A Painted Goddess

by Victor Gischler

  “It took some quick talk to assure him we meant no harm,” Brasley said.

  “I’ve met the man,” Alem said. “I got the feeling he’s sick of the words Klaar and Rina Veraiin.”

  “A sober fellow,” Brasley agreed, “but hospitable enough. We were given comfortable rooms as opposed to cells in the dungeon. Anyway, I get the feeling they have their hands full right now. The palace is practically buzzing.”

  “That’s because they know there’s bad news on the way,” Alem said. “There’s a whole army of—”

  “No, no, start at the beginning.” Brasley slurped wine, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “It’s your turn to entertain me now.”

  Looking back, Alem found his decision to run away from Klaar a bit childish now, and he moved through that part of the story quickly. He fought Perranese on the high seas, escaped Sherrik just before they sealed it, and ate food in the Red City that almost melted his tongue. Then he got into a boat that was way too small and would surely sink in a storm. And then was in a storm. And was washed overboard. And stranded on a deserted island, where he found a magic sword (which Brasley immediately demanded to see). Then he swam to the next island, entered an ancient fortress, rescued Maurizan, and fought an ink mage. Alem admitted Brasley might have the better of him here, as the ink mage they fought didn’t have a metal leg. Also, Alem admitted he did very little of the fighting.

  Did I really live through all that? Was that me?

  Alem had impressed himself. When it had all been happening to him, Alem hadn’t had time to think anything. Mostly he was terrified. But telling it to Brasley, it really did seem like a bard’s tale.

  By this point in the story, they’d completely obliterated two pitchers of wine, and Brasley called for a third. Alem suspected standing up might be a problem and decided to put off trying until later. When sleep finally came, it would hit hard. Deep fatigue plus the wine had him dizzy.

  The dining hall had filled up around them, various other guests in the palace wandering in for a meal, but nobody disturbed the two old friends catching up on their adventures.

  “Rina’s . . . different,” Alem said.

  Brasley poured wine. “Oh?”

  “The Perranese were already there when we returned to Sherrik.” Alem explained how they’d gained entrance back into the city. How they’d brought Rina the new tattoo Maurizan had found in the ruined fortress.

  “We stood at the very top of the duke’s palace, and she commanded the wind,” Alem said, voice strained with the memory. “I don’t know how to describe it, Brasley. It frightened me. She commanded the ocean to rise up into a giant wave.” Alem told it like something from a legend, how the wave crashed down, smashing the enemy fleet and flooding the city.

  “That’s . . . incredible,” Brasley said with awe. “I can’t even imagine what that must have looked like.”

  “That’s not all,” Alem said. “That’s not the most frightening thing.”

  Brasley watched him intently, expectant.

  “She had prisoners brought up from the dungeon,” Alem said. “Criminals, I guess. Bad men. But she . . .” He cleared his throat. “She used them.”

  “What do you mean?” Brasley’s voice was barely above a whisper.

  “She took their . . . I don’t know.” Alem rubbed his eyes. He was so tired. “She took something from them—their lives, their souls, I don’t know—but she used them to fuel her spell. I watched. I saw the dead bodies pile up around her as she destroyed ten thousand ships.”

  Brasley didn’t say anything, his expression a mix of horror and disbelief.

  Alem ran his fingers through his hair, blew out a long sigh. He drank wine.

  Brasley drank wine.

  “I just want to talk to her,” Alem said. “I just want to help her. I don’t see how I can, but she must feel alone. She needs to know she isn’t.”

  Brasley leaned forward, lowering his voice. “You should know there are things happening in this palace. Things not generally known.” He lowered his voice again to a barely audible whisper. “They say the king is dying. He sees only a handful of people, and one of them is Gant.”

  “Ferris Gant?”

  “The same,” Brasley confirmed. “I know how you feel about Rina, but Gant has a fair reputation as a swordsman. And no offense, my good friend, but magic blade or not, you’re no fencing champion. Brave? Yes. Lucky beyond imagination? Yes. A swordsman? No.”

  “It’s not like that,” Alem insisted. “I care about Rina, yes, and I want her to be okay, but we’re not . . . There’s somebody else.”

  Brasley looked interested. “Tell.”

  “I’m really not sure I should—”

  “You listen to me,” Brasley said seriously. “I’m an old married man now. I need to live vicariously through you young gadabouts.”

  “Maurizan.”

  “The gypsy girl?”

  Alem nodded.

  “You sly bastard!” Brasley leaned across the table to slap him on the shoulder. “You saved the best part of the story for last.”

  Heads in the dining hall turned to look, and Alem sank in his seat, going red.

  “I always said she was a better match for you. Nothing against Rina obviously, but the little spitfire is right for you,” Brasley told him. “I’ve always said so.”

  “You have?”

  “Well, I thought it.”

  Alem rubbed his eyes. “I have to go. I have to sleep.”

  “But we’re drinking.”

  Alem stood. “No. I need sleep.”

  His legs felt like noodles. The room wobbled. Get a hold of yourself. He took deep breaths. He’d be fine. He just needed a bed.

  Alem took a step.

  And fell down.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Sarkham’s men bivouacked along the riverbank on the Millford side of the bridge. Sarkham himself stood at the end of the bridge, impatiently waving the wagon train across.

  Maurizan watched from the shade of a tree atop a nearby hillock. She sat in the grass. She missed Alem, worried about him, hoped he was thinking about her.

  Why do two people pick a time like this to find each other, when the whole world is coming apart?

  A wagon ground to a stop in the middle of the bridge, the mule pulling it refusing to budge. Maurizan could hear Sarkham’s enraged bellowing even from her spot under the tree. He was on edge, at his wit’s end like they all were.

  “Commanding men is troublesome enough,” said a voice behind her, “without also having to contend with stubborn animals.”

  Maurizan turned her head to look at the man who’d come up behind her. “Bishop.”

  Hark stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the spectacle on the bridge. He had dried blood splatter across his armor, his face lined with fatigue, yet he still managed a cheerful tone. “I’ve been in the town having a look around.”

  “Millford, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I asked why it was called Millford. Had to ask nearly a dozen people before someone knew. A funny thing. You grow up in a place, and it’s just called what it’s called because it’s always been that way. Some of them looked at me a bit crossways for even asking the question.”

  “So why is it called Millford?” Maurizan asked.

  “There used to be a mill with a rather large waterwheel. Burned down nearly a century ago.” Hark gestured at the bridge. “And there used to be a ford there before the bridge. Nobody could tell me when the bridge was built.”

  Sarkham and a squad of soldiers managed to dislodge the mule, and the line of wagons began moving again.

  “Most of the people in the town are leaving,” Hark said. “The duke told them himself from the back of his wagon in the town square. Two soldiers helped him stand. He told them the army of the dead was coming. Maybe his half-melted face helped convince them. Scouts report the dead have burnt the villages and fields as they pass through. No reason to expect they’ll have any mercy here.”
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br />   “Are you going with the wagons?”

  Hark looked down, absently kicked at a root with the toe of his boot. “I thought I’d stick around here. Maybe I can be of some use.”

  Maurizan didn’t doubt it. Whatever his duties as bishop, the man was also a formidable warrior. If she closed her eyes, she could picture him during the battle with the Perranese atop the ducal pyramid. Everywhere the bishop swung his mace, screams, broken bones, and the crunch of helms and armor followed. What would a man like that do with the Prime inked down his back?

  “And you?” Hark asked.

  She wanted to keep going. Alem was somewhere up ahead. And anyway these weren’t her people. The gypsies—her mother, grandmother, Gino—were building a new life around Lake Hammish. They had a place now, wanderers no more.

  Thanks to Rina.

  So do I owe her?

  She took Alem from me.

  But I took him back.

  And when the army of the dead kept killing and burning its way north, what would happen when it reached Klaar? This was Maurizan’s fight as much as it was anyone’s in Helva.

  “I guess there’s no point being an ink mage if I can’t show it off,” she said. “I’ll stay too. The wounded and the civilians need time to escape. We’ll buy time for them.”

  “Proud to fight alongside you again,” Hark said. “May I offer a suggestion?”

  “Please.”

  “I’m impressed with your two-dagger fighting style,” he said. “Very graceful. It’s something to watch.”

  “But?”

  “I’ve heard the duke’s scouts have filled the dead with arrows without effect,” Hark said. “Your daggers might not be enough. Rumor says a good beheading does the trick. I suggest a sword or maybe even a sturdy axe if you can dig one up.”

  Maurizan considered it. Her fighting style and the bishop’s were as far apart as it was possible to be. She slashed and dashed and stabbed. She was a deadly hummingbird floating on a breeze. Hark’s mace was a clap of thunder wherever it struck.

  “I’ll catch Sarkham when he’s not cursing at mules,” Maurizan said. “See if he has arms to spare.”

  Hark nodded but didn’t say anything.

  They watched the wagons cross the bridge.

  Two hours later, they’d all crossed and were through the town, heading north.

  The last man across was a mounted soldier on a horse foamy with sweat.

  Maurizan and Hark went down from the hillock to get the news.

  The rider set off north after the wagons just as Hark and Maurizan arrived.

  “What’s the word?” Hark asked.

  Sarkham sighed. “Three hours if we’re lucky.” He turned his head and spit. “Dumo knows why we’d suddenly get lucky.”

  “Forgive me, old friend, but I have to ask,” Hark said. “Do you have a plan?”

  “Hold out as long as possible,” Sarkham said. “Give the wagons as much time as we can to get away. I expect I should get some kind of barricade across our end of the bridge. I’ll get some men on it next. If we jam them up on the bridge, we can hold them a good long time, I think. It’s two hundred yards from one bank to the other, and the current is swift.”

  “Do you have any ideas for harassing them once they’re stuck on the bridge?” Hark asked.

  “Normally a crossfire from the archers, but word is arrows don’t do much since they’re already dead.” A mirthless smile crossed Sarkham’s face. “Don’t be shy, Bishop. If you have ideas, I’m all ears.”

  “I’m not a military man,” Hark said. “But I was in town earlier and did some poking around. There’s a storehouse with a half dozen barrels of lamp oil inside.”

  Sarkham thought about that for a moment, then smiled again, more genuine this time. “I see.” He looked at Maurizan. “And you, milady? Any suggestions for how we might arrange our defenses?”

  “You don’t have to ‘milady’ me. I’m a gypsy. We don’t do that,” Maurizan said. “But if I can trouble you for a battle-axe, I’ll do my best.”

  Sarkham, Hark, and Maurizan crouched behind a barricade on the Millford side of the bridge. They’d overturned a cart and stacked empty barrels around it, completely blocking the passage across the bridge. A hundred soldiers waited behind them, each on one knee, ready to spring forward and replace the fallen.

  Plug the gap and keep it plugged, Maurizan thought. Simple enough strategy. So how did I end up in the front row for this? She held her weapon in a white-knuckled grip. Sarkham had found her an axe with a double-edged head. She’d need two hands for it, not a weapon she was used to.

  She’d realized what should have been obvious all along. This wasn’t a battle meant to be won. Sarkham’s orders were to delay the dead as long as possible, and if that meant getting killed in the process then so be it.

  Not me. I’ll do my part and then go. I’ve been through too much to die for some fucking bridge.

  But she didn’t know what she would do, not really. She was afraid to run. Afraid to stay.

  When the time comes, I’ll tap into the spirit. Then I’ll know what to do.

  She hoped.

  The rest of Sarkham’s men were spread along the bank to either side of the bridge, hunkering low behind wheelbarrows, overturned handcarts, assorted furniture, or anything else that could be looted from the town to be used as cover. They all waited in silence, throats dry, hearts beating too fast. This wasn’t like the battle at the top of the ducal palace back in Sherrik. That had happened suddenly, so fast. This was different. The waiting, knowing what was coming, was insufferable. Maurizan was suddenly so thirsty.

  They waited.

  The unmistakable sound of marching boots reached them before they saw anything. As the sound grew closer, Maurizan looked around at the men. They exchanged nervous glances, fidgeting, and she was sure some would run, but none did.

  But I wouldn’t blame them. Not one bit.

  The army of the dead came out from behind a stand of trees where the road curved toward the bridge. They marched six abreast, stepping in perfect time. Other than the crunching footfalls on the sandy gravel road, there was an eerie silence about them. No shouts or commands.

  “They march like any other army,” Hark said.

  “Better,” Sarkham said. “It’s like one mind controls all of them.”

  They kept coming, more and more rounding the bend, thousands upon thousands. They marched right up to the far end of the bridge and stopped abruptly without any discernable command or signal.

  Behind the first company of dead soldiers, another company split in half, marching deliberately and without rush to take up positions along the opposite riverbank on either side of the bridge. They formed two lines. The first line kneeled, and both lines raised bows.

  “Incoming!” Sarkham yelled.

  The dead released their arrows, and they flew in a perfect arc, falling among the men on the other side of the river. Men who had shields covered their heads. The arrows thukked into the wood of the barrels and carts and tinged off armor. Here and there a scream rose where an arrow found flesh.

  Maurizan ducked low, hugging a barrel. “So what’s the plan here? Just duck and take it?”

  Sarkham crouched next to her. “I hate to say it, but if letting them shoot at us means they’re not advancing, then I think we’re doing our job.”

  “They’ll pick us apart a little at a time,” Maurizan said.

  “Yes,” Sarkham agreed. “But slowly.”

  A second volley of arrows fell, and with the third volley, the lead company of dead warriors started across the bridge, dogged but unhurried.

  Sarkham looked at Hark. “It’s your idea, Bishop.”

  “Wait until they’re almost across,” Hark said. “Bunch as many of them on the bridge as we can.”

  When the front line of warriors came within twenty feet of the barricade, Hark nodded. Sarkham waved at a man behind him, who stood and nocked an arrow, pulling the bowstring back to his ear. Anot
her soldier lit the arrow with a flaming brand he’d kept handy, and the soldier with the bow let fly.

  The arrow trailed smoke as it arced over the front few lines of advancing warriors and dropped down in the middle of the bridge. Maurizan rose up enough to see over the top of the barrel. She didn’t want to miss this.

  The lamp oil ignited immediately, and the flames spread back along the bridge to engulf the dead soldiers massed there waiting to cross. The flames came forward also, stopping within ten feet of the barricade.

  Maurizan watched, wide-eyed. Every warrior on the bridge burned, flames engulfing dead flesh and hair. If they’d been living men, there would have been screams and panic, men leaping off the bridge into the water. But the dead simply marched on, unflinching, as if they didn’t feel the flames crawling over them at all.

  The flaming warriors in front drew their weapons and advanced on the barricade.

  Hark rose, gripping his mace. “I’d had rather high hopes that would work.”

  Sarkham drew his sword. “We’ll have to do it the hard way.”

  “Less talking. More hacking.” Maurizan tapped into the spirit and lifted her axe just as the dead warriors struck.

  She watched them come in slow motion, the spirit allowing her to take in every aspect of the melee at once, absorbing even the tiniest detail. The dead man swung, and she let the blade pass before stepping in to strike. Maurizan didn’t have Rina’s bull strength, so she had to angle it perfectly. She swung hard with both hands.

  The axe swept clean through the dead man’s neck. His head popped off, tumbling back flaming and smoking, and landed among his comrades two rows back.

  In her peripheral vision, Maurizan saw Bishop Hark bat aside a sword thrust, then bring down his mace hard, crushing the dead man’s helmet and skull nearly flat. He fell in a clatter of armor, but already more of his dead brethren pressed forward against the barricade.