A Painted Goddess

by Victor Gischler

  A seductive song of power sang in her ears. She neared her limit, spirit draining so fast. And yet another little voice enticed her on. Just a little bit more.

  In her peripheral vision, she saw a handful of the Perranese had gotten by her and were heading for the platform. In a split second, she calculated she couldn’t get there in time to do anything. She killed three more warriors in the time it took to think this.

  Bishop Hark reached the top of the platform and saw the bodies piled in a semicircle around Duchess Veraiin, emaciated men in chains. The bishop gasped, realizing they were the prisoners he’d just seen alive not so long ago.

  The duchess stood with one hand lifted to the roiling sky. The other hand grasped a kneeling prisoner by the forehead. A moment later, the prisoner fell limp on top of his brethren.

  Dumo, protect us. What has she done?

  Hark was a big man in full plate armor, but the winds redoubled again, almost knocking him over. Was Rina doing this? Of course she was. The ink magic.

  A commotion behind him drew his attention. Perranese warriors topped the stairs. The last of the duke’s men died bloody on enemy blades.

  Kalli slashed one across the face, and he dropped his sword, clutching at himself and screaming as he fell back into his comrades. Another warrior surged past the fallen man and thrust his blade deeply into her arm.

  She trapped her own scream against gritted teeth, and it came out like an animal growl. She batted his blade aside with her own but gave ground.

  He lifted his blade again for another strike, but Tosh was there and stabbed him in the leg. The man went down, and Kalli kicked him in the head.

  More warriors rushed them. Tosh and Kalli swung their swords wildly, trying to keep them at bay. Some of their strikes landed, but three warriors slipped past them.

  “Hark!” Tosh yelled the warning.

  But the bishop was already charging. He swung the mace in a wide, backhanded arc and caved in the chest of the first warrior with a crunch of armor and bone, sending him flying off the platform. He blocked a sword thrust from the second warrior.

  The third made it past him.

  Rina’s entire body pulsed in time with her heartbeat. She felt as if she were the entire world, that she inhaled and exhaled eternity. The power that flowed through her was beyond measure. She was an ink mage, and she was invincible.

  Some distant part of her recognized the madness, knew these claims to be lunacy, a fiction brought on by insanity.

  But it’s such a sweet story. I like it. Is this how madness works, when we start believing the story we tell ourselves?

  Still, there was no denying the feeling, the sheer bliss of the power. The feeling of oily corruption was a distant memory, burned away by the blinding bright power that was hers to control.

  Rina had drained all the prisoners. That they had given themselves so she could feel this way was only right. Anything that gave her this kind of power, that lifted her up past the rest of mewling humanity, was right and proper. The world existed to feed Rina’s hunger.

  The vague awareness of something going on behind her caused her to turn her head.

  Hark knocked one of the enemy warriors off the platform. The man tumbled through the air. Rina looked at his face and saw the instant he realized that everything he’d been or ever could be was over. She watched the light go out of him a split second before he landed. She nearly imagined she could see the soul leak out of him, floating away to whatever distant and indifferent deity he worshipped.

  One of the enemy warriors broke past the bishop, running straight for Rina, screaming, sword raised. He moved so slowly. Rina had other things to occupy her, no time for trivia, and yet she spared a moment to examine this man. He was that brutal type, weathered face. One eye covered with a black patch. The girl who’d once been Rina Veraiin would have once upon a time found the man terrifying. Now he was a mild curiosity. An amusement.

  A slight smile on Rina’s face.

  The man in the eye patch saw the smile as he raised his sword. It was enough to make him hesitate, just for a moment.

  A glowing sword blade erupted from his chest.

  Rina’s smile grew into a grin. Good-bye, little man.

  Alem stood behind him. The blade had gone through armor and man as if they were soft cheese. Alem stepped back, and the man slid off the blade, landing with a dull thump on top of the dead prisoners.

  Seeing Alem helped Rina find the part of her humanity that had been hidden away, buried under the delusions of ecstasy. Her grin wilted, and she turned back to the business at hand, summoning all of the power within her.

  Okay. Let’s do this.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  They’d lost at least a hundred ships, and that was just General Thorn’s estimate based on what he could observe from the flagship’s foredeck. The real toll wouldn’t be known for some time. He cursed the storm. They couldn’t even dock and disembark. The ship’s captain assured him the risk of being dashed against the wharf if they tried to tie up was far too great. All they could do was trust their seamanship and ride out the storm.

  In the meantime, there was still a battle to be won.

  The signalmen reported that the enemy had withdrawn behind the inner wall and had shut the gates. The company in charge of escorting the battering-ram squad had requested to move forward and begin work on one of the inner gates, which were far weaker than the outer gates. They felt confident they could knock down the gate in a matter of minutes.

  A hesitation here could be costly. So could blundering forward into an unknown situation, but the scouts had reported nothing untoward.

  “Tell them to proceed,” Thorn told his junior officer. “Smash the gate into splinters.”

  The officer saluted and ran to tell the signalman.

  Good. I don’t like to wait. Let them spring whatever surprise they think they can manage.

  The men poured slowly through the outer gates. They’d completed the first stage, and once they were past the inner wall, the city would, for all intents and purposes, be theirs. Pockets of resistance would be mopped up sooner rather than later, and then the port city of Sherrik could be put to use in service of the Empire. First by landing the rest of the occupying force and serving as a base of operations for conquering the rest of Helva, then eventually as a convenient port from which they could export foodstuffs back to the home island of the Empire.

  And when the Empire was strong again, when it had recaptured its former glory, they would return to the colonies who’d thrown them out and make them pay. And in a thousand years, none of them would be able to imagine any other life than that under Perran rule. Thorn would be long dead, of course, but his descendants would forever honor his contribution to the eternal Empire.

  But first things first. There was a city to take.

  A moment later, the dull, rhythmic thump of the battering ram resumed, barely audible above the gale-force winds. Good. It wouldn’t be long now, and then—

  The city began to rise. Thorn blinked, looked again.

  No, of course it wasn’t. Was the ship sinking?

  Thorn went to the railing to look but was thrown to the deck before reaching it, the planks below him tilting violently. Men screamed and fell from the rigging, landing on the deck with a crunch of bones. If it had been a rogue wave, the ship would have righted itself, but it was stuck at an awkward angle.

  What’s happening?

  Thorn scrambled to his feet, went to the railing. The ship was stuck in the mud. All over the harbor, ships found themselves in a similar predicament, lodged in the mud at various awkward angles.

  “The water.” Thorn gaped, unable to make sense of it. “Where’s the water?”

  Men behind him screamed, pleading to their gods.

  General Thorn turned and looked. His eyes went wide, a cold and terrible fear gripping him by the spine.

  “Oh no.”

  Rina Veraiin’s body trembled, her hand held high, and deman
ded the wind obey her. The wall of water towered a hundred feet over the harbor, helpless ships dotting the muddy floor below. She couldn’t hold it much longer. She’d drained twenty men of their spirit and had used every drop.

  And yet she couldn’t let go, couldn’t release the spirit and the pure pleasure it offered, the sweet, unending ecstasy, even as another part of her screamed for her to stop before it was too late.

  A voice called her name from some distant place, maybe a thousand miles away.

  Alem was still behind her. She saw his mouth form her name as he shouted, but he couldn’t be heard above the wind, or maybe she was someplace so deep within herself she couldn’t be reached.

  Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes. Was she so far gone?

  Alem shouted her name again, sounded like he was at the bottom of a deep well. Darkness closed in on her vision, and the world grew cottony and soft around the edges. This was it.

  Just let go.

  This was the end.

  Let go now.

  Soon there would be nothing left of her.

  Let go let go let go let go let go let—

  She let go.

  The wind ceased to roar.

  Untold tons of water crashed back down, instantly smashing the ships below to bits. A huge rolling wave swept over the harbor and smashed the wharves to rubble, the same wharves that had seen thousands of ships and centuries of trade from every corner of the world. Now debris tumbling along the bottom of the harbor.

  The massive wave washed over the men there, drowning most of them instantly, slamming bodies up against the harbor wall, which itself didn’t last long. It was plowed under almost immediately, such was the force of the rushing water. It swept across the waterfront market, smashing buildings large and small and scooping up warriors uselessly attempting to flee.

  The water crashed hard into the inner wall. Miraculously, the wall held.

  The gates didn’t.

  They were blasted off their hinges, and water poured into the inner city with incredible force. The men of Sherrik were knocked off their feet as the water splashed through every street and alley, filtering throughout the entire city. Men on top of roofs helped pull their comrades to high grounds.

  Others weren’t so lucky. Those who didn’t drown immediately were smashed into stone walls, breaking bones and cracking skulls. The byways of the city were choked with the dead.

  At last the roar of the water subsided, replaced by the moans of the dying.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  The dark clouds had already begun to part, the sun breaking through in places.

  Why was Rina looking up at the sky?

  She turned her head, saw Alem’s face. He carried her and looked worried. Was that because of her? Was Alem afraid for her? He spoke, but she couldn’t hear. There was a fierce ringing in her ears. Her head felt so light.

  She closed her eyes, just for a second. So tired.

  When she opened them again, she was in a smoky hall, the ring of steel on steel nearby. Alem still had her. She wanted to tell him something important but couldn’t remember what it was.

  Then she went away for a little while.

  When she came back, she was underwater. Many hands grabbed her, lifted her back into the air. She sputtered, coughing and gulping for breath.

  “I’m sorry. I tripped.” Alem’s voice from somewhere.

  She tasted salt.

  Rina blinked her eyes clear. Each of her arms was around the shoulder of someone. They dragged her through waist-deep water. She looked to her left. Alem. She looked to her right.

  Maurizan.

  “Don’t think this suddenly means we’re best friends, Duchess,” the gypsy girl said.

  Rina wanted to say something, didn’t know what that might be, and was pretty sure she didn’t have the strength anyway.

  The world spun and she saw water, then sky. They were lifting her. A second later they set her down again. She lay in the back of a wagon. The duke was next to her, unconscious. Rina turned her head, saw another woman, her chin down on her chest, also unconscious. It was the one who’d come with Tosh. Rina had forgotten her name. She looked pale. Blood had already seeped through the makeshift bandage they’d tied around her arm.

  “Rest, your grace. We’re taking you out of here soon.”

  She looked up, saw the face of Maxus looking down at her. He sat in the driver’s seat of the wagon.

  “The men are scattered,” Maxus said, “but what troops remain are rallying behind the north gate. We’re passing the word to anyone still alive. I’ll take us there.”

  Rina worked her mouth to say thank you, but only a croaking half whisper came out.

  “I looked for you when the battle started,” he said. “No idea you’d gone to the top of the palace. I suppose it offered the best view for what you had to do.” He gestured at the flood all around them. “This is your handy work, I take it.”

  Instead of answering, she tapped into the spirit. It was dangerous and foolish. She was already so weak, but she had to see something for herself.

  She called for Zin.

  The falcon flew low over the flooded city toward the harbor. Water shimmered between every building. Stranded citizens called to each other from rooftops, and small bands of surviving soldiers moved in a general northerly direction, presumably headed for the rallying point.

  Zin landed on a rampart of the inner wall. Rina looked through his eyes down into the flooded disaster that had once been the market quarter between the inner and harbor walls. Bodies spun slowly in the currents among the debris, the water already receding. The harbor wall might as well have not ever been there for all the evidence that was left of it.

  Someday it might be rebuilt, but Rina doubted Sherrik’s waterfront would ever be quite the same again.

  Rina scanned the horizon. Not a single ship was visible.

  She told Zin to get closer, and the falcon dove toward the water, pulling up at the last second to perch on a barrel that bobbed along with the dead.

  The defeat of the Perranese was as complete as it was terrible. At least it was finished.

  One of the bodies stirred, splashed, and the falcon turned to look.

  Against all odds, one of the Perranese warriors had survived the cataclysm. He stood, the water coming up to the middle of his chest. And then another stood.

  When a third one broke the surface near Zin’s barrel, it sent the falcon flapping and squawking into the air. Dozens of them rose from the water. No. Hundreds.

  Thousands.

  Get closer. I’ve got to see. I’ve got to know.

  Zin balked at the command. He didn’t want to go near them.

  The Perranese slowly formed into lines and began to advance across the market quarter, heading toward the inner wall, marching slowly through the water.

  Please, Zin.

  The falcon dipped low, making a quick pass along the forward-most line of men. Their eyes were vacant, mouths slack. One’s head tilted awkwardly to the side, neck obviously broken, but he marched on all the same, not bothered by it.

  Rina couldn’t hang on much longer, not enough spirit to—

  She was back in the wagon. She tried to talk, so weak, mouth so dry. “The . . . dead . . .” Barely above a whisper.

  “Yes, the dead are many,” Maxus said. “A dark day for Sherrik.”

  “No . . . the . . . the dead.” Rina took a deep breath, summoned all of her strength to get the words out. “The dead are coming.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Stasha Benadicta refilled Brasley’s wineglass.

  “Thank you.” He sipped, more slowly this time. It had taken two glasses to stop his hands from shaking. He’d had a rough time of it, she guessed.

  They all had. One way or another.

  They sat in the duke’s old library upstairs from the portal room. It seemed the most convenient place for Baron Hammish to pull himself together, with its comfortable chairs and a good stiff d
rink or two. Or three.

  Darshia and two more Birds of Prey frantically searched the rest of the library all around them.

  Brasley cast them a glance. “What are they doing?”

  “Searching for something that might help us operate the portal.”

  “Ah.” Brasley sipped wine, clearly no longer interested in what the women were doing.

  “Is she really dead?” Stasha asked, pitching her voice low enough so only he could hear.

  He cleared his throat, looked uncomfortable. “Yes, afraid so. Her neck was . . . uh . . . well, snapped.” He took another big gulp of the wine. “Oh, and Olgen was burned alive right before my eyes. I . . . I don’t think I’ll ever forget that smell as long as I live.” He held out the empty goblet. “Sorry, hate to be a pig, but . . .”

  “Of course.” She refilled it. “I’m terribly sorry, Baron Hammish, but I don’t know who Olgen is.”

  “Oh, yes. How stupid. He was the young student hired as our guide in the library. A good . . . a good lad.”

  He was slurring his words now, swaying in his chair. He would come crashing down soon. Stasha had seen it before at the Wounded Bird. Men who’d been on the edge too long. Something eventually had to give.

  “Maybe you’d better lie down,” Stasha suggested.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “I was wondering if I might be able to arrange a horse after that. I need to get back to the lodge. Fregga is there.”

  Stasha looked past Brasley. “Darshia, can you escort Baron Hammish? I think you can probably guess which room will be best for him.”

  Darshia smiled. “Yes, Lady Steward.”

  Brasley rose slowly from the chair, like the weight of the world hung around his neck. He gestured to the items on a nearby table: the inkwell, stencil, and scroll case. “Guard those, please. They’re important, I think. The reason for the whole trip. The reason for everything.”