“Easy,” Gathelaus whispered, tugging a halt on the reins. He ran a frostbit hand over his beard shaking away some of the webbing of ice. The horse stamped impatiently.
Somewhere beyond the thick wall of frosted pines, the sound of a scuffle came filtering through. A muffled cry and the troubled neigh of a horse in distress.
Gathelaus readied his sword and knocked frost from the hilt. Something was coming this way.
A pony, half frozen to death with ice and blood on its snout, burst through the tree line rushing past Gathelaus. Its ribs stood out stark as a washboard.
In the opposite direction, a war cry rang out breaking the harsh silence like a bare foot through the ice. Gathelaus gave heels to his mount, speeding toward the danger. Hooves stomped through the gleaming icy snow.
Breaking through the barrier of woods and snow, a pair of war cries echoed near simultaneous through the ice bound valley. Gathelaus responded in kind to this bitter welcome. He drew his cold sword and swung it thrice in the frosty air.
Holding the reins in his frozen left hand, Gathelaus’s sword was blazing silver fire in the dim winters light. Two arrows were launched by two men in their very last moments—Gathelaus sliced one man asunder and trampled the other beneath his horse.
Gathelaus turned his horse about to investigate the remains of the dead men. Two desperate horseless Picts had decided to ambush a curiously foreign looking man. He resembled the Picts somewhat, having their same dusky complexion and stature but he was dressed quite different. A jaguar skin was his coat, and strange copper ornaments were now covered with snow and blood. Two arrows jutted from his corpse.
What happened was apparent enough to a skilled tracker like Gathelaus. The Picts had been after the foreigner’s pony and supplies. They shot arrows into him as he came riding through the opposite tree line. Likely they were so impatient and cold that in their haste to rob the man; the pony had escaped in the ruckus and ran for its life down the valley. Gathelaus was so cold himself, he wasn’t sure he wanted to pursue the starved animal either.
He looked again at the dead foreigner who was surely no Pict from any other semi-local tribe. The exotic and strange clothing made even the well-traveled Gathelaus curious as to where the dead man was from. Ornaments of copper and a leopard skin were terribly out of place here in the northern territories. Snake-like tattoos covered his exposed neck and arms along with an incredible heap of scars all over his hands and face. He also had severe frostbite burns on his fingers and toes.
“Poor bastard has been through a whole lotta pain,” Gathelaus muttered, to his horse as much as himself. The animal was looking over his shoulder at the rising steam from the dead men’s bodies.
Reaching inside the foreigner’s bulging leather bag, Gathelaus found a large jade idol that weighed perhaps twenty pounds. Intricately carved, its body looked like a voluptuous woman, yet with snake heads in place for her hands, feet and head. In fact the head of the thing, or rather both conjoined heads were serpents looking either way mirror-like. The figure was perched on a thick grooved rectangular base of white quartz that sparkled despite the grey overcast sky above. It struck Gathelaus as one of the strangest things he had ever held.
“This is the damndest idol I’ve ever seen,” he said, again to his horse. It neighed, welcoming the company as well.
The bag also contained a bit of jerky, some roots Gathelaus didn’t recognize, a pipe and some dried herbs likely for smoking during a ceremony and a magnificent obsidian dagger. The gold handle looked like a crouching man embracing a bolt of lightning or perhaps a snake for a blade. It was a vicious looking thing and testing it out, Gathelaus cut clean through a thick leather strap like it was butter. “Sharp as slander,” said Gathelaus, to the horse again. For the sake of curiosity as much as barter, Gathelaus decided he would keep the items in his saddle bags and show them to someone soon as he got back to civilization. Wouldn’t hurt to have the strange things to trade for later on, he figured.
The ground was too frozen to bury the dead and Gathelaus wondered if any more Picts might be in the vicinity. Unlikely, as these two had been horseless but it wouldn’t do to sit still and invite trouble. The ringing sound of the fight bounced off the mountain peaks relaying location vibrant as any smoke signal. He covered the dead men with the foreigner’s multicolored blanket. It was the best he could manage in the circumstances and as much as he figured the bushwhacking Picts deserved. Too bad about the alien looking man but not much else he could do in this bitter cold. If he didn’t find shelter soon, he would be joining them in the hunting grounds in the sky.
A babbling stream ran dark and serpentine, cutting a path down the valley. Gathelaus let his horse drink a moment before urging her on. Wind whipped suddenly; a phantom robber tearing at Gathelaus’s woolen coat. Shivers reached inside before he could pull the flaps closed again.
A mournful crow cawed from a dark pine branch.
Gathelaus’s sword flew to his hand at the unexpected sound. “Damn bird!” Chuckling, he returned his sword to his scabbard.
He felt foolish for still being jumpy, but an uneasiness hung over him, akin perhaps to a predator knowing when it is being stalked by another.
Gathelaus watched his mare’s tracks, wary of the ice cutting her forelegs. Like it or not, he had to admit to taking an unplanned route in the storm. He was never lost. He had just never been here before.
The tallest peak to the north resembled the semi-familiar Mount Nebor, but this angle gave Gathelaus pause. He must have traveled farther afield than expected and was now likely well within enemy Pict-claimed territory. He needed to find the quickest route from the high valley before his horse became crippled and they were both in danger of freezing to death.
The snow was coming down again in big flakes, swirling about like a serpent squeezing the life from a man. Gathelaus wondered again about someone following his back trail in the aftermath of the fight but soon enough, his trail would be invisible again. He had to find shelter. A wispy string of smoke rose from a hillock not a few miles south. Gathelaus made for the wavering gray finger, cautious as ever.
2. Keeper of the Sacred Flame
It was nigh on dusk, by the time Gathelaus made it to the big rounded hill. Wisps of smoke still rose from some small fire but were swiftly carried away by the north wind. Looking about for a teepee Gathelaus was surprised to see smoke issuing from a cave high on the south cliff-face. Like a skulls gaping socket it was ominous and foreboding; but cold as that night’s storm promised to be, and like an eye, the flickering lights of flames inside promised life within. Gathelaus pressed on.
It took him a few moments to carefully guide his horse up the windswept slope. Just to the leeward side the granite gave way to a short cliff with fingers of granite reaching up from the snows.
“Hello in there,” he called out, wanting to be sure he didn’t startle anyone, even if they did not speak his language. Wouldn’t do to take an arrow spooking anybody.
Gathelaus peered into the orange splashed gloom, almost sure it was now unoccupied, when suddenly a gray-haired old Pict stuck his head out the caverns opening as if eagerly expecting someone, but only seeing the black-haired white man, he made a gesture for Gathelaus to leave.
Gathelaus beckoned at the rapidly darkening sky and made his own show of force, if not his willful stubbornness known. “Come on Chief, ya crotchety old bastard,” he grated, through his teeth. “It’s mighty cold.”
The old man again shook his weathered face.
“I’ll share my whiskey,” said Gathelaus, dangling the bottle outward. “Name is Gathelaus.”
The old Pict looked up at the charcoal shaded clouds and buffeted snowflakes again and reluctantly nodded to Gathelaus.
The caverns mouth was just large enough to guide the mare inside after them. The old Pict had no horse but did not seem opposed to letting the mare in the cave with them.
A fire burned at the far end of the oblong cavern, right beside another
small child-sized tunnel leading further on into the gloom. The smell inside was disagreeable but better to endure that than the storm. Weird pictographs of cinnabar and ochre were splashed across the walls. They looked like visions of serpents entwined and inhuman horned men in communion with one another. The cave floor itself was littered with debris and char, the remnants of eons of continued use. A wide variety of tokens, herbs, fetishes and what Gathelaus knew were sacred medicines hung on the walls. This was a sacred place. He tried to remember the Pictish words for horse and apologies but slipped over himself like fresh cow pies on a rainy spring day.
“I speak your tongue, plenty good,” said the old man. “Horse is fine.”
“Well, thanks much, Chief. Looks to be a cold night and I didn’t want to—,”
“I did not say to keep talking,” snapped the old man. “Whiskey?”
Gathelaus handed him the bottle. The old man drank it all.
Gathelaus scowled but went silent, figuring the old man would talk when he was ready. Besides he should know the swiftest route out of these mountains. He would have to ask him eventually.
Instead of saying anything more, the old man proceeded in taking stones and walling up the doorway-like tunnel at the far side of the cave. He pounded tiny wedges and sticks into the spaces further tightening his stone handiwork. He then plastered mud over the whole of it and it almost blended in with the rest of the cave wall. When finished, he fed the fire again and took a branch of sage, let it take light until it smoked and wafted the incense about the cave while muttering a chant Gathelaus couldn’t hope to understand. He then sat down staring at Gathelaus.
Quite some time passed and Gathelaus watched the storm roll in and cover the white land outside with darkness. Wind tore inside but the cave stayed tolerable thanks to the old man’s fire.
Finally, Gathelaus had enough of the silent treatment. “You know Chief; we could keep a bit warmer if we moved that fire a little more central. Away from the entrance and your sealed tunnel there.”
“Sacred fire must stay where it is.”
“What’s in there anyway? Some kind of Pictish treasure? Not that I have interest in what’s yours,” said Gathelaus, holding his hands up.
The old man narrowed his gaze at Gathelaus. His eyes were like seas of flint, dark and mysterious. “You should not be here,” he said, accusingly.
“Yeah, I get that a lot. But here we are. You want any more whiskey, Chief?” He held out his second and final bottle. He had to get the old man talking.
The old man gave him a cross look but reached for the offered bottle and took a swig, then another and another and finally said, “At daybreak you must leave. Forget this place.” He took another few swallows. “Go back to your children and wives.”
“Ha! Chief, you get a little more neighborly with a square drink in ya,” laughed Gathelaus. “And you speak Vjornish awful good. Better than some folks back home.”
The old man gave a sarcastic half grin and took another swallow of whiskey. “I have spoken to the trapper Isaxon, many times and learn from him of your language and customs.”
Gathelaus capped his hands together. “Well that’s real good, we have friends in common then.”
The old Pict held his hand up to silence the white man. “I only allow you to stay the night because of the storm. In the morning, you must leave and forget this place.”
“Why? Is it cursed or something?” Gathelaus laughed, but the deadly serious look on the old Picts face gave him pause.
The old man took a bit of sage and again let it catch flame and wafted the holy incense about the chamber. “The curse contained here is more deadly than any storm.”
“Curse? That why you’re tending this fire instead of being with the rest of the tribe?”
“I am no Pict. I am Tultecacan. What your legends might call the lost southern lands. I have tended the sacred fire of Coatlicue for many moons, as my fathers before me. The goddess must stay here. She must be allowed to sleep.”
“She must be some gal.”
The old man stifled a laugh, shook his head and took another drink of whiskey.
Pointing at the sealed tunnel, Gathelaus asked, “What’s in there? What are you afraid of?”
“I fear, I am the last,” the old man said, taking another swallow.
“The last what?”
“To keep the sacred fire burning and to keep the Blood Gods asleep. I am old and await the coming of the next shaman who shall tend the sacred fire. I fear he will not come. Those who remember the old ways dwindle and those that respect them—even fewer.” He then gave a soft laugh, born out of sadness not mirth. The whiskey was taking hold and a solitary tear came rolling freely down his face.
“That reminds me, Chief,” said Gathelaus, as he pulled the jade idol from the saddlebag. “The next shaman, did he carry this?”
The old man’s savage eyes opened wide in a rage at sight of the idol. His gnarled hand wrapped around the knife hilt at his belt. Shouting incomprehensibly, he launched himself panther-like at Gathelaus.
In a contest of strength, the old man would be no match for a human grizzly bear like Gathelaus, but the sacrificial obsidian knife carried a thousand years of respect.
Gathelaus dodged the first few wild slashes, then as the old man overextended himself, Gathelaus struck like unchained lightning. The powerful blow sent the old man flying—releasing his grasp on the volcanic knife. The black blade shattered as it struck the cavern wall.
Struggling to his knees, the old man wiped at the blood oozing across his swollen lips and nose.
“Sorry ’bout that Chief, but you need to listen afore you try that again. I didn’t kill the man who carried this. Pictish horse thieves did. I took this damnable idol so that I might find out who he was.”
The old man scratched at his face asking, “What did the dead man look like?”
Gathelaus propped his hat back saying, “Well, he was foreign looking. He had a leopard skin tunic, copper arm bands and a whole mess of snake tattoos over his exposed skin. Even his neck and face. Did you know him?”
“No. He must have been one of the servants of Coatlicue. He was alone?”
“So far as I know. Course the storm blew me off course, maybe he was lost too?”
The old man lit a pipe and thought for a long moment before saying, “My son’s name was Mazatl. He must surely be dead if that man was carrying the idol here. My son was to take my place here and keep the spirit of Coatlicue contained, that she might never go back to Tultecacan.”
“Sorry, Chief, I truly am. But is that such a bad thing? Some spirit returning?”
The old man nodded and slumped against the cave wall. “I know now you are not a servant of the Blood Gods. But for a moment, I was afraid, I thought maybe you were.”
Gathelaus took a swig from his flask. “Good. I don’t know whatever could have given you that idea.”
“When you held the vessel of Coatlicue, I could see blood glowing on your hands.” He shrugged, “I panicked.”
Gathelaus nodded, “Votan knows I got blood on my hands, but it was all blood that needed spilling. What’s with the idol?”
“There are dark forces that wish a return to cruel gods. But I remember the blood debt they demand and I will not exchange them for even the hated priests of the Nine. Men can be overcome . . . but gods . . . much more difficult.”
The old man stood and threw branches on the fire and as the sparks flew up and smoke curled from the green wood, Gathelaus could almost see the bloody tale the old man began.
“This world is a wheel, what has come before, comes again. Sometimes all that stands before evil conquering is one good man.”
Gathelaus couldn’t help but look at the sealed tunnel behind the fire, it contrasted with the howling wind and swirling snows outside the cave.
The old man continued, “Ages before the Invisible River flowed, a wise man, a good man, called Modac, came from far across the sea. He was a herald of Que
tzal and became king of my people by banishing the cruel Blood Gods. Modac stopped the human sacrifices and ended the evil ways of the Blood Gods. He was the first to succeed in that since the Blood Gods began their reign under True Great Jaguar Claw a thousand years earlier, beginning the Age of Chaos.”
“Forgive my saying so Chief, but weren’t your people sacrificing to the Blood Gods again?”
The old man nodded soberly, “The priests of Tezcatlipoca, Huitzilopotchli and Coatlicue tried for years to bring back the favor of the Blood Gods. It was a mixed blessing for my people that the magic didn’t work anymore. Because Modac had banished the Goddess Coatlicue and the other Blood Gods too far to be recalled—yet.”
Gathelaus took another swallow. “Can they ever come back?”
“Their return is difficult but not impossible. I have stood watch for many moons, keeping the sacred flame burning. Keeping the Snake Goddess and her servants asleep.”
“You mean in there?” Gathelaus gestured to the tunnel. “What’s in there? Evil spirits?”
“Worse.”
The sealed doorway beckoned, inviting all of Gathelaus’s curiosity and wonder. He stood and went to the edge of the walled up tunnel. There was yet a tiny space left open where a draft flowed. Air coming from the very top portion, was musty, foul and reptilian. Yet something tugged at Gathelaus’s senses, asking, no, pleading with him to loose the stones and look inside.
The Chief wagged his finger at Gathelaus. “You go in there—you never come out.”
Gathelaus swallowed the last drop of whiskey and stared into the abyss for a long moment. “You’re right Chief, you are old. What happens when no one is around to keep that fire burning? Do these Blood Gods escape? Can they roam free?”
The Usurper Page 10
