A Painted Goddess

by Victor Gischler

  With so many flaming bodies pressed against it, the barricade caught fire.

  Sarkham stood back from the heat. “We may have miscalculated.”

  More of the enemy crowded close, threatening to topple the barricade.

  “Spearmen!” Sarkham yelled.

  The crowd of soldiers behind them parted, and a dozen spearmen rushed to the barricade, jamming the spears into the bodies of the dead men attempting to climb over the barricade, which was burning out of control now. The length of the spears was just enough to keep them back from the blazing heat. The spearmen stabbed faces, pierced armor, and slashed flesh.

  None of it mattered. The dead were already dead. Sarkham’s men were simply trying to keep the burning warriors behind the barricade. Sarkham’s orders had been clear. This was the bottleneck. This is where they had to keep them at bay.

  “Hold them!” Sarkham shouted. “Hold the unholy bastards!”

  More men ran up to push the backs of the spearmen, who in turn pushed all of the flaming dead men off the barricade. Others stepped over the bodies to take their place, but the men of Sherrik wouldn’t budge.

  One of the dead warriors managed to climb to the top of the barricade. He raised his sword high, looked like he might leap down among the spearmen. The sword slipped from his hand. There was the briefest pause, and then he fell, body sprawled unmoving across the barricade.

  Maurizan slapped Hark on his armored shoulder and pointed back along the bridge. “Look!”

  The dead warriors had come to a halt amid the flames. Slowly they dropped, falling across each other, the fire charring them black. They stacked on top of each other like cordwood, stiff and soundless save for the crack and pop of their dead flesh burning.

  “It doesn’t hurt them, but it consumes them,” Hark said. “It just took some time.”

  Sarkham thrust his sword into the air. “Burn, you bastards!”

  A cheer went up from the men behind him. The bridge was impassable, choked with the smoldering dead. Their orders had been to hold them at the bottleneck, and they’d put a cork in the bottle.

  The cheer trailed off, and again the only sound was the crackle of the fire. An eerie pall hung over the scene, the army of the living staring across the river at the army of the dead. The rattle of armor could be heard among the living as they shuffled nervously. The dead might as well have been statues, staring back across the river with glassy, vacant eyes.

  “Now what?” Maurizan pitched her voice low, afraid to disturb the silence.

  “Now nothing,” Sarkham said. “They can stand there like that for a week as far as I’m concerned.” He turned his head back toward the men. “Hold your positions!”

  They all stood that way for a minute. Two.

  Then the dead along the opposite bank stirred. These were the warriors who harassed the men of Sherrik earlier with the volleys of arrows. They dropped their bows and drew swords. The kneeling front row stood.

  And both rows marched for the river.

  Maurizan’s eyes narrowed as she watched them. “What are they doing?”

  “Drowning themselves, I hope,” Sarkham said.

  “They’re already dead,” Hark reminded them.

  The first row marched down the bank and entered the water. They were waist deep by the time the second row entered. The dead archers on the other side of the bridge were doing the same thing, marching into the water, swords drawn. A few seconds later the river swallowed both rows of warriors. No sight of them. Like they’d never existed. Beyond, the rest of the dead army stood impassively.

  “Are they going to swim it?” Maurizan asked.

  Sarkham shook his head. “Not in armor. Not in that current.”

  A minute went by. Then two. Then five.

  Maurizan grabbed Hark in the crook of his elbow and dragged him along. “Come on!”

  Hark’s eyes went wide. “Oh, okay.”

  She dragged him down the bank to the side of the bridge where the piling went down into the water. Maurizan let go of Hark and pulled off her boots, tossing them aside.

  “I’m not sure what you intend,” Hark said.

  She pulled her top off and tossed it to him.

  He caught it. “Oh . . . uh.” He turned away.

  “We need to know.” Maurizan shimmied out of her breeches and threw them at Hark. “Please, this is no time to worry about being proper. Guard my back.”

  Hark held her clothes. “But what are you going to do?”

  Maurizan splashed forward into the water and tapped into the spirit. “Scouting ahead.”

  She dove into the river and swam deep.

  It was dark and murky below the surface of the water. Maurizan swam toward the opposite bank. The current was indeed strong. If her tattoos hadn’t allowed her to swim better than a fish, she would have been swept away in a second. She swam farther. The river here was deeper than she’d anticipated. And the light from above barely penetrated.

  She pulled up and hovered in place, arms treading water against the current.

  Nothing. Just the gray-green depths of the river. The current had taken them, Maurizan realized. They’d done it. They’d halted the advance of the dead army. They’d blocked the bridge, and the dead couldn’t cross the river. Relief flooded her. All they had to do was hold the bridge and—

  A pale hand shot out of the murk to grab for her.

  She darted away like a guppy, hovered there in the water and watched them come.

  With armor and weapons, the dead were too heavy to swim, but they didn’t need to. They plodded forward, bracing themselves against the current. One step, boots sinking into the mud, next step, and so on. A slow but inevitable advance.

  Maurizan swam back as fast as she could, a white streak in the water.

  She stood when the water was waist deep, releasing the spirit and staggering ashore toward the bishop. “They’re coming!”

  She took her clothes back, frantically pulling them on. “Tell Sarkham. The current won’t take them. They’re not swimming. They’re just walking across the bottom. It’s slow going, but it’s not like they need to breathe. Tell Sarkham to line up the men as close to the water as possible. They’ll gain some small advantage getting them as they come out. No point letting them reach good footing on dry land.”

  Hark ran to tell Sarkham as Maurizan sat on the bank and pulled her boots on, clothes clinging to her wet skin.

  To think I was worried about Alem. That’s a laugh. He’s long gone, and I’m here beheading dead men with this fucking axe.

  Hark relayed Maurizan’s suggestion to Sarkham, and the captain shouted the order. His men lined up three rows deep along the river, the first row standing ankle deep in water, waiting with iron grips on swords and axes.

  The bishop watched from behind. He’d taken his turn at the bridge and would again but didn’t pass up the opportunity for a rest. He was getting too old for this. He’d honestly thought his combat days were over when he’d been assigned as bishop in Klaar. Never in a million years had he dreamed he’d be donning his plate armor again and following Rina Veraiin into the wilderness.

  And where is she now? I swore to help her, and nobody can even tell me where she’s gone.

  They all watched the water.

  Time crept by, and a low murmur worked its way through the soldiers. Maybe the current had swept them away after all. If the dead army couldn’t cross the river or use the bridge, then Sarkham’s men had done it, hadn’t they? It would take at least two days to find a ford or another bridge across the river, and by then the civilians and the wagons of wounded would be far enough ahead to be safe.

  But soldiers know better than to hope, and when the dome of the first helmet rose up through the water like a surfacing turtle, they knew. The dead had crossed.

  The dead had arrived.

  “Don’t let them out of the water!” Sarkham shouted. “Take their heads off!”

  The men of Sherrik went into the water to their knees j
ust as the dead lurched forward, raising their weapons, and a split second later the riverbank erupted in an uproar of battle cries and the clang and crash of metal on metal.

  Heads flew. Men screamed agony as some of the dead pushed through and drove steel through living flesh. When a soldier fell, a man from the line behind would fill the gap, swinging and hacking knee deep in water at the enemy.

  Bishop Hark’s eyes shifted from the battle to the rest of the dead across the river. They were on the move now, thousands of them, marching slowly but with perfect discipline down toward the water.

  We could kill a thousand, and it wouldn’t matter, Hark thought. They’ll just keep coming.

  Hark turned and ran for the hillock he’d been on with Maurizan earlier. The slight elevation gave him a better view. He looked at the small town, looked to the east and west. The King’s Highway ran through the middle of the town. To the west was a forest with thick undergrowth. No easy passage there. The river wrapped around the town to the east and emptied into a large lake.

  In short, marching straight through the town was the only timely way to keep traveling north.

  He ran back to Sarkham, arriving out of breath.

  “Are you okay, Bishop?” Sarkham didn’t take his eyes off the battle.

  “The rest of the dead army,” Hark said. “They’re crossing.”

  “I know.”

  The first ranks were already entering the water.

  “They’ll overrun us.”

  “Our task is to slow them as long as we can,” Sarkham said.

  “Taking an army through the forest would be very slow going, and there’s a lake to the east,” Hark said. “The only fast route is through Millford.”

  “So?”

  “So burn the town,” Hark said. “Burn it all.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  If the Temple of Mordis looked deserted before, it looked twice as deserted now. Grass grew high between the paving stones. No fires burned. Not a soul living or dead in sight. Rina walked slowly across the grounds, grit and gravel crunching beneath her boots.

  She entered the temple. Some of the candles had burned out. The rest had burned down to nearly nothing.

  Rina climbed the steps to the domed room. Krell waited there with his back to her. The cosmic show plated above him. It was more frantic this time, ringed planets hurtling by at alarming speeds, comets colliding in fantastic explosions.

  Krell held his hands up to display. “Behold, Rina Veraiin. A reality in chaos. But we’re very near the end. Soon there will be order again. But whose order? That’s the question.”

  “I did as you told me, Priest,” Rina said, voice tight. “And now a city is destroyed. The dead come for the living.”

  “I commanded you to do nothing,” Krell said. “I simply informed you of a looming choice.”

  “But not how to choose,” Rina said. “Or what it might mean.”

  “That is life for nearly every human being in the world,” Krell said. “We are but tiny things swimming through reality, often against the current, making the best decisions we can with imperfect information.”

  “I’m tired of games,” Rina said. “No more riddles. No more guessing. You said the way south paid a debt.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m done with you,” she told him. “With you and your god.”

  The priest laughed, a sick, dry sound, and turned to face her. He was skin and bone. There seemed to be less of him each time Rina saw the man. “But is he done with you, Duchess?”

  “Talk straight, damn you.”

  “You’re living in a time of transition,” Krell said. “One epoch dies as another is born. The transition is a time of turmoil and upheaval. The gods contend for supremacy. Little mortals such as ourselves are merely the instruments of their will.”

  “No,” Rina said. “I won’t be used. Gods or not.”

  “You have been used already,” Krell told her. “It is inevitable.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, Duchess,” Krell said. “Do you know what kind of god Mordis is? What is his relationship to the others?”

  “I don’t care about your god,” Rina said.

  “You want answers,” Krell said. “These are my answers. Listen or go.”

  Rina said nothing.

  “Some say Mordis is a servant to the other gods,” Krell explained. “This isn’t completely accurate, but we’ll set that aside for the moment. When a god’s worshippers pass from this realm, it is Mordis who escorts him to the afterlife. Death is but a bridge from one reality to another, and Mordis reigns over this bridge. The debt you paid was to another god. Akram.”

  “Who’s Akram?”

  “The god of war,” Krell said. “Eons ago another god was supreme.” The priest waved his hand absently. “Never mind which one. It doesn’t matter. But the lore says the next god ascendant was Akram, who would have plunged the world into eternal war, an epoch of ongoing conquest and conflict. I don’t pretend to understand how the gods choose their successors. I am sure it is beyond our understanding, but somehow Akram was cheated. Or at least he felt cheated. I don’t know. He was passed over, and Dumo was raised instead.”

  “If you’re going to explain, then explain,” Rina said. “I don’t want a lesson on the entire pantheon.”

  “Akram could not have been thwarted if he hadn’t been weakened,” Krell said, ignoring her outburst. “It was Mordis who arranged for Akram to be weakened. It was Mordis who prevented the world from being thrust into eternal war.”

  Rina paused, curious now. “Go on.”

  “Gods get their strength in part from their worshippers,” Krell said. “As I’ve already mentioned, Mordis ferries the dead of each god to their own particular afterlife. When men die in battle—regardless of their religious preferences—they belong to the god of war. But Mordis stopped taking dead for Akram, relegating them to some other reality. It weakened Akram just enough to allow Dumo to ascend instead. Akram felt cheated, and accused Mordis of wrongdoing. So Mordis made Akram an offer. When it came time for a new epoch to begin, Mordis would return the dead souls he’d stolen from Akram.”

  Rina chewed her bottom lip, thinking. She looked down at the glove covering the skeletal tattoo on her palm. “The dead army.”

  “The southern path pays a debt,” Krell said.

  “I killed thousands of men,” she said.

  “In battle,” Krell said. “They belong to Akram now. If he can cover the globe in war, he can grow powerful enough again to reign supreme.”

  “Then I really am finished,” Rina said. “I’ve paid your debt.”

  The priest’s dry laugh again. “No, you are not finished. Only the gods say when they are through with us.”

  Her hand fell to her sword hilt. “No.”

  “You’ve been set on a path, Duchess Veraiin.”

  “I won’t follow it.”

  “You have no choice,” Krell told her. “Nor do I. Nor any of us. The path will unfold before your feet wherever you tread.”

  “No.” She tapped into the spirit.

  “Do not be tiresome, child.” Impatience in Krell’s voice. “We’ve all come this far together. The finish line is in sight. The final end to a long journey. I speak not for myself. Do you think the gods will allow you to upset their machinations, plans thousands of years in the making? Don’t be a fool.”

  “I said no!” The rapier flashed from its scabbard, the blade a gleaming blur.

  Off came Krell’s head. It bounced on the ground, mouth and eyes frozen open. The priest’s body fell next to it, landing so lightly it might have been a robe stuffed with straw. No blood oozed from his neck. It was as if there were no humanity left in him, one foot already in the realm of death.

  Above her, the swirling cosmos went dark, planets and stars winking out, until there was only a dull stone dome lit dimly by a flaming brazier across the chamber.

  Rina released her hold on the spirit and left the temple. Her
hands shook, heart beating so fast. Halfway down the front stairs she felt her legs give and sat down hard on one of the steps.

  She put her face in her hands and cried.

  He dreamed of Tenni, of fingers through her blond hair. The scene morphed like scenes do in a dream, and Tenni was so cold, eyes open and skin waxen, flecks of blood on her lower lip. He called to her but was far away, voice echoing like he was at the bottom of a dark mine shaft.

  Something nudged him firmly in the ribs, and Tosh started awake. He’d been rocked to sleep by the sway of the wagon.

  It was Kalli. She nudged him in the ribs, now pointed back south. “Look.”

  Tosh looked. A column of black smoke rose into the air. “Millford?”

  “I don’t know,” Kalli said.

  Tosh looked at Kalli. She was sitting up, eyes clear. The color had come back into her skin. “You look better,” he said.

  “I feel better,” she said. “Plenty of sleep. Where’s the duchess?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything. You got any money?”

  “Not much. A little.”

  “I’ve got a bit left from what Rina gave us. Can you ride?”

  “I think so.”

  “At the next village maybe we’ll buy a horse,” Tosh said. “Or we’ll borrow one of these. I don’t think they’ll come after us. They’ve got bigger worries.” He tried to picture the map he’d seen. “I think sooner or later another road will fork off from this one. The one that goes on to Kern and ends up being the Small Road up to Klaar’s Back Gate.”

  Kalli frowned. “It sort of feels like running away.”

  “We’ve done our part.” Tosh thought about Tenni’s little girl, Emmon. Tosh’s little girl now. She had nobody in the whole world. Just Tosh. “It’s not running away. It’s going home.”

  Rina lit a small fire with the flint and steel she’d found among the debris of the deserted village on the temple grounds. She wasn’t cold. There was just something comforting about a fire.

  And anyway, she wanted to light her chuma stick.

  She sat and smoked and stared unblinking into the fire.

  Where are you, Alem?