Death's Paladin

by Christopher Donahue

  Voskov sneezed. Are you made of dust, Bringer? Visht sent you to torture me. When Voskov could speak again, he said “I’m always ready to hear about matters that influence our queen’s campaign. Let’s take this where we won’t disturb her.” He led Bringer outside.

  “General. Most of the recruits I added in the valley were brought back rather hastily. Unlike the older Hykori dead, I did not have time to fully prepare them. The necessary spices are scarce.”

  Voskov held up a hand. “I’m sure you did as you felt would best serve the queen. These new Macmar aren’t as good as the old undead. All I need them to do is hold a formation, hold a spear and thrust if anything stands in front of them. Your acolytes have done well in getting them to do that.”

  He reached to clap a companionable hand on Bringer’s shoulder and stopped before stirring up that much dust. His eyes burned at the thought.

  Bringer shook his head. “I’m sorry, but you do need the undead to do more than those simple tasks. I’m afraid that without full preparation, the new undead won’t last long in the Delta. By feeding them enough human flesh, they could be extended for weeks or perhaps a month.”

  By force of habit, Voskov blocked the image of the pregnant women penned behind the remains Bringer’s tent. The old undead needed their special diet, but Voskov’s own sickness made him more aware of the suffering of others. A noble had to learn to overcome such weakness.

  Voskov stepped closer to Bringer. A large party of swamp dwelling Hykori walked past, aping a military march. “What do you mean they won’t last? They’re already dead. What more can happen to them?”

  Bringer glanced away. “Well, they are dead. If properly prepared, decay can be retarded indefinitely. The cold has kept them intact. When you march the army out of the pass, all the undead will begin to rot. By late spring, the hastily prepared ones will be incapable of movement.”

  With that smell, there will be no surprise attacks. They’ll draw carrion eaters and sicken the living troops. Voskov stroked his full beard as his thoughts raced. “Could Visht control all of the new undead by himself?”

  The necromancer nodded. Before Bringer could answer in more detail, Voskov said. “I’ll get one or two quick strikes with them and then send them with Visht on a wide sweep. They may rally the swamp people to the queen’s army. They’ll certainly terrorize the unfortified plantations before they fall apart.” His aches faded as the campaign came into sharper focus. “This will work out well. The queen didn’t want to split the army. Now she’ll have to unless she wants an army of only dead men.”

  Bringer’s eyes narrowed. “To disobey the queen is…”

  “The queen wants victory and restoration of the Empire. I’ll take the living troops and the old undead. Visht can have the new ones and we’ll cover twice the ground.”

  This time Voskov did slap a friendly hand on Bringer’s arm. He headed back to the tent before the dust had a chance to reach his eyes.

  Leaning on the railing, Voskov spat over the side of the barge as it drifted down the tributary. Sweat ran in a stream along the line of his beard. He took his lobster-tail helmet off and combed his fingers through his wet hair.

  Less than a week away from the pass and he dreamed of being cold again. At least he had shaken that cursed head cold.

  The humid Delta air was almost too thick to breathe. Unlike the fiery but dry summers of the Plains, this smothering heat became yet another form of torture―one more beyond the endless clouds of stinging insects, the steady rot of poorly tanned leather, snakes more numerous than the stunted trees…

  Troops from the attack on Raven’s Crag filled the barge. Voskov chose these men because they were dark enough to pass for common mercenaries. They wore equipment taken from the first plantations attacked. Until someone came close enough to speak to them, they would pass for household troops from any Shushkachevan or Riverine plantation.

  Several men retched over the side of the gently moving barge. Heat took more of a toll on them than it did on Voskov. Only the swamp dwellers polling the barge seemed to enjoy the weather. They pushed steadily and made jokes about how the highlanders would melt away when real summer came.

  Voskov patted his horse and swatted flies away from its face. Its head hung low. He worried about its hooves in the constant wet. He squatted to examine the hoof that concerned him the most. From a pouch, he pulled a glass jar filled with a salve he had found in a wrecked stable. He dabbed a little medicine where the hoof was beginning to crack.

  As the barge rounded a bend, he heard popping sounds. The Riverines used a type of firearm different from the slowmatch arquebus common to Tuskaran troops.

  Men stirred on deck. Just ahead lay the stone landing with a dirt track led up to a small fortress. Sound carried poorly in the swamp. Voskov hadn’t realized they were so close. Chenna squeezed his shoulder and gave a predatory grin.

  Voskov mounted to get a better view. Behind them, the second barge rounded the bend. The bargemen forced it out of the channel and cast ropes toward the landing. This is a good place to try trickery. These swamp men will never take this place by storm.

  The burnt frames of wooden outbuildings surrounded the stone plantation house. Voskov’s allies had the place under siege for three days. A few bodies lay before the main entry to the fortified plantation house.

  Voskov nodded to Durinetav. The Hykori picked up a small drum and began a peculiar rapid drum roll. Most household troops in the Delta had adopted drum-calls from the Riverines. It announced to the defenders that help had arrived.

  Swamp men and old undead dressed as swamp men rushed to oppose the landing. Voskov gave the command and his quartet of arquebusiers fired their weapons. Only the best shot had loaded a bullet. He hit an undead who dropped, a large hole in its chest. Two of the swamp men spun as if hit and fell to the ground. There was time for another volley before the barge landed. This time an undead and three swamp men “fell.”

  As the barge lurched to a halt on the landing gradient, the rest of the attackers ran away.

  The front rail dropped, and Voskov spurred his mount to hop onto shore. With a shout, the “rescue party” rushed after him. Voskov drew his saber and charged for the main entry. He ran several ragged attackers through after checking that they were undead. Each fell when struck.

  The rest of his band pushed through the swamp men, leaving a trail of convincingly dead-looking bodies behind them.

  When the area before the gate was clear, Voskov reined in to face the cheering people crowding the windows near the gate. Some of the faces were fair, Macmar servants, but most were dark-skinned Riverines.

  While the stonework of the plantation house was common Tuskaran style, cunningly made wrought iron covered the lower windows. Recent weapon marks testified to its durability.

  Back on his father’s estate, Voskov had learned about the invasion of the Delta by black-skinned people from an empire across the sea. The Riverine invaders were said to be skilled in many kinds of mechanical and metallurgical sciences. His father hadn’t considered it enough of a threat to heed the emperor’s call for an army to drive the invaders into the sea. Over the years, the invaders conquered most of the dry land along the Delta’s main waterways.

  Internal problems kept the Riverines from becoming a threat to the rest of the Shushkachevan lands. Until now, the Riverines were just part of the exotic landscape of the Delta.

  Some men looking through the crenellation pointed firearms at him. The Riverine weapons seemed spindly, with tiny bores. They also looked to weigh half of a comparable Tuskaran weapon.

  Voskov spotted a Riverine man in plate armor enameled more brilliantly than a peacock’s feathers. Let the play begin.

  He called up, “I’m glad we got here in time. The swamp rats have attacked plantations all along the river. My master sent me to bring back as many survivors as I could find.”

  The Riverine eyed him with suspicion and stroked his thin mustache. As colorful as his green lac
quered armor was, it looked serious. He’s no fool. I’ll bet his has a year’s supplies inside there.

  The man spoke to a young Riverine beside him. The two shared a strong family resemblance. The younger Riverine stroked the arm of the older man as a courtesan would. Voskov had heard unpleasant stories about the Riverines from swamp-dwellers but had dismissed them as simple pettiness.

  The younger man leaned out the window and shouted in bizarrely slurred Shushkachevan, “Who is your master? I don’t recognize you or your tack.”

  More shots sounded behind Voskov. “My master is Olog Norachev. I’m new to his service. I guess I’m his most expendable.”

  Voskov patted his trinket pouch for luck. You see Olog, here’s your chance to serve me again. He imagined the glass figure grinding its teeth in rage.

  The young Riverine leaned out of the window again. “My master says that the Norachev would be happier setting his blue eyes on this place in ruins before seeing me alive and well.”

  Voskov drew his bow slowly and nocked an arrow, making his movements deliberate as he sent an arrow into an undead at the head of another rush from the swamp. Belatedly, some wild shots were fired from the building; he saw no effect.

  He twisted in the saddle, careful to keep his bow down and not alarm the Riverines. “I have no time for these games. Whether Olog Norachev would be happy to see you dancing at a wedding or dancing on a stake isn’t my concern. He would watch either with only one eye and that one is as brown as my saddle. If you want to stay here and wait for the swamp rat’s walking dead men and their powerful and brilliant sorcerer, it’s all the same to me. I’ve risked my men enough for the likes of you.”

  He wheeled his horse and signaled for Durinetav to start that weird drumroll again. The men formed ranks smartly enough. It’s now or never, you idiots. The swamp men drifted back out of sight. Deep, booming drums sounded from the swamp. Voskov waved back at the Riverine leader. “Good luck to the lot of you. I’m sure that most of the stories are lies. If they take this place, you’ll just be killed and nothing worse.”

  “Wait!” the young Riverine shrieked. Voskov turned around to see the young man arguing with the leader, again, with caressing as well as earnest arm-waves.

  Voskov understood nothing of the little he heard. From out of his sight came the voice of a woman speaking rapidly, fearfully.

  A moment later the young man called down, “How can you carry us all? I see only one barge, we have sixty people.”

  “I have a larger craft upstream. I wouldn’t risk it if nobody remained to save. If you’re coming, I’ll have it brought down.” Voskov signaled the men to resume a battle line. Bringer and Shuma kept the attackers back and out of sight. Eerie pipes and a Hykori ceremonial bullroarer sounded from within the swamp.

  The sun had barely passed noon when the first refugees came out of the plantation. At their head marched the dour Riverine leader, the young Shushkachevan-speaker close at his side. For someone trained in Shushkachevan culture, the young man gave an insultingly shallow bow.

  Voskov responded in kind.

  In his slurred Shushkachevan, the young man said, “You have the honor of meeting Umaldi Travesh Untolo of the Greens.”

  Green? Perhaps. Dead Hykori look rather blue and Macmar dead tend toward purple; green is possible with skin that dark, but unlikely.

  Pulling a small cart loaded with chests and sacks came mailed Riverine soldiers with large green-faced shields on their backs. Some of their comrades carried bundles of heavy spears. Behind the soldiers followed a mixed bag of household servants, family members and such. The skin color and style of clothes were unusual, but Voskov made confident guesses at the trades or stations of each. Umaldi Travesh Untolo cleared his throat with irritation and glared at Voskov.

  “Oh. I am Malron Voskov”―he absently patted the trinket bag again―“with Olog Norachev.” He pointed to the landing. Ice waved from the railing of the larger barge. “There is the main barge now. Get your people moving quickly. I expect the swamp rats to make another try before you escape.”

  Voskov trotted his horse clear of the confusion of the laden plantation people. He formed his men as a rear guard. Umaldi Travesh Untolo let his people pass then paced at the rear. Two men with those light arquebuses stayed with him.

  The deep booming drums, pipes and bullroarers had all the Riverines nervous. Voskov nocked another arrow and took a position along the swamp-side flank of the refugees. Pacing at his side, Chenna whispered, “The first Riverines are nearly at the landing, my duke.”

  Voskov prepared give the signal when he noticed smoke curling from a plantation window. A young Riverine dropped from a window above the closed gate and ran to join the refugees after bowing toward Umaldi.

  Damn, they’ve fired the place. Bringer, I hope you’re watching.

  Voskov drew an arrow and sent it into Umaldi’s back. The action stunned Voskov’s men and the Riverines both. Expecting something, the Hykori reacted faster.

  Voskov shot a second arrow into one of the Riverine arquebusiers before the man could raise his weapon.

  At the rear of the caravan, Voskov’s men and the Riverines grappled in sudden combat. All along the track to the landing, “dead” swamp men sprang up and rushed at the refugees.

  Voskov spurred past the only serious combat, between the two rear guards.

  He reined up by the main gate. Jumping from the saddle, he gripped a window ledge and pulled himself into a small, bare room. Chenna sprang through the window an instant later. Thick black smoke poured from the hall. Voskov took a deep breath and squinted against the oily-feeling smoke. He rushed down the hall, descending a curved staircase and into a large courtyard. Bales of colored cloth blazed in its corners.

  Outside, the plantation house looked solid and respectable. Inside, it was little short of magnificent. A large, silent fountain stood in the middle of the courtyard paved with green and blue tiles. Enameled tiles made intricate patterns along the walls up to the height of Voskov’s chest. Rounded archways opened to airy rooms. He had never seen architecture like this before. Chenna ran a finger through the water standing in the fountain.

  Smoke stung Voskov’s eyes, reminding him why he was here. He ran and unbarred the gate. Swamp men rushed forward, hammers and axes at hand.

  He and Chenna blocked the entry. He shouted until he had their attention. “Any man who damages a tile or a piece of furniture goes straight to Bringer’s stewpots. Am I understood?” He held them in place until the leaders nodded their obedience. “Now, put out the flames. I want this place preserved.”

  Shaking his head in wonder, Voskov left through the gate. I would never have abandoned that place.

  Scores of mud-caked swamp men carrying bits of stolen gear or crude wooden weapons poured out of the stagnant waters around the plantation.

  Remounting, Voskov rode out to see the rest of the plantation. His men had already subdued the Riverines.

  Voskov shook his head as the swamp men uprooted bright orange and blue leaved vines. Dyes and medicinal plants. Incredible wealth.

  Mallaloriva’s new loyal subjects knocked down what remained of the outbuildings. The wanton destruction of the fields left him grinding his teeth. Many women waded out of the swamp to join in uprooting the vines. The whole wasteful crowd chanted and danced as they dragged the plants to an area in the middle of some burned down buildings.

  Disgusted, Voskov turned away. At the last instant, he noticed a swamp man at his side. “Ah, Shuma. Your men did well. If the war goes badly, you might want to become an actor.”

  The man looked up at him in confusion. “Er, thank you?” He dropped the question and reached for the bridle of Voskov’s horse. “Lord Sorcerer, would you honor us as the Undying Queen’s representative while we cleanse this place?” He pointed toward the spot where the pile of uprooted vines grew.

  Voskov’s lips curled in distaste. “No, I don’t care to take any part in that.”

  Shuma looked
away for a moment and then turned back to Voskov. “I try to see this through your eyes, Lord Sorcerer. You see children throwing a tantrum. You see wild things destroying what they don’t understand.” Shuma’s eyebrows lifted in question.

  Is there more?, Voskov thought bitterly.

  “Lord Sorcerer, these people understand better than you. Would so many leave their poor lives in the swamp to die for you only to have yet another master of these plantations?” Shuma reached down to rip a vine out by the roots. “These vines demand constant tending. Their sap gives blisters. When they flower, their scent burns the eyes and the throat. You can’t eat them, and they spoil the land for grain or beans. But their berries make cloth pretty.” He threw the vine to the ground. “So, the masters grow as much as they can, using the lash to keep the slaves at their tasks no matter how painful.”

  Shuma pointed to crowd dancing around a fire, tossing vines on as newcomers dragged them in. “The post where they piled the vines for burning is where I took these.” The man turned and raised his shirt to reveal a dense pattern of lash scars.

  I’ve given enough of those. It’s the price of order.

  “Lord Sorcerer, I know you are no liberator for my people. All I ask is that you stand aside and let us free ourselves while you use us.”

  Voskov blinked in surprise. Is this the same man I saw worshiping at Malla’s feet last season?

  Shuma glanced up at Voskov. “Allow us to free ourselves and of course serve our goddess. You and I will be needed at the house if you want to save any of the Unogovpi; that is the name the Riverines call themselves.”

  To accommodate Shuma, Voskov kept his horse at a walk as they returned to the fortified house. He counted on Durinetav and Ice to keep the slaughter there to a minimum.

  By the time they arrived, Bringer was scrutinizing a long row of bodies. An ancient swamp person―Voskov couldn’t guess at the sex―paced at the necromancer’s side. They pointed and spoke like stonemasons inspecting blocks.