, maybe they’d make him an officer. Shit, maybe they’d even grant him a lordship.

  He chuckled to himself.

  Yano was surprised how far they’d penetrated the city without being spotted. Usually a couple hundred armored men stood out. Most of Sherrik’s troops were on the walls, and an alarming number of citizens had fled. The ones who hadn’t had shut themselves in their homes . . . probably now wishing they had fled.

  It also helped that a platoon of his men still wore the Sherrik armor and livery. He sent them ahead to scout, making sure they had a clear path.

  He glimpsed the ducal pyramid between buildings. They were almost there. He’d send the men in the stolen livery ahead to scout, but Yano could guess the situation. They’d probably sent nearly every available man to the walls, leaving only a token house guard.

  In which case Yano would very soon take over management of the place.

  Sarkham watched the company of men double-time it out of the palace gates and turn toward the harbor. That left maybe a score of men from the palace guard to mind the ducal pyramid. Not that it mattered. If the walls held, then they were secure enough. If not, then it wouldn’t make any difference how many men they had.

  In fact, Sarkham had earlier approached the duke in a private moment and as tactfully as possible suggested that plans for escaping the city should be made so the duke could get safely away if the city fell. The duke had brashly declared he would not take any action that projected cowardice. Sarkham pointed out that if everyone were dead, then nobody would be around to judge him—although he phrased it more diplomatically.

  Duke Sherrik had relented, telling Sarkham he could make whatever plans eased the guard captain’s mind. And Sarkham had made plans. Quietly. Discreetly. The duke was confident the city would stand.

  The rhythmic boom of the distant battering ram told a different story.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Bedlam had erupted in the halls of the ducal palace.

  Servants waffled between fulfilling their normal duties and finding places to hide. The young nobles who’d been staying at the palace as the duke’s guests vacillated between strapping on swords and pretending they couldn’t find them. And so the chaos was split into two camps: make ready for war or find a way to escape.

  Rina stood amid the tumult, second-guessing her choice. Black armor. Rapier at her side. Two-handed sword strapped to her back. She was ready for battle but would have preferred hopping on a horse and riding away from Sherrik as fast as possible.

  But I can’t do that. People here are counting on me. People I care about.

  She felt a sharp pang thinking of Alem. But there was also Tosh and Hark and an entire city full of people. There was more than that too.

  She looked down at her hands, black gloves hiding tattoos. The new one Maxus had just applied and the skeletal hand of the death cult. She thought of Krell, the priest of Mordis. His words haunted her: The southern path pays a debt.

  She tried to thread her way between the frenzied people in the hall. It was like trying to get through the market at high hour with an armload of produce.

  Fuck it.

  Rina tapped into the spirit.

  She zigged and zagged between people as if they were statues and then flew down the stairs hardly touching them. On the third landing down, she stopped abruptly when she saw a guardsman with an officer’s plume in his helmet, startling a gasp out of him.

  “Where’s the duke?” she asked.

  “Apologies, your grace, but I don’t know.”

  “Sarkham, then.”

  “Five minutes ago, he was in the courtyard, dispatching troops.”

  Rina flew down the stairs, dodging wide-eyed people, until she slammed to a sudden stop in a cloud of dust in the courtyard. He spotted the guard captain. “Sarkham!”

  He jogged toward her. “Your grace.”

  “I need Emilio. Now.”

  “I’m sorry, your grace,” Sarkham said. “He’s gone with a squad of his personal guard to the harbor wall. He felt he needed to be there with his men.”

  “Send a runner for him,” Rina said. “I have something to tell him, which might change the entire battle.”

  Sarkham hesitated, the conflict clear on his face. He didn’t want to disobey a duchess, but he clearly didn’t believe his master wanted to be pulled off the wall in front of all his men just as a battle was starting.

  Being tapped into the spirit didn’t bless Rina with additional intelligence or special knowledge, but it did let her think clearly, allowed her to clear the clutter from her mind and focus on the problem at hand with cold logic. Out of respect for her position, Sarkham would heed her requests . . . up to a certain point. He wasn’t blind to the duke’s shortcomings, but he was the sort of man who’d be loyal to a fault. He’d obey the duke even if ordered to charge a score of Perranese warriors with nothing but a gentleman’s blade.

  Rina needed some way to sway him, and the battle had already started.

  “We can’t win this battle with the men we have. I’m sure the men of Sherrik are brave. I’m sure they’re ready to fight with everything they have. But it’s not going to be enough. I think you know that.” And now came the lie. “The duke explicitly told me to send for him if I found some other way to win. He told me to send for him.”

  The songbird tattoo at her throat flared hot and tingled. Rina had to fight hard to keep the surprise off her face.

  What just happened?

  Sarkham said, “At once, your grace.” He turned and shouted, “Runner!”

  A young man in light leather armor shot over and stood at attention in front of Sarkham. “Go to the harbor wall and fetch the duke back immediately. It’s of the highest priority, and the fate of the entire city is at stake.”

  The runner saluted and sprinted away at top speed.

  The tattoo. It made this happen somehow.

  She realized Sarkham was looking at her, waiting for her to speak again.

  “Are there dungeons below the palace?”

  “Yes, your grace.”

  “Filled with criminals?” Rina asked. “Murderers? Rapists?”

  “Some, yes.”

  “You need to go get them,” Rina said. “And bring them to the top of the palace.”

  Sarkham frowned.

  “The duke ordered this,” Rina said. “And I need you to obey.”

  The songbird tattoo tingled again.

  Lies. The tattoo works when I lie.

  “At once, your grace!”

  Sarkham barked the orders to bring the criminals up from the dungeons.

  And even tapped into the spirit, Rina couldn’t fend off a chill, knowing that her plan would come with a price, understanding with sick certainty she’d taken an irreversible step into the darkness.
<
br />   CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “This way!”

  Alem led Maurizan through the frantic hallways of the palace, pulling her along by one hand. He didn’t want to let her go, didn’t want to risk losing her in the crowd.

  “Where are you going?” Maurizan shouted.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who are you looking for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Maurizan squeezed his hand and tugged him to a stop. The crowd flowed around them.

  “Maybe some kind of plan,” Maurizan suggested.

  “I thought getting out of here as fast as possible was a pretty good plan,” Alem said.

  “Out of where?” Maurizan asked. “The palace? Then what?”

  If the situation hadn’t been so dire, the blank look on Alem’s face would have been comical. “Well . . . uh . . . out of the city?”

  “You mean out of the sealed city I busted my ass getting us into?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “We can’t catch a ship, for obvious reasons, and even if we could get out of the city, we don’t have horses,” Maurizan said. “Want to take another stab at that plan, champ?”

  “Tosh,” Alem said. “He’ll know what to do.”

  “Sold.”

  They weaved their way back through the throng to Tosh’s door. Alem had raised his hand to knock when the door suddenly swung inward. Tosh stood there, strapping on a studded bracer. He wore a gleaming steel breastplate with chain mail underneath. A long sword belted to one side, a long dagger on the other. Shin and thigh plates. A simple helm that came down below his ears but without a face guard.

  “Good,” Tosh said. “You’re here.”

  “Where’d you get the gear?” Alem asked.

  “Asked for it. Ah, here’s Kalli.”

  The girl came down the hall toward them, outfitted the same way as Tosh, her hair spilling from under her helm. The only difference was that she carried the curved Perranese-style sword. She’d trained with it.

  “I thought we’d got out of here but—” Alem began.

  Maurizan talked over him. “—I reminded him the city was sealed—”

  “—but if we could get some horses—”

  “—as if the army is just going to let you take some of their horses—”

  “Hey,” Tosh said calmly. “Shut up.”

  They shut up.

  “Follow me,” Tosh said. “And keep it tight. Kalli, bring up the rear.”

  Kalli’s hand fell to her sword hilt, chin up, eyes bright. “You got it, boss.”

  “It’s pretty crazy out there,” Alem told him.

  “See how shiny this armor is?” Tosh said. “Watch and learn.”

  Tosh waded into the crowd and bellowed, “One side! Make a hole.”

  Everyone moved.

  Tosh didn’t run. He acted exactly as if he knew where he was going, marching steadily with purpose but not in a panicked hurry. It was almost a relief to the onlooking rabble. At least somebody seemed to know what he was doing. Alem, Maurizan, and Kalli fell in behind him, matching his stride.

  They made their way down and out of the palace in this fashion, Tosh clearing a path with shouts and grand gestures.

  The courtyard just inside the gates was as chaotic as the inside of the palace had been. Grooms pulled horses out of the way as a column of men marched through the gates. Duke Sherrik scowled at the front of them.

  Tosh spotted Captain Sarkham jogging across the courtyard to meet the duke.

  Tosh looked over his shoulder at the others. “We need Sarkham. He’s the only one around here with his head screwed on right.”

  He led the others to Sarkham but pulled up short when he realized the duke was raking the man over the coals.

  “How dare you call me back from the harbor wall!” Duke Sherrik shouted. “Don’t you know the battle’s begun? Can’t you hear it, you fool?”

  The dull boom of the battering ram echoed across the city.

  To Sarkham’s credit he stood straight, met the duke’s eyes, although his face looked pained and confused. “I was simply obeying your orders, your grace.”

  “Orders?” Sherrik’s face grew red.

  “Duchess Veraiin,” Sarkham said. “She said you left orders to—”

  “Damn the woman! What’s she done?”

  “I don’t know, your grace. She claimed some scheme to aid in the battle, but I don’t—”

  The duke looked past Tosh. “Lord Alem, do you know anything about this?”

  “I’m not really—” Forget it. No time. “I don’t know, your grace. But if she has something in mind, I think you need to trust her.”

  The duke rubbed his chin, clearly not liking the situation. “Where is she now?”

  “The top of the palace, your grace,” Sarkham said.

  “The top of the . . . ? Damn the woman. Damn her eyes. Sergeant Larz!”

  A burly man in the duke’s livery rushed forward, coming to attention in front of the duke. “Your grace.”

  “Send your fastest runner to the top of the palace,” Sherrik said. “If Duchess Veraiin is there, ask her to join me immediately. Be respectful but insist.”

  Larz saluted. “As you command, your—”

  An arrow sprouted from his neck with a thip, and Larz’s eyes went wide. He opened his mouth to scream, and blood foamed out.

  “Alarm!” somebody yelled.

  Larz twitched and fell in a clamor of armor, pawing at the arrow in his neck, blood squirting from the wound.

  “Protect the duke!” Sarkham shouted.

  But already men were drawing swords and moving to surround Sherrik.

  Alem drew his sword, felt himself jostled by the sudden rush of soldiers.

  Maurizan grabbed his arm. “Stay close to me.”

  Alem looked to the gate. Perranese warriors poured through by the score. The single line of armored troops in Sherrik livery wouldn’t hold them for more than a few seconds.

  “Withdraw to the palace!” Sarkham’s voice. “The palace!”

  The crush of bodies shifted, men in armor trying to push past. Alem was knocked to the ground.

  Maurizan dragged him back to his feet. “Come on!”

  Alem risked a glance behind him.

  The tide of Perranese slammed into the line of the duke’s men, weapons falling, rising red again and trailing blood on the next swing. Men screamed and fell. The battle crowded the courtyard as more enemies poured through the gate. Men slipped in blood as they tried to find footing. They stabbed, slashed, hacked. The duke’s men fought hard, but the Perranese pushed past with sheer numbers.

  Alem felt somebody grab a fistful of his doublet, and he was shoved in with the rest of the people trying to crowd up the steps and through the front doors of the palace. He bounced off one armored body and into another, and when Maurizan pulled him from the press of bodies, he looked up to see he was back inside the palace.

  Duke Sherrik leaned against a wall, panting, sword in his hand and a brace of guards on either side of him. “Get those bloody doors closed!”

  Men rushed to push them shut. Two others waited with a thick, heavy length of wood to bar it.

  Between the closing doors, Alem saw the Perranese charging up the steps to the palace, screaming war cries, weapons held high.

  Oh no. This is going to be close.

  The enemy troops slammed into the other side of the door before the duke’s men could close it, reaching into the gap to hack and jab with swords. The duke’s men jabbed back through the crack, drawing screams and blood. The guards at the duke’s side rushed forward to help shove the doors closed, leaning their shoulders into it and grinding teeth with the effort.

  “Shut them, damn you!” screamed the duke. “Put your backs into it!”

  Arrows flew through the crack, clattering against the wall over Alem’s head. He flinched, cursing, and looked around until he saw what he wanted.

  “Follow me,” Alem told Maurizan. “Hurry!”r />
  “Where are we going?”

  “I think there are stairs this way,” he said. “Rina’s at the top of the palace.”

  Maurizan hesitated. “So?”

  Tosh rushed past them. “He’s right. I don’t know what she’s doing, but she might need help.”

  Maurizan’s eyes flashed annoyance, but she followed without complaint.

  They found the stairs, and the three of them stormed upward, blades in hands, ready for anything. By the time they reached the third floor, they were puffing and red faced, but kept going. The halls were deserted now, debris littering the floors, evidence of hasty, panicked departures. The palace’s inhabitants had found either places to hide or a back way out.

  They were winded by the time they made it to the top, where a wide veranda circled the entire floor. Alem went to one knee, leaning on his sword and panting heavily. Back outside, the thump of the battering ram reached them clearly.

  Tosh and Maurizan went to the balustrade, looked down at the harbor.

  “Look at that,” Maurizan said breathlessly. “You’re a soldier. Have you ever seen anything like that?”

  Tosh shook his head. “Little skirmishes. Border bandits. Nothing like that.”

  Perranese warriors swarmed the harbor wall like insects, climbing hundreds of assault ladders. The duke’s men raced along the battlements, shoving the ladders back, but here and there Perranese topped the walls. Pockets of fighting broke out. Perranese packed the wharves below, standing shoulder to shoulder, tens of thousands of them waiting to storm up the ladders or charge through the gates once the battering ram had done its work.

  “The harbor wall will fall and then the inner wall and then the city,” Tosh said. “This is hopeless.”

  Alem stood, looked up at the platform that topped the palace, ducal banners hung from poles, and there was a large brazier for lighting signal fires. To the right of the brazier, a huge horn rested in a large stone cradle. Alem realized it was made from some enormous animal horn, banded in brass. He didn’t know what animal, but he would not have wanted to meet one. The sailors on the Witch of Kern had told him stories of great horned whales. The bell of the horn was as high as Alem was tall and faced the harbor. The horn ran down along the cradle and curved back up, a brass mouthpiece the perfect height to blow.