A Painted Goddess

by Victor Gischler

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Are you sure it’s okay? I won’t hurt the baby?”

  She threw her head back and laughed so loudly it startled him.

  “Yes, my magnificent husband,” Fregga said. “You’re so massive you could hurt our unborn child.”

  “Hey!”

  She laughed again but gently. “You know you please me. You’ve more than enough for the job. But you’re not going to hurt anything. Go ahead and enjoy yourself. It’s not like you can make me any more pregnant.”

  Well . . . he didn’t have to be told twice.

  He thrust into her from behind, picking up speed, holding on to a breast the whole time. He groaned into her neck as he shuddered and finished.

  “I love you, Fregga.”

  “I love you.”

  “Give me twenty minutes, and we can do something for you this time,” Brasley said.

  She turned her head and kissed him. “I can do some things to bring you back faster than that.”

  “You are the best wife ever.”

  A knock at the door.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Another knock. “Forgive the hour, Baron Hammish. The steward asks you to join her.”

  A woman’s voice. Probably one of those warrior women. What had they started calling them again? The Birds of Prey? He supposed it had a certain ring to it.

  “If we’re quiet, maybe she’ll go away,” Brasley whispered.

  Fregga patted him on the cheek. “Get dressed and see what Stasha needs, darling. I promise you can attend to my needs when you get back.”

  The Bird of Prey that had come knocking was a petite and pretty brunette, arms and legs tightly muscled, high cheekbones, hair woven into a long single braid that hung down her back. She’d introduced herself as Nivin. Just a few short months ago, Brasley would have made a complete idiot of himself trying to get inside her armor. How had he ever found such a woman attractive?

  She has the body of a child. Not like Fregga’s round curves and ample—

  Brasley cut off that line of thought immediately when he realized he was making himself hard again. Not now. Later. He’d dispose of whatever favor Stasha wanted and get back to his wife as quickly as possible.

  Nivin took him through the library where Stasha had offered him wine the day before and down the secret stairs behind the fireplace to the portal chamber. Stasha waited for him there. There were also three other Birds of Prey stacking backpacks against a wall and checking weapons: swords, crossbows and bolts, and various daggers.

  That black-skinned fellow was there too. Knarr.

  “Thank you for coming so early, Baron Hammish,” Stasha said. “I have some exciting news.”

  “You know the best place for exciting news?” Brasley said. “Upstairs where they’re serving breakfast. Who wants eggs?”

  “But if we were upstairs, I wouldn’t be able to show you this.”

  Stasha signaled Knarr.

  He twisted one of the gems on the archway, and the stone wall swirled and shimmered into a portal.

  Brasley gawked.

  “I’ve assembled a team of volunteers to go in with you,” Stasha said.

  Brasley blinked. Then blinked again. “You’ve assembled a what to do what now?”

  “Darshia has volunteered to lead a squad of the Birds of Prey, and Knarr’s going too, in case there’s a problem with the portal on the other side. We worked all night to figure it out. We couldn’t have done it without Knarr.”

  “Uh . . . ,” Brasley said. He pulled himself together and then said, “Um . . .”

  “You made it clear how important it was to get those items to Duchess Veraiin as quickly as possible,” she said. “I’m so glad we could do this for you.”

  Ohhhhh . . . shit.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  As promised, the stallion was fast.

  Alem leaned low in the saddle, the wind whipping his hair, his black clothing and the black horse making him look like a dark streak along the King’s Highway. He headed north, passing through tiny villages in an eyeblink, already gone by the time farmers pulling weeds in the garden looked up to see what was happening.

  A day and a half north of Sherrik he crossed a river over a narrow stone bridge into a village that could almost be called a town, or at least it was more than a collection of shabby huts clustered around a muddy crossroads.

  He watered the horse in the main square. It was a good animal. Alem had been given money to buy new mounts as needed, but this horse had plenty of go left in him.

  As the horse drank, Alem glanced about. People seemed to be going about their business. Across the square, a blacksmith at his anvil hammered at a plow blade. A gangly man standing in front of his butcher’s shop wiped his hands on a bloodstained apron. A man with a nose like a big red turnip stumbled into a shabby tavern.

  If they’ve heard what’s happened in Sherrik, they sure aren’t letting on.

  A young woman waddled toward him, two children in her wake. One of the little girls looked maybe ten or eleven years old. The other one was a toddler. The woman was very pregnant. They weren’t coming toward him, Alem realized, but toward the well. The mother and the older girl carried a wooden bucket in each hand.

  She stopped abruptly and looked at him with open curiosity. She wasn’t any older than Maurizan. Alem thought about how he must look in the black breeches and doublet. The clothing had been provided to him by the duke, and even dust covered, they were probably the finest garments in this little town. The stallion was probably also the best animal in a hundred-mile radius.

  “Are you from Sherrik?” she asked, a heavy county accent in her voice. “Has the siege started?”

  A nervous jolt made Alem shuffle his feet, the duke’s warning not to alarm the locals foremost in his mind. “No,” he said a little too quickly. “Just passing through.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame.” She set the buckets down and rubbed her back, stretched. “My man’s in the duke’s army. I was hoping for news.”

  Alem felt queasy. Her man was either drowned or killed by the enemy. The odds he was alive among the refugees were too long to offer hope. “Sorry. I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Oh. Well, sorry to bother you.” She signaled the older girl to start drawing water from the well.

  The toddler picked random weeds from between the paving stones to hold in a little bouquet in her tiny fist.

  Alem glanced back at the bridge he’d crossed coming into town. “What town is this?”

  “Millford, milord.”

  The bridge. That’s where Sarkham’s going to fight his rearguard action. The war’s coming right here.

  Alem cleared his throat. “Do you have family somewhere?” He tried to sound casual, just making conversation. “I mean since your man is away.” He gestured at her belly. “Someone who could help you?”

  “My sister and her man live in Sawmouth on the coast.” She waved vaguely east. “Fishing village.”

  “You should go there.”

  She shook her head. “She’s got four kids to feed. Can’t feed hers and mine both.”

  The toddler presented her with the bouquet of weeds, and she smiled down at the child. There was a tooth missing at the edge of her smile, but it still brightened her face.

  Tell her. For Dumo’s sake, the dead are coming. Tell her so she can get out of here.

  He climbed back on the stallion. “I’m sure your man will be back with you soon.” He hated himself the second the words were out of his mouth.

  “Good travels, milord.”

  Alem clicked his tongue and trotted away.

  He yanked on the reins, turned the horse around, and reached into the purse, fishing out one of the coins the duke had given him. He leaned in the saddle. “Take this.”

  She reached out her hand, and he placed the silver in her palm.

  She looked from side to side, maybe expecting some trick.

  “That
will feed you,” Alem said. “Go to your sister’s.”

  He turned and rode away without waiting for a reply.

  At the edge of town, he urged the horse to full speed, the wind in his ears drowning out his thoughts.

  Tosh squinted at the sky. It would be night soon. He sat on the back of the wagon, legs dangling over the side, muddy wagon ruts passing slowly between his feet. He sat in the middle of a long line of wagons, creeping along at the pace of a casual stroll.

  Escaping should feel faster. I should just steal a horse and get out of here.

  But he couldn’t. He looked back into the bed of the narrow, rickety wagon. Kalli slept next to Duchess Veraiin. He’d managed to snag one of the few blankets available—a ragged, threadbare thing—and had thrown it over the women. Kalli had proven to be incredibly strong willed. She’d accepted the loss of her arm with surprising aplomb. She breathed easily and slept untroubled. Rina, on the other hand, slept fitfully without waking. Occasionally she would twitch violently, startling the shit out of him.

  She’s gone someplace where no one can help her. Dumo only knows what will happen.

  The sound of a galloping horse drew Tosh’s attention, and he leaned out of the wagon, looking forward along the wagon train. A man on a horse came toward him. There weren’t so many horses available, and most of them were pulling wagons, so the rider must have been of some importance to rate a mount.

  As the rider galloped closer, Tosh saw it was Sarkham.

  He waved a hand. “Captain Sarkham! What news?”

  Sarkham reined in his horse next to Tosh’s wagon. “Scouts have gone ahead to the bridge. I’m forming companies to make a stand there.”

  Tosh wasn’t eager about what he was about to say but felt he had to make the offer. “If you need another sword, I can help.” Somehow he’d come through the fall of Sherrik unscathed. He felt too guilty just sitting back and letting others handle the fighting.

  Sarkham’s eyes shifted briefly to the women in the back of the wagon. “Stay with your people. We’ll need at least a few good men to guard the wounded.”

  Tosh nodded, feeling relieved.

  “What I’m most anxious about are the scouts I sent back down the road to—wait.” Sarkham stood in the saddle, looking south along the road. “They’re coming now.”

  A half dozen riders trotted toward them from the south, one holding a pike streaming the duke’s colors. They halted in front of Sarkham and saluted.

  “Well?” demanded Sarkham anxiously.

  “Following us up the King’s Highway six abreast,” the soldier reported. “Perfect lines, disciplined as you please. You’d think they was any old army, except they’re dead. Vacant stares and faces all clammy and white.”

  “How fast are they coming?” Sarkham asked.

  “Not fast. Marching a normal pace,” the soldier said. “But they’ll catch up to us just the same. They don’t rest. They don’t stop to sleep or eat or drink or piss. They just keep coming. If we camp for the night, they’ll be on us in the morning.”

  Sarkham contemplated that for a few seconds, then said, “Very well. Head forward with the rest of the muster. I’ll have orders for you soon.”

  The men saluted, then galloped north.

  Sarkham sat in his saddle, head down, chewing his bottom lip.

  “What do we do?” Tosh asked.

  Sarkham sighed. “We march through the night. No rest for any of us. Not with the dead on our heels.”

  Brasley had balked at the offer to go through the portal. If there was one thing he excelled at, it was making excuses. He was far too fatigued from his ordeal at the Great Library and needed to recuperate. He was a newlywed, and his wife needed him.

  And how did they know this new portal place was anywhere they wanted to go anyway?

  Complaints along these lines had stalled the expedition two full days.

  He stuffed a spare set of clothes into a travel pack. He slipped the silver bracelet he’d taken from the Great Library onto his wrist. He had reason to believe it was something of a good-luck charm. Dagger. Sword. A purse of silver. So many problems could be solved with a purse full of silver.

  Brasley sighed, tossed the pack on the bed. “This is ridiculous. I have a pregnant wife. Obviously my duties are here.”

  “Of course,” Fregga said. “You’re a good husband.”

  “I mean, I just got back, for crying out loud.”

  “No one would blame you.”

  “I’m just going to tell them I’ve already done my part and that I’m staying right here with my wife.”

  “I’ll support any decision you think best,” Fregga said.

  “I suppose you’re going to say that Rina is my friend and I owe it to her to do this, or some such nonsense.”

  “You’re a good man, my husband. I’m sure you know what’s right without anyone telling you.”

  They stood quietly a moment.

  “Damn it!” Brasley snatched up the pack and slung it over his shoulder.

  Fregga took his arm. “I’ll walk you down.”

  “How did you do that?” Brasley asked as they walked.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Fregga told him. “You just needed time to arrive at the right decision on your own. Which you did. Because you are a good person even though you try to hide it.”

  “It’s a lot of work being a good person.”

  “You’re a baron. That comes with a lot of responsibility.”

  “You act like you want me to go.”

  She stopped them in the middle of the hallway, turned to him, touched his cheek. “Sometimes I think you say intentionally stupid things just to test me. Of course I don’t want you to go. I’ll be worried sick every moment you’re away. But if you stay you’ll feel guilty about it and you’ll start acting like a brat.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “You would, and we both know it.” She kissed him, prolonged and soft. “Now, come on. They’re waiting.”

  They entered the library and took the stairs behind the fireplace down to the portal chamber.

  Stasha, Knarr, and three of the Birds of Prey waited for them. Knarr and the Birds of Prey had their packs and weapons ready to go. They’d obviously been waiting for Brasley to show up.

  “Darshia will lead the Birds of Prey,” said Stasha Benadicta. “They’re good fighters. Trust them.”

  Brasley hoped there wouldn’t be any fighting, but if there were, he would happily leave it to the ladies with the armor and dour expressions. They all looked like they had something to prove, Nivin especially. She was so petite that at first glance it was difficult to think of her wielding a sword with any credibility, but one look at her face would give anyone pause.

  “And what if this portal doesn’t take us where we think it will?” Brasley asked.

  “That’s why Knarr is going with you,” Stasha said. “We’ll close the portal after you go through, but leave the settings as they are. Knarr feels confident he can open it again from the other side.”

  Well, that’s nice, Brasley thought. I’m glad somebody is confident.

  “Let’s get on with it, then,” Brasley said. He hoped he sounded braver than he felt.

  Knarr twisted the gem at the top of the arch to its rune setting. The wall shimmered as the portal opened.

  All faces turned to look at Brasley.

  He kissed Fregga, then lifted his chin and eyed the portal with an expression he hoped communicated the appropriate amount of bravado. “Well, then. Follow me.”

  Brasley stepped through.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Bremmer curled in bed, the heavy blankets over his head. The icy winds rattled the windows.

  He heard voices on the wind. Were they from the dream?

  “He’s gone mental, he has,” said one voice.

  “Don’t talk blasphemy,” said another voice. “You know Abbot Bremmer is special. What you see as insanity is simply Bremmer communing with the gods. It is beyond our
meager abilities to understand.”

  “He crapped himself in the bed,” the first voice said. “And we had to clean it up. There wasn’t nothing holy about it.”

  Two acolytes, Bremmer realized. Not ghost voices on the wind. They’d been set to watch over him, obviously. Bremmer struggled to open his eyes and sit up so he could berate them. Especially the mouthy doubter.

  But the dream pulled him back down. Was it a dream, or was it some sort of vision?

  Bremmer fell through fire and into the sky. He looked down as he was falling, the world spread out wide and green and peaceful.

  It was a lie.

  Anything could look peaceful from a distance, but up close one saw all the gruesome details. As if obeying some subconscious command, the landscape zoomed in closer to a city on the sea.

  This must be Sherrik, he thought.

  He’d never been there, but he’d seen it on maps, knew it was the most significant port city in that part of the world. But something had happened. A wall along the southern part of the city had been smashed. The once great wharves were a jumble of stone. Water slowly receded from the flooded city, and lumber and debris from smashed ships spun in the eddies.

  Bremmer no longer felt he was falling, but flying. Not that he was in control, far from it. Something guided him. He was being shown all of this, but why and by whom he could only guess.

  He headed north along the King’s Highway and was shown a long line of marching soldiers. They were dead, all of them, skin white, eyes glassy and haunted. In some cases bodies had been twisted and mangled in grotesque ways, but they felt no pain. They marched doggedly north without the need for rest.

  Bremmer suddenly felt an icy stab of dread, some presence casting a pall over the scene. He looked back and felt his heart clench with fear.

  A giant figure stood ten stories high, looming over the marching army, a menacing warrior in spiked armor with a huge mace gripped in one hand, the other hand open palmed, as if commanding his legions onward. The behemoth looked ghostly and transparent, as if Bremmer was being allowed to see something hidden from the rest of the mortal world.

  It’s Akram, Bremmer thought. The god of war commands his army of the dead.