The Black Resurrection

by Nick Wisseman

  “What does ‘pollas en vinagre’ mean?” he breathed into Isaura’s ear after a few minutes of silence, inside the crater and out.

  “Pickled cocks.”

  “Oh … Have you seen anyone else?”

  “Only two of them,” she replied, just as softly. “I woke for a few moments, after … what we did. I saw Naysin burying Quecxl.”

  Amadi flinched. Quecxl, the Metican who could heal others—not just himself—had been the truest of heroes. And a friend. “So that’s who’s under the cairn.”

  Isaura nodded. “Naysin was piling the stones by hand. Maybe he didn’t have any power left. I passed out again before he finished. I don’t know where he is now.”

  But they knew where Quecxl was, because Quecxl was dead. Selfless, singing Quecxl. Silenced and still. “What about Quecxl’s spirit animal? The gull—Xihuitl? Did you see him?”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  Amadi felt a crater opening in himself now, a dark maw of emptiness stretching wide and spewing grief. “And what did we do?” he asked after several minutes of struggling to weigh Quecxl’s death against what it had accomplished. “Why did he—Naysin—call us here? How many did we kill?”

  Isaura bowed her head. “Hundreds. Perhaps more.” She looked up, her eyes fierce. “But we saved thousands. Naysin made them immune, made them invulnerable to disease. The Apachi, the Delware, the Cherkee—all the original people who survived. Including my boy.”

  Amadi remembered the constellation of avatars Naysin and Tay, his milky-eyed companion, had projected into the sky: a continent’s worth of original men, women, and children. And in the center of that spectral cloudscape had been the image of a toddler, a boy of eight or nine months Isaura had called “Shoteka” and put aside her obvious hatred of the Red Wraith to help save.

  “So,” Amadi said after a moment, “why did you shoot Naysin?”

  Isaura’s eyes narrowed. “That was earlier. And it was different. He deserved it.”

  Amadi swallowed his next question. Clearly there would be no more answers on that subject.

  Especially not after the vodun roared louder than a pride of lions and the sound of shattering rock made their little burrow reverberate like the inside of a drum.

  * * *

  The vodun—or demon, or god, or whatever it was—didn’t find them, though. Maybe it hadn’t been looking. When Amadi poked his head out of the crater an hour later, all he could see was more debris. More holes, more trampled grass, more signs of mindless destruction steaming in the afternoon sun. Had the vodun been searching for them, or just raging over its loss to the Red Wraith?

  Regardless, the summit was empty now. “I think it’s safe,” Amadi told Isaura.

  “Good,” she said. “I need to see Shoteka.”

  “Of course.” Amadi pushed himself to a kneeling position, then risked standing. His fractured leg burned with protest, but it held. Maybe his spirit armor wasn’t so diminished after all. “But say something for Quecxl first?”

  Isaura nodded and helped him walk to Quecxl’s cairn, which was surprisingly intact. The vodun must have directed his tantrum elsewhere.

  “Brother,” Amadi said eventually, speaking in his native Gbe. These weren’t words he wanted to fumble and trip over. “Brother,” he repeated. “For that’s what you are. My skin may be black, and yours red, and our mothers from different lands. But you saved the Afrii I freed, for longer than I could. And for that, you will always be my brother.” Amadi squeezed one of the cairn’s stones as if it were Quecxl’s sturdy shoulder. “Sleep well.”

  Isaura was more concise. She pulled a blue flower from her elaborately braided hair, placed it on the cairn, and said, “Gracias.”

  After they wiped the tears from their eyes, Amadi turned to leave and stumbled. Badly. His left leg might be better, but it still wasn’t up to walking unaided.

  “Those bones by the guns,” he said through tight teeth. “Is there a long one?”

  Isaura eyed his leg, then strode past a pile of blunderbusses to the jumble of skeletal parts Amadi had indicated, pieces the vodun had briefly unearthed from within the pyramid and animated during the early portion of their conflict. She rummaged through them for a moment, eventually coming up with what looked like two femurs fused at the tips by a stray bit of magic. On her way back, Isaura stopped by the blunderbusses, chose the longest, and jammed the double-femur into its flared muzzle so that the gun’s decorative dragon mouth seemed to swallow it.

  “Will that do?” she asked once she’d returned to Amadi and presented the makeshift crutch.

  He almost didn’t take it. The blunderbuss belonged to Chase, the fourth shaman Naysin had summoned to the pyramid—and the only one Amadi hated. How many Afrii had that blunderbuss burned? How many original people? But his initial idea, using a single bone to splint his leg, wouldn’t let him move as fast. And at least this method put the vile weapon to good use. “Thank you.”

  “Of course.” Isaura took a step toward the side of the earthen pyramid she’d first climbed. “Amadi,” she said, looking over her shoulder at him. “Where will you go?”

  He shrugged, trying not to betray the thought that had occurred to him. Were any of the blunderbusses loaded? With his spirit armor diminished, perhaps a direct hit to his heart or head would finally—

  “Come meet Shoteka.”

  Amadi blinked.

  “It’s not far. Less than a day, even with you limping. And I bet he’ll like your tattoos.” Isaura turned the rest of the way around and gestured at the designs inked on Amadi’s arms, neck, and chest, the animals and symbols depicting key events in his life. “Come on.”

  He glanced at Chase’s blunderbusses. They were probably empty anyway. That jackal didn’t need normal shot. He used flames, not bullets. And there would be time to find an ordinary gun later. “All right. I’ll meet your son.”

  “Good. Oh, but first …” Isaura surprised Amadi by reaching up to brush the side of his mouth. “What are these bubbles?”

  “What bubbles?”

  She showed him her finger, tinged with purple where she’d touched him. “It almost looks like rouge. Prettied yourself for the Red Wraith, did you?”

  Amadi grimaced, although he appreciated the attempt to lighten the mood. “I don’t know where that came from.”

  It was her turn to shrug. “It’s a strange day.” She wiped her finger on her dress. “Come on. Let’s go introduce Shoteka to his Uncle Amadi.”

  He grunted and hefted his bone-gun crutch. “Show the way.”

  * * *

  The climb down was no easier than the ascent had been the day before. Harder in parts; the pyramid’s sides were as ruined as its peak. Amadi fell twice, but it would have been worse without the crutch and Isaura’s shoulder to lean on.

  “Your Anglo has gotten better,” she said as they navigated a particularly deep gash by crossing to the pyramid’s north side.

  Amadi grunted. “Has it? I haven’t spoken it much since I saw you last.”

  “No?” She mulled this over for a few steps. “The Red Wraith is clever with languages. Perhaps being connected to him left a mark.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Or maybe—pollas en vinagre.”

  “What?”

  She pointed to a boulder that was only a boulder if you didn’t look closely. Because when you did, the stone revealed itself to be a god-man sitting with his gargantuan legs drawn to his chest and his head resting on his knees.

  The vodun.

  He lifted his massive head at the same time Amadi stepped in front of Isaura and nearly fell in the process—damn his broken leg.

  Isaura sidestepped him and leveled her palms at the vodun. But what could her water do against a creature that had nearly sundered the world? “The fight is over,” she said anyway, her voice impressively even. “We’re leaving this place. I suggest you do the same.”

  The vodun regarded her while Amadi braced himself to intercept a sudden charg
e, a bolt of energy, or whatever other unblockable attack the spirit was about to unleash. But Amadi wasn’t prepared for a tear to fall from the vodun’s left eye. Or for him to chuckle sadly, stand up, and walk away.

  “What was that?” Amadi asked once the vodun had gone far enough to the east to suggest he wouldn’t turn back.

  “I don’t know.” Isaura dropped her hands and shivered. “But when Naysin froze us to … peer through our memories … I saw a bit of the diablos’ stories. I think they were brothers. Maybe he misses the other one.”

  “After the way they battled?”

  “I know, but … they were still family.”

  “Not the type I’d want.” Amadi looked closer at where the vodun had stepped off the pyramid. “Did you come in a cart?” he asked hopefully, rubbing his aching leg. The conflict on the summit had showered the surrounding area with dirt, and through the soft coating ran the tracks of wheel ruts and hooves.

  “No,” Isaura said. “It’s not mine.”

  “Strange day,” he replied after a moment. “Which way?”

  She pointed to the west—the same direction the hoofprints and wheel ruts seemed to have gone.

  * * *

  Isaura had left Shoteka and her horse Manuel with an original woman named Fochik. When they arrived at her village, the moon was bright enough to see piles of earth in front of several structures.

  “So many,” Isaura whispered.

  Amadi leaned on his bone-cane—his leg had recovered enough to let him remove the double-femurs from the gun and use the fused femurs as a walking stick instead of a crutch. “Graves?”

  “The Kiksha bury their dead in their houses. Nine feet deep, facing west …” She shivered. “We did this.”

  “Naysin did this. And he made those who lived stronger.”

  A wail broke out from one of the nearest buildings, the sound carrying easily through the roof’s vents. Isaura took a deep breath, then gestured for Amadi to follow her.

  They made their way through several small compounds, past a central fort, and over a ball court. Eventually, Isaura came to a house she seemed to recognize and sighed. “Thank God.”

  There was no earth outside the door.

  “Fochik?” she called softly, knocking on the side of the open doorway.

  Someone stirred inside, and a moment later an older original woman emerged holding a scrap of paper. Even in the moonlight, Amadi could see how mercilessly grief and exhaustion had lined her face.

  Isaura asked a question in what he assumed to be the Kiksha tongue, and Fochik shook her head. A rapid exchange followed, during which Isaura became increasingly agitated.

  Then the older woman turned to the east, gesturing at something. The motion brought her further into the moonlight, and Amadi recognized a third emotion on the older woman’s face: shame.

  He followed her jabbing finger to a point maybe twenty feet away and noticed what he hadn’t seen since leaving the loose earth around the pyramid: wheel and hoof tracks. Just for a few feet in a muddy patch, before the ground dried out again to either side.

  Amadi turned back as Isaura snatched the paper from Fochik.

  “What happened?” he asked. “Was it the vodun?”

  Isaura shook her head and stared at the paper. “Shoteka’s not here,” she said at last, her voice raw. “Someone took him and left this in his place.”

  She thrust the paper at Amadi. Slowly, he held it up to the moonlight. On it weren’t words in any language he could read, but flowing characters he’d glimpsed once on a scroll in a former master’s library.

  The script of the Orient.

  Chapter Two

  Kidnapped

  Chase reopened his eyes, saw the same damn cloth, and squeezed them shut.

  Not a dream, then. And Lord, how his ribs hurt.

  The blindfold was too tight, and the rope lashing his wrists to his ankles sank even deeper into his skin, but it was his ribs that pained him most. One of them must be fractured. Maybe two. Had he broken anything else falling down the pyramid? It didn’t seem like it. But he’d be a rainbow of bruises for several days, no doubt about it.

  “If you’re inclined to grant a favor,” he murmured to the heavens, “I’d be obliged if you could direct that healer—Quecxl, wasn’t it?—across my path again. It seems I need more patching.”

  Then he chuckled darkly, a motion his aching ribs did not approve of. Was he really hoping to see an original again? “The Firebrand” they called him, scourge of colored savages everywhere. Yet here he was pining for one. And of course he was. Because while he’d turned forty-one a few weeks ago, he was still a complete and utter fraud. Still a feckless, reckless …

  “Enough,” he whispered, to himself this time, not the heavens. “Castigate yourself later. Free yourself now.”

  He was lying on something hard, probably wood. And he seemed to be out of the sun; the air felt warm, but not intensely so. He was also moving. Was he in a cart? But if that were the case, the ride was smoother than any vehicle he’d ever been in, nary a jolt or bump—

  Except that one, which had caused all his injuries to flare with agony. Bloody hell, was it really possible for ribs to crackle?

  Biting his tongue to avoid crying out, Chase groped around what definitely felt like the back of a cart now. Perhaps the easterner who’d knocked him down the pyramid had scavenged some of his dragon-headed blunderbusses. If that were the case, then Chase would be flaming his way out of this predicament in a matter of moments.

  But not with a potato. Because that’s all he’d found in his blind, constricted search: a few loose tubers—discernible by the eyes they’d sprouted—sacks of what was probably additional produce, various other provisions, and bedding. The easterner must not have realized how valuable Chase’s guns were.

  To him at least.

  “I’m not sure that’s playing fair,” Chase muttered skywards. “Seeing as you let the easterner and his friend knock me about and tie me up.”

  Then again … he hadn’t always needed his guns. There had been a time when he’d been capable without them. Maybe this was the Lord’s way of saying it was time to be independent again. Self-reliant. A man beholden only to himself, not some metal tubes with wyrm heads etched into their ends. You might even call them graven images. Or false idols.

  Either way, it was time to burn his ropes off.

  Stretching out his fingers, Chase called for the hot looseness that had suffused him so often. He imagined his burn scars warming as they always did, especially the long strip running down his left side and the crimson handprint marring his forehead and scalp. Then he pictured a ball of fire whooshing into being a few inches above his palms …

  And knew, even blindfolded, that without the focus his dragons provided, he’d only managed a spark.

  “How generous.” At least it was something. And with a bit of effort, he could make the spark move, floating it down to the knot securing his hands. A few seconds later, he smelled the wonderful scent of burning fiber.

  He also heard the cheery, trilling note of a wind instrument.

  Freezing, Chase listened to several more notes until he was confident they weren’t being played ironically—no one was providing a mocking tune for his escape attempt while waiting for the right moment to squash it. He hoped.

  Pulling hard to either side, he kept as much tension on the rope as he could while the spark did its work. He also convinced the tiny flame to stay small, suppressing its urge to grow into something larger. And more painful.

  Finally, after an interminable period of concentrating, straining, and waiting, the knot gave, and Chase’s hands came free.

  He yanked off his blindfold and saw that he was indeed in a cart. A covered one, with a small opening that looked out on the backs of two people seated behind a pair of oxen. Both had black hair and strange garb, and one of them was playing a small flute.

  Easterners.

  Here. In the heart of the New World, for God knew
what reason. Chase had seen few of their race so far west before. Had the Red Wraith summoned this pair? And why had the one with the mean right cross been leaning over Amadi when Chase woke on the pyramid, hovering so close the easterner could have kissed the Afrii’s mouth?

  But the whys and hows of this madness were mysteries for tomorrow. Today, the task was to finish untying himself and escape out the back. So Chase worked at the rope around his ankles. Hopefully the easterners hadn’t smelled anything when he’d burned the first knot. Well, he wouldn’t be burning anything else. Without his dragons, he—

  But he did have a dragon.

  Chase let go of the knot for a moment to reach into his pocket. The figurine—whose haunting shape he couldn’t afford to think about right now—was still there. He’d found it lying next to him when he’d roused on the pyramid. Without being told, he’d known the Red Wraith had made it by melting down one of the dragons. The result was … what? A reward? A warning? Both?

  Certainly not a weapon. Just another mystery for later. Let it be.

  The knot was skillfully tied, but Chase refused to let it defy him. In short order, his feet were free. Slowly, he pivoted to face the cart’s back door, unlatched it, and …

  Cursed silently as the cart hit another bump and several loose potatoes tumbled out, thudding to the ground in a mini-avalanche audible even above the oxen’s plodding hooves and the pipe’s jaunty melody.

  Abandoning stealth, Chase leapt out the back of the cart, intending to hit the ground running. But his right foot landed on a potato, and he went sprawling before he could take the first stride.

  “Enough with the blasted spuds!” he snarled at the sky as he clutched his ribs and scrambled to right himself.

  But something slammed into his shoulder. Something hard and sharp.

  Spinning with the impact, Chase turned back toward the cart and, in the space of a breath, saw several things he’d missed before. The first was that the cart didn’t look like any cart he’d ever seen. He’d expected an eastern style, but this seemed organic. As if the wheels, axles, and body weren’t separate pieces fitted together, but one complete piece whittled from a massive log.