A Painted Goddess (31 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

They huddled in the heavy furs and bent into the wind as they trudged up the Skyway of Eternity. The trail narrowed to a single-file path, widening slightly where they passed skull shrines or rest points. But they didn’t rest. The sky darkened as angry clouds gathered.

It was a long hike, and they talked little, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. The ink mages had taken the lead, and the Birds of Prey brought up the rear. Brasley marched in the middle, cursing himself.

Idiot. I could have stayed back down in that warm abbey. Okay, it wasn’t very warm, but it was better than
this.
What was it I thought I could do to help? I’m no ink mage. I’m not a warrior.

And trusting Ankar? That just seemed foolish. But something had changed in Rina. Brasley could sense it. There was a single-mindedness about her, as if nothing else mattered, almost as if Ankar was a worry beneath her notice.

Endless hours later, Brasley looked up to see they’d stopped. He trudged ahead to stand next to Rina. “We’re almost there, aren’t we? What is it?”

Rina pointed. “They’ve blocked the path.”

Brasley looked. The rock walls had risen up on either side of the path, and now somebody had piled a stone barricade across it. Dark figures moved frantically behind it. Beyond, Brasley could see some kind of building. This must be the summit.

And they’ve arranged a welcoming committee. How nice
.

Something hissed through the air and struck Brasley in the fleshy part of his upper thigh. He screamed and went down, looked and saw it was a crossbow bolt. Blood gushed from around the wound.

Wow. That really fucking hurts
.

Rina tapped into the spirit, drew her rapier, and charged all before Brasley hit the ground. Crossbow bolts flew at her in slow motion. She leaned left to dodge the first, sidestepped right to avoid the next. In her peripheral vision, she saw Maurizan doing the same, a dagger in each hand. Ankar lagged behind with his metal leg but charged after them with surprising speed.

Rina kicked in with the lightning tattoos and pulled ahead, leaping atop the barricade while the astonished defenders were reloading their crossbows. She dropped down among them, spinning and thrusting and slashing until a half dozen lay dead and bleeding. Maurizan hopped over the barricade to find the work had been done.

To the right stood the great Temple of Mordis. To the left was a newer structure, and more acolytes in black robes with spears poured out the front door toward them. Rina and Maurizan charged.

Behind them, Ankar smashed the barricade with his mace, scattering the stones like pebbles. Darshia led the Birds of Prey through the gap, swords in their hands, battle cry high-pitched and terrifying.

A dozen acolytes broke off and charged them with spears in an uneven line. The women parried the spear thrusts easily, stepping inside their reach to thrust deep into soft bellies.

An acolyte ran at Darshia, a sloppy spear thrust. She caught it under one arm and brought her sword down hard on the hand holding it. Fingers fell away in a splatter of blood, and the acolyte fell back screaming and looking with horror at his ruined hand. Darshia dropped the spear and leapt forward to finish him.

The violent orgy of screams and blood lasted only a minute, and then suddenly there was silence, save for the groans of those who hadn’t yet finished dying.

Nivin turned a slow circle, sword up as if expecting another opponent to come out of hiding. “These weren’t warriors.”

“No,” Darshia said. “They were fanatics.”

Hark and Alem came through the gap in the barricade, carrying Brasley between them. They’d yanked the crossbow from his leg and wrapped the wound tightly with strips of ripped cloth.

They all stood a moment, wondering at the needless death.

“These men were fools,” Rina said.

A deranged laugh rode the wind and echoed around them.

Rina looked around until she spotted him.

He sat against the front door of the temple like a beggar, shrunken in his furs, face pale and eyes wide. He laughed again, more madness than mirth.

Rina mounted the steps and stopped one short from the top, looked down at the man huddled there. “Abbot Bremmer, I presume.”

“Yes,” Bremmer said. “The leader of the fools. The
last
fool.”

Ankar and Maurizan came up behind Rina. Alem and Hark set Brasley on the bottom step, and the Birds of Prey gathered in behind them. They all looked up expectantly. They were at the front door of the mother temple of the Cult of Mordis, and nobody knew what was supposed to happen next.

“What happens if I go in there?” Rina’s eyes shifted from Bremmer to the temple door.

“Madness,” Bremmer said. “And death. Only
I
can talk to Mordis.”

“Tell us what’s happening,” Rina said.

“You wouldn’t understand.” Bremmer twitched, swatted at something nobody else could see. “Nobody understands. He gave me a glimpse. Not much. Just a tiny peek at the workings of the cosmos, but it was more than any mortal should ever see.”

“Tell us.”

“No,” Bremmer said. “Go away!”

“Bremmer,” Rina said. “We’re here to help you.”

The songbird tingled at her throat.

Relief flooded Bremmer’s face. “Are you really? Oh, that’s . . . that’s so nice to hear. I’ve been all alone. The acolytes couldn’t understand. Nobody could.”

“Understand what, Bremmer?” Rina asked. “Try to explain.”

“Mordis used to be a man,” Bremmer said. “Did you know that?”

Rina moved a little closer to him, knelt on one knee. “I didn’t know. Tell me.”

“Akram is coming,” Bremmer said. “He makes war.”

“Yes.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Bremmer said. “He
is
war. At some level, a god is what he or she is god of. How can the god of death not
know
death? He has to be a mortal. It’s the only way it works. As soon as Mordis moves from his altar—even a broken altar—he steps one foot into our world, the mortal world; he’s vulnerable. And Akram’s coming to kill him.”

“Why would he want to do that?”

“Because Mordis is a check on all the other gods,” Bremmer said. “
Especially
on war. War would go on forever if death didn’t make men tired of it.”

Rina stood, dusted herself off. “Sounds pretty serious.”

Bremmer laughed his insane laugh again. “Understatement of the fucking epoch.”

“Then I suppose I’ll just have to go in there and have a word with this Mordis.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Bremmer said. “You can’t hear the voice of a god. It will rip your sanity from you and leave you a husk. Only my special bond allows me to communicate with Mordis, and I’m b-barely keeping it together myself.” He twitched violently again.

Rina looked at Ankar.

“You know tapping into the spirit gives us perfect control,” Ankar said. “I think we can shield our minds.”

“Are you sure?” Rina asked.

Ankar grinned. “Absolutely not, but I’m here to test myself, remember? I’ll risk it even if you don’t.”

Rina looked at Maurizan. “You don’t have to come. Nobody’s pressuring you.”

Maurizan’s face hardened. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m not brave enough?”

Rina frowned. “I didn’t say that.”

“Of everyone here, there’s exactly three of us that can go in there and do anything,” Maurizan said. “If the big guy is right, I mean.”

“Listen to the gypsy,” Ankar said. “Three ink mages fighting together has not happened in centuries. Maybe not since the Mage Wars. This will be one for the bards.”

“I don’t give a shit about the bards,” Rina said. “But she can come if she wants. I’m glad for the help.”

Rina turned to the others. “Wait here as long as you can. But get clear if it looks like things are going wrong.”

That started Darshia, Bishop Hark, and Alem all talking at once.

“Shut up!” Rina shouted. “You heard what the crazy man said. You can’t go in there. I’m not even sure
we
can go in there. Now do what I tell you. I don’t want your deaths on my head.”

Rina stuck a chuma stick in the corner of her mouth, looked at Maurizan, then at Ankar. “Come on. Let’s get this shit over with.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

The three ink mages entered the temple, the door slamming shut behind them with a deep, ominous thud. The interior of the temple was red orange with the light of low-burning braziers and torches.

Rina leaned into the brazier just inside the doorway and lit her chuma stick.

Kork was right. I smoke too much.

These things will kill me
.

She laughed. The other two looked at her.

“Never mind.” Rina puffed the chuma stick. “Come on.”

They passed through a short entrance hall and down a short flight of steps.

And there he was.

Mordis sat on the rubble of the broken altar that had once been his tomb, skin cracked and glowing red all over, as if lava boiled just below the surface of his skin. He was ten feet tall and yet somehow smaller than Rina had expected. He turned and looked at them, something almost sad in his demeanor.

Mordis stood.

“I’m tapping in,” Maurizan told them.

“I think that’s a good idea,” Rina said.

“Agreed.” Some of the bravado had gone from Ankar’s voice.

The god raised a hand.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Mordis said.

The death god’s voice rolled over them like a clap of thunder.

Rina’s hands went to her ears, tears leaking from her eyes. The Prime helped her discipline her mind, but it was still almost too much.

Ankar went to one knee.

Maurizan turned and grabbed on to a pillar for support, her back humping up as she vomited.

Perhaps it was some small mercy that Mordis didn’t speak again. The three ink mages recovered, stood shoulder to shoulder to face the god.

Mordis took a step down from the ruined altar.

All three ink mages were tapped into the spirit, theoretically masters of themselves, masters of their own fear. But all three took a step back.

Mordis took another step, and there was a shimmer of pink light, almost like a curtain, as if Mordis had passed from one place to another.

What was it Bremmer had told them? He’s one foot in the mortal world now
.

Mordis held up a hand, almost gentle. Almost as if he were so very tired.

The sound of something ripping, like fabric, but ten thousand times louder shook the temple. Rina flinched away from a blinding light behind the altar, and when she looked back again, she saw someone else stepping through a hole torn in reality.

A dozen feet high, spiked armor, eyes glowing like coals from the deep black within his helm, a huge mace gripped in one fist. He advanced on Mordis, his footfalls clanging like metallic avalanches.

Akram.

The god of war.

Akram swung his spiked mace at Mordis. The god of death flinched back but still took a glancing blow in the shoulder, lava splashing from the wound like blood. Mordis went down, hitting the floor and shaking the temple to its foundations.

Akram stood over Mordis, mace raised high in both hands, poised for the killing strike.

Bremmer’s words rang in Rina’s ears.
How can the god of death not
know
death?

“No!” Rina charged, her rapier flashing from her scabbard.

She gathered all of the strength from the bull tattoo, prepared to strike. She leapt at Akram, sword held high.

Akram backhanded her out of midair.

Rina flew across the temple and hit one of the stone walls with a crunch, her armor doing little to protect her. She bounced off the wall and hit the floor hard. She searched herself, took stock. Two broken ribs on her left side. A sprained wrist. A tooth knocked loose.

Already the healing rune worked to mend her.

Ankar leapt atop the altar and opened his mouth impossibly wide. He belched flames, bathing Akram in fire.

A scream of pain or perhaps merely annoyance escaped the god of war. He made a backhanded swing with his mace, but Ankar was tapped into the spirit, and his reflexes were as good as any jungle cat’s. He sprang back, and Akram’s mace missed his skull by inches.

Maurizan tossed one of her daggers. It flipped end over end and embedded itself in Akram’s neck, a nearly impossible throw that found the small gap in his armor between his helm and his spiked collar.

Akram plucked the dagger from his neck like a rose thorn and flicked it away.

Rina lurched to her feet, willing the pain of her broken ribs into the background. The healing rune still needed time to do its work.

This was a mistake
, she thought.
We’re going to die
.

A deep rumble, and the ground shook.

Alem looked up. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear it?” Brasley said. “I felt it in my ass. I’m surprised the temple didn’t cave in.”

“Damn it, we have to get in there,” Alem said. “They need our help.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Brasley said. “You heard what Rina said. This thing is beyond us.”

“Are we just going to stand around?” Alem demanded.

“I’m not going to stand at all,” Brasley said. “I’ve been crossbowed in the fucking leg.”

Alem’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. “What’s the point of having a magical blade if I can’t do anything with it?”

“That won’t keep your brain from being melted,” Brasley said.

“I don’t care. I’m going in there.”

“Alem, don’t.”

“I have to.” Alem headed up the stairs to the temple door.

“Alem!”

Alem paused, looked back at Brasley.

“Take this.” Brasley slipped something off his wrist.

He handed it to Alem. Alem looked at it, a silver bracelet.

“It protected me from that one-legged asshole,” Brasley said. “It’s better than nothing.”

Alem slipped the bracelet on his wrist. “Thanks.”

“Alem,” Brasley said. “Save her.”

“I will,” Alem said.

As he entered the temple, Alem wondered which one Brasley meant.

And then he wondered too.

Ankar struck Akram with his mace. The god stumbled but then turned on the ink mage.

Akram jammed his own mace into Ankar’s chest and started running. Ankar found himself picked up off his feet and flying backward. The god rammed Ankar against a wall. Ankar heard and felt bones crack. He slid down the wall and landed in a painful heap, wheezing as he tried to draw breath.

Akram reached down and grabbed Ankar by the throat, lifting him. Ankar kicked and struggled, clawed at the hands that held him. The ink mage was a big man and used to looming over others. Being handled like a rag doll was new for him.

He didn’t like it.

Akram slammed the ink mage against the stone floor, once, twice, three times. The god held the bloody body up and stared at the mashed and mangled man like a curiosity, a small child who’d found a frog while playing in the yard.

Ankar spit blood. “You . . . y-you son of a . . . bitch.”

The god slammed Ankar to the floor one last time. Ankar lay dead and bloody.

Akram turned to Rina. She pulled herself along the floor, wincing in pain, trying to hide herself from the furious god in the spiked armor.

Akram stalked toward her, the temple quaking with each step.

This is it
, Rina thought.
I’m dead.

Akram reached for Rina with one hand, raised his mace in the other.

Rina’s eyes shot wide
. Please
.

Just as Akram was about to bring the mace down, he suddenly threw back his head and roared pain. The temple shook with his rage, dust and rubble knocked loose from the ceiling.

Rina looked to see what had happened. Alem stood behind Akram and had stabbed his glowing sword in the back of the god’s thigh.

Idiot! You wonderful, gorgeous idiot
.

Alem jerked the sword free and raised it for another strike, but Akram was already twisting to swing at him with the mace.

Run, idiot!

The mace fell, but Maurizan was there in the same instant, shoving Alem out of the way. He flew back, rolling across the stone floor. The mace struck Maurizan—

And her image dissolved into smoke.

Maurizan appeared five feet to the other side, and Akram swiped at her again with a backhand. Again her image dissolved into smoke and swirled away.

Rina gawked.
How can she do that?
I
can’t do that
.

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.