A Painted Goddess

by Victor Gischler

  An instinct told Bremmer that the flooded city had some connection with Akram and his army being on the move. He was waiting for this. Something has started.

  Bremmer realized it had nothing to do with instinct. Mordis had opened Bremmer’s mind, allowed him a glimpse into the vast machinations of the cosmos. It had nearly driven Bremmer mad. Maybe it was driving him mad still, and this was all a vision of the insanity.

  He told me a change was coming. And Akram is bringing it.

  A new epoch approached, and Akram was vying to make himself supreme. Bremmer didn’t completely understand the details of this. Nobody could. Mortals might nip at the edges of understanding the gods and their intentions, but to truly understand the gods was beyond the greatest wizards and wisest scholars in the world. Bremmer had been allowed to see as much as he dared without his mind melting under the heat of total cosmic understanding.

  But Bremmer had seen just enough.

  He’s owed this somehow. Akram has been granted this army of the dead as part of some bargain.

  Bremmer could almost figure it out, in his mind’s eye could almost see—

  An icy chill hit him so hard he could feel it in his teeth.

  He turned to see the great ghostly form of Akram reaching for him, hand the size of a country cottage about to close around him. He screamed and felt something warm and wet running down his left leg. His scream went on and on as the giant hand closed into a fist and—

  He sat up in bed, stiff and straight as a board, throwing off the heaving covers and still screaming.

  The acolytes flinched and yelped, startled by Bremmer’s display.

  Bremmer panted, his entire body cold with sweat, yet the sheets between his legs were warm with his own piss.

  The dead are on the march. Mordis said the trouble would come to our doorstep. Here. The dead are coming here!

  “Call the brethren together,” Bremmer commanded. “We must make ready for battle. We must send for arms!”

  The acolytes looked at each other, then back at Bremmer.

  “Right fucking now!” screeched Bremmer, voice edged with madness.

  They tripped over each other running out the door.

  “And bring clean sheets for this bed!” Bremmer shouted after them.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  The stars floated overhead, glittering and cold and distant. The rattle and creak of a wagon. A horse whinnied.

  Rina blinked. Where am I?

  You’re flat on your back in the bed of a wagon. The night sky was clear and cool.

  She turned her head. The woman who’d arrived with Tosh slept next to her. Kalli.

  Rina sat up, looked around. Wagons in front of her. More wagons behind. A long train of them heading . . . She looked at the stars again, got her bearings. North. They were going north.

  A man sat slumped on the rear edge of the wagon, snoring lightly.

  “Tosh.”

  Tosh started awake with a snort, rubbed his eyes, and looked back at her. He looked groggy and bewildered by cool starlight. “Rina?”

  “Where are we?”

  “Are you okay?” Tosh asked.

  She thought about that. She didn’t feel bad at all, exactly as she would have felt after a long night’s deep sleep. She’d drained her store of spirit to rock bottom but had healed while she slept. Was that it? Destroy a city and sleep it off?

  Rina relived the enormous wave crashing down and destroying the harbor wall. She could see it in her mind. It washed over enemy soldiers and friendlies alike. She only had to think about it for a second to feel queasy, her stomach turning over.

  How many dead because of me? How many thousands?

  But I had to. There was no other way. The Perranese would have overrun the city.

  Right?

  “I’m okay,” she said. “I need to find the duke.”

  “Up near the head of the wagon train,” Tosh said. “We’re heading north on the King’s Highway.”

  Rina hopped over the edge of the wagon and onto the road. “I’ve got to see him.”

  “Rina,” Tosh said. “What you did . . . back in Sherrik . . .” Tosh couldn’t find the words, didn’t even know how to form the question.

  “I don’t know.” She wasn’t even sure what she meant. I don’t know how one person could cause that much destruction. I don’t know how to feel about it. I don’t know if it was worth it. I don’t know what will happen next. I don’t know anything.

  “Is this going to be okay?” Tosh’s voice was barely above a whisper.

  She thought about it a moment. “I hope so.”

  Rina offered him an encouraging nod, then turned and jogged toward the front of the long line of wagons. Men and women, soldiers and civilians—wounded, defeated, just flat out exhausted, their heads and shoulders slumped.

  The forward group of wagons was surrounded by a dozen mounted soldiers trotting along as an escort. They challenged Rina as she approached but let her through when she said who she was.

  She found the duke nestled in pillows and blankets in the back of his own wagon. That he was alive at all was a miracle. He’d been wounded and burned last time she’d seen him. He looked better now. The burned half of his face looked like melted pink candle wax, but it was an improvement over the crispy black char. He seemed weak but not in pain.

  “Maxus fussed over me with various potions and spells,” the duke told her without lifting his head from a silk pillow. “I’m afraid most of the ladies at Pemrod’s court will be disappointed to find I’m not as pretty as they’ve heard. If we make it that far.”

  “Emilio, I have to go,” Rina said. “There’s something important I need to do.”

  He frowned. “You’re leaving?”

  “I’m sorry. I have to leave immediately. I’ll need to travel fast, so I’m going alone.”

  The duke propped himself up on one elbow, and now a stab of pain did mar his expression. “You destroy my city, and now when we need you you’re leaving?”

  “The waters will recede,” Rina said. “Your people will rebuild.”

  “If we live long enough,” the duke said. “The army of the dead follows after us. An army you created.”

  “I didn’t know that would happen,” Rina said. “I’m sorry. It’s why I’ve got to go. I’ve got to find out.”

  “Go, then, and be damned.” He fell back on his pillow.

  She wanted to tell him something, maybe that she could make it right, but she didn’t want to add lies to what she’d already done.

  She jogged ahead until she was clear of the wagon train, then tapped into the spirit. Rina felt the lightning tattoos flare hot on her ankles, and she ran full speed north on the King’s Highway.

  Sleeping villages blurred past. A quiet, peaceful countryside, so deceptive at night. She ran for hours. A stone bridge over a river, a town. Dawn humped up a dirty orange on the horizon. Soon she’d turn off the road, taking a more direct route through the countryside.

  Her well of spirit seemed deeper than usual. Rina thought she would have needed to rest by now, but she still ran at full strength. Was the spirit like a muscle in some way? She thought it must be. The more she worked it, the stronger it became, the longer she could last. There would be a time to rest, but not yet.

  She ran through a dim forest, early morning light filtering through the leaves. She ran in a line as straight as possible for the Temple of Mordis she’d visited twice before. Instinctively she knew the priest would be there waiting for her, the old man who’d plagued her with riddles.

  Rina planned to ask him some very pointed questions. Dumo help the man if he didn’t answer.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  The stallion had lasted much longer than Alem had thought it would. He couldn’t bring himself to run such a fine animal into the ground, so at a shabby crossroads village, he’d traded it for a flea-bitten gray nag, a half dozen apples, a loaf of black bread, and some dried venison.

  The nag got him as far as
a reasonably decent-size town, where he purchased a brown mare. Strong and young, a good runner. He rode the mare through the night and traded her at a village for a speckled gelding. He’d made a dent in the duke’s silver, but there’d been no time to haggle.

  He did this twice more and finally arrived at the outskirts of Merridan on a tall, reddish-brown mare he’d named Blaze in the hopes the horse would take some pride in the name and run faster.

  He fell in with the flow of people headed for the main gates and realized a lot of people had packed up and were heading for the safety of the walls, peasants with lumpy packs on their backs and children in tow and middle-class merchants with wagons or carts piled high with worldly possessions. The traffic was decidedly flowing in one direction only. In, not out.

  They know, Alem thought. Somehow word’s gotten here ahead of me, and they know something bad is coming. Merridan had the same vibe that Sherrik had when they’d left it for the Red City, and people had crowded the docks looking for a ship to take them away.

  Fear. The city hummed with it.

  The crowd grew the closer everyone got to the bottleneck of the huge gates. Guards stood aside, gawking as people filed inside. Alem was one of the few riding high on horseback and was spared the press of the mob, but there was a tension just below the surface of the crowd. They moved along in an orderly way, but it was a fragile thing. This time tomorrow the story might be completely different.

  The crowd squeezed through the gate, then spread out again on the other side as people filtered away in multiple directions. Alem reined in the horse and allowed himself a moment to gawk. Merridan was enormous. He’d grown up in Klaar, which he’d thought a large place compared to the lakeside village where his grandmother lived. A laughable notion now. Alem had seen Sherrik and been to the Red City. Merridan dwarfed them all, the buildings higher, the streets wider and more crowded.

  “Milord, if you please.”

  Alem looked down to see a guard waving him on. “Traffic’s heavy today. Don’t want to block the road.”

  Alem had reined in his horse just inside the gate, and the pedestrian flow had to split to walk around him. “Your pardon.” He clicked his tongue, and the horse moved on.

  Even by horse, the royal palace was an hour away. He didn’t have to ask where it was. It sat on a slight rise, dominating the cityscape. He wound his way through the city streets, steering the horse generally uphill. A narrow alley opened abruptly into a broad cobblestone square. The palace loomed on the other side, and as Alem approached, he realized he had nothing resembling any kind of plan.

  Arriving at the front gate and announcing “I’m here to see the king” seemed very similar to declaring “Hello, I am an insane person.”

  He needed to ask for someone of lower rank and work his way up.

  Okay, how would Brasley do this? All bluff and bluster, I bet.

  He approached the gate, chin up, a slight sneer of superiority on his face. His heart was beating up into his throat, but he didn’t let it show. Two fairly bored-looking guards leaning on halberds stepped out of their guardhouses on either side of the gate to meet him.

  Alem dismounted in front of them and handed his reins to one of the guards without so much as glancing at him. To the other guard, in his best spoiled-Brasley voice, he said, “Fetch me your captain immediately.” He tugged off his riding gloves and used them to beat dust from the sleeve of his doublet. “I’ve just ridden all the way from Sherrik without rest to convey a message from the duke. It is an utmost urgent matter of life and death.”

  The slightest hesitation, and then, “Yes, milord. If you’d please wait here, I’ll fetch him back immediately.” He left at a fast jog, armor rattling.

  The captain turned out to be a brusque but efficient man who asked Alem to follow him into the palace after examining the duke’s signet ring. The captain handed him off to a clerk, who in turn passed him off to one of the palace’s lesser chamberlains. Alem’s nerves subsided slightly. He was working his way up the ladder of authority, and as soon as he’d passed along the duke’s plea to someone of sufficient importance, he could breathe easy.

  There was a long wait during which his nerves crept back again, but he was at last taken to a man introduced as Kent, the lord chamberlain of Helva, an old man, gaunt and swimming in a black robe. He wore a close-fitting velvet skullcap and lines in his face from a lifetime of frowning.

  Kent turned the signet ring over in his hand, squinting at it with curiosity. “You’re from Klaar, you say?”

  “Yes, Lord Chamberlain.”

  “How did you find yourself as far south as Sherrik?”

  Alem stifled a sigh. Fatigue weighed heavily on him, but he didn’t want to give offense to King Pemrod’s right-hand man. “I traveled with a party on an errand for Duchess Veraiin. It’s kind of a long story.”

  Kent’s eyes came up from the ring and pinned him, as if he were deciding whether Alem was being impertinent. Kent didn’t pursue it.

  “An army of the dead, you say?” Kent raised an eyebrow. “And Sherrik destroyed?”

  “Flooded,” Alem said. “Not completely destroyed. I’m sure it can be restored once the waters recede.” And once thousands of dead bodies are cleared away. “I know it sounds crazy but—”

  Kent held up a hand. “Word has already reached the palace. Your eyewitness account merely confirms this tragic news. We thank you for your efforts. Rest assured, the king is aware.”

  The king is aware? Is that all?

  “Lord Chamberlain, Duke Sherrik pleads for help. His refugees are on the road now, and soon the dead army will overtake them. There’s no time to—”

  “The king is aware,” Kent repeated. “You need trouble yourself no more about it. You must be tired from your journey. I’ll have you shown to a place where you can rest and take refreshment.”

  Alem opened his mouth to protest, but upon seeing the lord chamberlain’s dour expression simply said, “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

  Alem slumped at a long table in an empty dining hall. He was bone tired and wanted a bed, but the lure of a hot meal won out by a hair. He waited, chin in his hand, having been told someone would be along to attend to him. He wondered whether they’d forgotten about him. He dozed.

  The sound of a door opening and closing behind him started him awake.

  It’s about time. I’m starving for meat and potatoes.

  An arm went around his neck from behind, getting Alem in a tight headlock.

  Alem’s eyes went wide. “What the—”

  Whoever had him in the headlock tussled Alem’s hair with his other hand.

  “Look at you, dressed all fancy. They must be paying stable boys much better these days.”

  “Brasley?”

  Brasley let go of him. Alem stood, and the two men embraced, slapping each other loudly on the backs.

  “What are you doing here?” Alem asked.

  “Working various miracles, of course,” Brasley said. “You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through since I’ve seen you last.”

  Alem blew out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. “Trust me, I can match you story for story.”

  “I suspected as much,” Brasley said. “But not on an empty stomach. When I heard you were in here, I rushed down to keep you company. Let’s get some food in front of us. Then we can see which of us will provide the bards with their next legendary songs.”

  “I’ve lost track of the time,” Alem admitted. “Are we late for breakfast or early to lunch?”

  “Halfway to dinner,” Brasley told him.

  A sturdy-looking woman in an apron showed up eventually with plates of roast pork and little red potatoes and hot biscuits. Brown bread and baked apples and a dish of sliced cucumbers with vinegar. Alem dug in immediately, letting Brasley tell his story first. Alem hadn’t been so famished since the day he’d knocked fruit out of a tree with his magic sword.

  Brasley sent away a pot of tea and asked for flagons of beer. He
related his tale to Alem between foamy sips.

  “Well, after Rina was captured, Talbun and I headed north,” Brasley said. “Bishop Hark went after her. I was hoping to find the both of them here in Merridan.”

  Alem almost spit out a mouthful of beer. “Rina was captured?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “She didn’t mention it when I saw her,” Alem said.

  “You saw her?”

  Both men began talking at once.

  Brasley held up a hand. “Wait. Whoa. One story at a time.”

  He glossed over the barge ride up the river to Tul-Agnon but related with relish his cleverness in getting his expedition moved to the front of the line to enter the Great Library, how he’d almost been killed by a lift—feat of engineering or not, it had been bloody terrifying—meeting the milk-skinned servants who were apparently somehow immortal even though their masters, the ancient wizards, apparently were not.

  “The most important thing is that we found another tattoo,” Brasley said. “It’s why Rina sent us there in the first place. Talbun thought it might be something to help with . . . well, with all this shit that’s been going on.”

  Brasley’s face clouded. He pushed food around his plate with a fork, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “It’s not all good news, I’m afraid. We lost the wizard.”

  He told Alem about Talbun’s death, the appearance of the ink mage with the metal leg. By the end of his account, the words were coming with difficulty, something thick in his throat. He signaled the serving woman for the strongest wine she could find.

  The woman brought a pitcher and two goblets. Brasley gulped down a gobletful quickly, and that seemed to steady him.

  A minute later, he astounded Alem with his explanation of the magical portal that allowed someone to cross hundreds of miles in an eyeblink.

  “Of course there’s a moment where you feel you might vomit up all your innards,” Brasley said. “But it soon passes. That’s how we made it to Merridan so quickly.”

  Alem raised an eyebrow, a forkful of pork halfway to his mouth. “We?”

  Brasley resumed his story, concluding with Brasley, the Birds of Prey, and somebody Alem didn’t know named Knarr crossing through the portal and finding themselves in the dank depths of Merridan’s dungeons. They’d stumbled around in the dark for a while before the palace guards had rounded them up and taken them to the lord chamberlain.