A Painted Goddess

by Victor Gischler

  Maurizan appeared again next to one of the temple’s fluted pillars, her back to it, crouched like she could dart one way or the other. Akram swung through the gypsy’s smoke image again and smashed the pillar with a thunderous crack, chunks of stone flying. The pillar fell and crashed against the stone floor. A portion of the ceiling gave way, tons of stonework falling directly onto Akram in a cacophonous racket of destruction.

  Bishop Hark took one of the heavy fur cloaks from a dead acolyte and draped it over Brasley’s shivering body. The baron looked pale. He had lost a lot of blood from the crossbow wound and really should get in out of the cold.

  Hark motioned to the building across the courtyard. “I can’t persuade the ladies to take cover.” The Birds of Prey had insisted on staying near the temple entrance. “But we should get you out of this wind, Baron Hammish. You’ve been hurt.”

  Brasley smiled weakly. “And miss the show? Honestly, Bishop, sometimes I think you don’t want me to have any fun at—”

  A rumble and a crash came from the temple.

  “Dumo help them,” Hark breathed.

  “Maybe we should move back a little,” Brasley said.

  Hark gripped his mace tightly. “Blast it. I feel useless standing out here.”

  “You don’t happen to have a wineskin on you by any chance?” Brasley asked.

  “Sorry, no.”

  “A pity,” Brasley said. “It’s the perfect time for a strong drink.”

  “I used to pray at times like this,” Hark said. “But Dumo stopped answering. I thought I’d done something wrong, that I was being punished. But it’s just that Dumo was in hiding. I wish it was just me. I wish none of this were happening.”

  “I briefly knew a student who explained to me that gods represent something literal but also abstract,” Brasley said. “What did Dumo represent?”

  “Dumo was god of rivers and streams.” Hark made a wavy gesture to indicate the flow of a river. “Transitions. Going from one thing to another with order and reason.”

  “Considering all that’s happening,” Brasley said, “maybe it’s time to try prayer again.”

  Hark looked at Brasley, considered, then slowly nodded. He went to one knee, groaning with aches and pains. The climb up the Sky of Eternity had sapped him. The entire journey had nearly done him in. He leaned on his mace.

  Always have I been your faithful servant. If you have any strength or power to grant me, all I can say is that I’m here.

  And he waited.

  Rina staggered to her feet, coughing, waving away the dust from the collapsed ceiling. She looked at the pile of rubble that had buried Akram. Nothing stirred. She checked herself. The healing rune had done its work.

  She saw a dull glow through the dust on the other side of the rubble. Alem’s sword.

  “Alem!”

  “Over here.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Just bruises.”

  He started toward her, climbing over the rubble.

  “Stay put, you idiot!” Rina said. “Where’s Maurizan?”

  “Here,” echoed the gypsy’s voice from somewhere Rina couldn’t see. “I’m okay. I think. Is it over?”

  “I don’t know,” Rina said. “Nobody move.”

  Mordis still lay near the remains of his altar, chest heaving with slow breaths. The air around him distorted and shimmered with the power he projected, but compared to the raw savagery of Akram, Mordis seemed diminished, almost shriveled.

  Some instinct galvanized her, and she started toward the fallen god.

  Akram erupted from the rubble. Huge chucks of stone tumbled past her, and she barely had time to dodge. Alem was knocked from his footing and went down with a yelp.

  Akram slammed the mace down hard, cracking the floor where Rina had been a split second before.

  She leapt atop a section of fallen pillar and launched herself at the god of war, rapier aimed between the glowing red eyes within the darkness of his helm. The bull tattoo tingled on her arm as she summoned all of her strength for the strike.

  The sword shattered into a thousand glittering shards, as if it were made of glass.

  Rina landed hard and rolled out of the way, barely avoiding getting her head smashed flat by the mace. She crawled away and scampered to her feet, realizing she no longer had a weapon.

  Yes, I do.

  She pulled off her glove. The God Eater blazed silver on her palm.

  Akram came for her.

  “Rina!” Alem ran up behind Akram, sword poised for a thrust.

  “Alem, don’t!”

  Akram swung the mace behind him, almost lazily.

  No.

  It connected with Alem’s chest, lifted him in the air.

  Please, no.

  The sickening crunch of bone echoed across the interior of the temple.

  Oh no. No no no no no.

  He landed on the far side, rumpled in a heap up against the wall, and lay there unmoving.

  “Alem!” Maurizan screamed, and ran toward him.

  Akram turned his attention back to Rina.

  Rina held up her hand, palm out. Come and get some.

  As always when tapped into the spirit, time slowed. A thousand thoughts raced through her head in an eyeblink. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t what she was supposed to do.

  She turned and looked at Mordis.

  The wounded god lifted his hand, reached out to her.

  Rina ran for him.

  Akram bellowed rage and chased her, his footfalls leaving a trail of spiderweb cracks in the floor.

  Rina reached Mordis.

  And took his hand.

  In that first moment, she knew she must have made a terrible mistake. Power flowed from Mordis so fast it threatened to fill her to bursting.

  Rina looked back over her shoulder. She’d figured it out too late. Akram was upon her, mace raised for a killing blow.

  A huge armored figure crashed into Akram from the side, and both tumbled away in a deafening clamor of armor.

  Bishop Hark!

  He seemed a foot taller, younger, and full of power, a golden glow around him. He faced off with Akram, and a moment later they laid into each other with their maces, sparks showering where weapons struck armor, each blow sounding like the end of the world.

  Rina’s attention went back to Mordis. She still held his hand. He’d gotten smaller, and the lava seething below the surface of his skin had cooled. He looked at her, and she thought she saw relief in the ancient eyes.

  Rina felt . . . lighter. A fire spread throughout her entire body, but it didn’t harm her. There was no pain.

  Something . . . was happening.

  Maurizan cradled Alem’s head in her lap.

  “You’re going to be okay.” She blinked away tears. “I’ve got you. I’ll fix it. I’ll save you.”

  Alem’s eyes were glazed, unfocused. He coughed, blood bubbling from his mouth.

  Please don’t die. Oh, please.

  The two figures in armor drew her attention. It was the bishop! Fighting Akram!

  They traded blows, each one of which would have knocked a bull across the temple. Sparks flew. The bishop hit Akram once, twice, three times in a row, and the god of war reeled, stumbled back. Hark saw his advantage, raised his mace, and screamed rage as he rushed in for the kill.

  Akram swung his mace in a wide arc, catching Hark on the side of the head. The sickening crack of skull could be heard across the room. Hark took two halting steps backward and then fell.

  Maurizan gasped.

  It was almost comical that after all of the noise and racket of battle, it took only that slight gasp to draw Akram’s attention. He stalked toward the gypsy and raised the mace to end her.

  From behind, another figure grabbed the mace and squeezed. A crack and a flash, and the shards of the weapon clattered to the floor. Akram turned to face the new glowing figure that stood in defiance of him.

  I don’t believe it, Maurizan thought. It’s Rina.<
br />
  She no longer wore the black armor but was now a being of pure light. It pulsed through her, inside of her, around her. But the outline of her face was recognizable enough. It was Rina Veraiin.

  Or what had once been her.

  She was as tall as Akram, but her brilliance made Akram seem shabby and ridiculous in his spiked armor.

  He roared and charged her.

  Rina lifted a hand, reached out almost as if she might caress him.

  There was a sound like a thousand screaming voices and a flash of light so bright, Maurizan had to turn away. She blinked, still couldn’t see.

  I’m blind!

  But she rubbed her eyes and blinked again, and slowly her sight came back.

  When she looked up, Rina was standing right over her, ten feet tall and pulsing with power. Maurizan could feel it vibrate in her bones.

  Maurizan picked up Alem’s sword, held it in front of her, knowing she was being ridiculous but too afraid to care.

  At first, Rina looked as if she were made of pure white light, but Maurizan soon realized she was covered all over with tattoos, hundreds of little painted scenes. Maurizan could only glimpse them, because the light coming off Rina was so blinding that Maurizan could look at her directly for only a second at a time.

  Maurizan tried to lift Alem while still holding the sword but couldn’t. She stuck it in her belt, put one of Alem’s arms around her shoulders and lifted him. She dragged him past the altar, glanced down.

  An old man lay dead on the floor. He was emaciated, skin gray and blotched, but he had a peaceful look on his face.

  “Come on, Alem,” she said. “Let’s go home.”

  She looked up at Rina one last time.

  Rina looked down at the girl and the boy. She knew them. Wanted to tell them things but understood it was a mercy not to. And anyway, her voice would have shattered them.

  She sensed something from the girl. Fear. Rina remembered fear. What a peculiar thing to feel.

  She gestured to the door. It’s okay. You can go. We’re finished here.

  The girl seemed to understand. She nodded and left, dragging the boy with her.

  Rina felt an odd pang, thinking of the boy, but it faded quickly. Already the small doings of the mortals grew less important. It was difficult to focus on such small beings and all of their mistaken beliefs and foolish choices. The mad one had been closest to understanding.

  Death is a check on war. A check on all the gods.

  But there was so much more. She was only just glimpsing it. A new epoch was beginning, but she now understood how short a time that was.

  And she had so much to do.

  The light from her expanded and brightened and filled the inside of the ruined temple. She felt herself being lifted. She had to go now.

  Already she knew she’d have to return far too soon.

  “It’s them!” Brasley said. “Lift me up.”

  “Your leg,” Darshia said.

  “Lift me up, damn it.”

  She frowned but did as he asked.

  Maurizan came down the steps, struggling to bring Alem along with her. She glanced down as she passed Bremmer. She slouched in the corner of the doorway, blood from his nose and the corner of his eyes, obviously dead.

  “Help me,” she said.

  Niven ran forward and helped Maurizan gently lay Alem on the ground.

  “He’s hurt,” she said.

  His eyes flickered open, focused on her as she knelt next to him.

  “You’re going to be okay,” she said.

  “No.” He coughed more blood. “Feel . . . all wrecked inside. Sorry. Sorry it took me so long.”

  “No,” she said firmly. “No.”

  “What is that?” Brasley said.

  A brilliant white light shot into the sky. The stars flared, and suddenly a hundred comets shot across the sky, trails in a multitude of colors. Every face looked up, eyes drinking in the display.

  Except for one head bowed.

  Maurizan leaned down and kissed Alem on the forehead, fat teardrops falling on his face.

  EPILOGUE

  TWENTY YEARS LATER

  The same night that the world saw the sky light up like never before, the army of the dead fell in their tracks and never moved again. Whatever had been pulling their puppet strings was either gone or had lost interest. Nobody knew, and the few who suspected didn’t talk about it. Scholars would debate it for years.

  Everyone else would clean up and rebuild, just glad that it was over.

  In Klaar, the nobility argued for a month while lines of succession were explored and discussed and dusty old scrolls examined. Through a zigzag route of distant cousins and marriages it was discovered that Brasley Hammish’s claim to the duchy of Klaar was shaky at best but also better than anyone else’s.

  Brasley made it clear he didn’t want the job.

  His wife, Fregga, set him straight.

  Klaar enjoyed peace and prosperity for the next twenty years.

  Brasley had daughters. They were very pretty, and Brasley was close on several occasions to banishing all the young men from Klaar to . . . well . . . anywhere else.

  Fregga kept him sane.

  Stasha Benadicta remained as steward, much to Brasley’s relief. She ran the castle and, in fact, most of the duchy on a regular basis. She’d recently taken to her bed with pneumonia. She was expected to recover, but Brasley found himself thrust into the uncomfortable position of actually having to run things.

  He sat at his office desk, sifting through a jumbled stack of parchments, his head swimming with numbers. The sun had set, and the candle on his desk burned low.

  A knock at the door.

  “Come in.”

  A pretty blonde, maybe thirty years old, stuck her head in the door. She wore the Birds of Prey armor, but the red sash marked her as captain. “Is this a bad time, your grace?”

  “It is an abysmal time, Emmon.” Brasley shook a piece of parchment at her. “Do you know what we pay for eggs?”

  “No, your grace.”

  “Well, it’s appalling,” he said. “Never mind. How’s your father?”

  Emmon shrugged. “Tosh is Tosh.”

  At age fourteen, Emmon had surpassed Tosh’s workmanlike approach to swordplay, and so he hung up his scabbard and resumed his duties as cook at the Wounded Bird. He occasionally scouted recruits for the Birds of Prey. Emmon had joined at age sixteen and was appointed captain ten years later.

  “What can I do for you, Emmon?”

  “The guest you’re expecting has arrived, your grace.”

  “Already? Time flies. Please show her in.”

  Brasley stood and circled the desk just as she entered.

  “Maurizan!”

  They hugged. Maurizan now had the feather tattoos around her eyes, and Brasley thought of Rina every time he saw the gypsy girl. Maurizan’s people had found a great mountain eagle to serve as her familiar. The sword Alem had found on the deserted island hung from her belt.

  “What’s it been?” Brasley asked. “A year?”

  “Two.”

  “Has it really? Where this time?”

  “I’m back from Fyria,” Maurizan told him.

  “I’m sure you have stories. We’ll lay on a feast with lots of wine.”

  “Don’t go to any trouble for me.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s not for you. It’s for me,” Brasley said. “You’re just the excuse. How’s your mother?”

  “Her knees pain her. Otherwise fine.”

  The gypsies had built up a small, thriving town around what used to be known as Lake Hammish. People called it Gypsy Lake now, and Brasley had stopped trying to correct them.

  “I need to talk to you,” Maurizan said.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I found a wizard in Fyria who can ink the Prime.”

  “Ah.” Brasley thought all that tattoo business had been long concluded. He couldn’t guess where she might be going with this.
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br />   “My grandmother had the Prime and so did my mother,” Maurizan said. “And so do I. My family is the keeper of one of the tattoos.” She gestured to her eyes. “It’s something of a family tradition, but I never married. I don’t have daughters.”

  “I’ve heard you don’t have to be married to have daughters,” Brasley said. “Strictly speaking.”

  Maurizan smiled. “But you do have daughters.” She took something from the pouch on her belt. “The oldest is what? Nineteen?”

  Brasley rolled his eyes. “And the other sixteen. You’re welcome to them. If I told you how many nights I stayed up late worrying about—” He stopped, suddenly realizing what she was suggesting. “Oh.”

  Maurizan stuck the chuma stick into the corner of her mouth and lit it with the candle from Brasley’s desk. She blew out a long stream of smoke.

  And grinned.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Victor Gischler is a world traveler and earned his PhD in English from the University of Southern Mississippi. He received Italy’s Black Corsair Award for adventure literature and was nominated for both an Anthony Award and an Edgar Award for his crime writing.

  He currently lives in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and would grill every meal if his wife would let him.

  Please join Victor on Twitter for hijinks and nonsense: @VictorGischler.