The hunter sprinted through the air, darting behind skyscrapers to hide for an instant, or ducking into and out of the Veil, every movement a blur, as he fired on this godling, or that one. Nodens called for assistance, and then took to the air over the oceans, doing his best to harry whichever godling Cernunnos currently targeted. Sucellus, one of the few remaining death-and-fertility gods, appeared in response to Nodens’ call, and immediately took a hit from a tendril.
In the air, mad godlings spun, torn between fighting Cernunnos and fighting Jormangand. The world-serpent made a tempting target. His lethal jaws were locked on the nothingness that was the most powerful godling present, but he was otherwise defenseless. The godling in his jaws heaved, and Jormangand rocked with it, pulled off-balance, and fell to the earth. Warehouses and cranes and docks were crushed under his body. Train cars and rusting shipping containers collapsed under his weight, and then melted into liquid at the searing touch of his body. When Jormangand rose again, the metal poured down from his scales like the blood of the earth.
In the distance, highway overpasses cracked at the force of his impact, and people bolted out of their motorcars, shrieking in fear. One bridge collapsed with a hundred people on it, landing atop about twenty other cars on an eight-lane highway below. Damara managed to catch a second bridge before it collapsed entirely, sealing the cracks in the poured stone with a flick of her will . . . and created an off-ramp to divert people off of the bridge, before racing to the next. And the next. Too many bridges, and a city of four million people, mired in gridlock.
Jormangand surged back up again, and clamped his jaws once more on the godling. He could feel its power seething against his teeth, and wondered, dimly, if he’d survive, if he managed to kill it. He could vaguely picture, at the back of his mind, his head being blown off, his body falling and all his heat pouring into the ground. Turning the sludgy coastline into a magma pit.
Cernunnos kept firing, but the mad godlings had learned from previous battles. And what they learned, they put to use. The lights that represented the lives of the residents of Divodurum flickered in the god’s sight. A galaxy of tiny stars, each one precious, glittered before him. Not a galaxy—a nebula. For each light was surrounded by a fretwork of loves and hates, complex whorls of emotion that traced its path through space-time, from day to day.
And the lights began to go out. They are killing our people and raising them as ghul, Cernunnos told the others. They weaken themselves when they displace their essence! Watch for which ones weaken, and concentrate your attacks on them! He ducked behind a skyscraper, and leaned around. Found a godling that looked a little wobbly in the sky, and fired, shattering it into a dozen smaller whorls. Nodens! Call for more aid! Call our allies!
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The Battle of Divodurum lasted for two full days. Damara was the first to fall, trying to get her people out to the north, through farmland that she’d turned into a white-stone road. One of the godlings swept in at the people fleeing the city, and began to raise them as ghul. Damara threw herself at the godling, and unleashed her entire power of creation, trying to overfeed it.
It worked. The creature exploded, and the humans below fled towards Caddo Bluff, a large inland city near the thirty-third parallel. But Damara, who had sacrificed herself for her people, was no more. Taranis, the Morrigan, Freya, and Thor appeared, and the battle went on. Sucellus was the next to die, impaled on the tendrils of a godling he had almost managed to defeat on his own, and his death brought with it a shockwave that seared the earth southwest of Divodurum.
They persevered, and thinned the number of godlings down, while Jormangand and the powerful godling clashed. Cernunnos became aware that there were Nahautl gods, lurking at the edge of his perception, waiting to see who would win, and if the victors could be destroyed while weakened. He fired in their direction, forcing them to pull away, but his distraction cost them all dearly, for Nodens was caught by three mad godlings at once. Ringed. Cernunnos had just enough time to see the look of terror on the sea-god’s face become an expression of peace . . . and then Nodens released all of his energies at once, destroying the creatures that fed on his essence.
Cernunnos wept. His physical eyes were blinded, but his inner eyes were as pitilessly clear as they ever had been, and he continued to nock arrows and fire them, mechanically, sending out lances of his will at the mad ones.
By the end of the second day, he could see that the world-serpent was tiring. Jormangand had actually managed to force the most powerful godling far north of the city, leaving a trough of black glass in his wake. They were trying to end the battle out of range of human habitations. Cernunnos would have preferred ending it at sea, to try to cushion the shockwave, but whatever direction it resisted least, they had to accept.
They all were exhausted, though the other gods cycled in and out. Freya was replaced by Odin. Thor by Tyr. Tyr by Stormborn and Niðhoggr. Quetzalcoatl arrived to keep the other gods of Nahautl at bay. Eir appeared to tend the wounded, and Coyote sought survivors under the rubble.
Loki was present, on Sleipnir’s back, when Freya and the Morrigan finally managed to shear through the last of the mad god’s protections. Odin and Taranis threw shields around all of them, and then Jormangand’s jaws finally shattered the creature. For a moment, all he could sense was light. Light so pure that it might well have echoed the instant at which this universe had been born. Once Loki recovered, he was aware of howling in his mind, the voice of Jormangand, reeling in mortal agony. His son-self took off over the open plain, due west, molten blood pouring from his sides, carving a deep, black road into the earth.
The earth itself, for a hundred miles in every direction, was perfectly flat. Every plant, every animal, every house, every car, had been scoured from the surface. Every rock had been melted. At the moment, it was still liquid, but in hours, it would cool, and resemble nothing so much as a giant mirror of glistening black slag, reflecting the sky above. And there were . . . weak places at the center and at the far edges, where humans and animals yet lived. Loki could feel them like tears in the soap-bubble surface of reality. And there were screams in his mind.
These rifts open to the Veil and other places! Odin shouted. Humans are falling in—who is closest—?
I am! Eir called, and Coyote’s voice overlapped with hers: I am! I go!
And then the former valkyrie and the ancient trickster threw themselves into the rifts, trying to catch the humans who had been drawn, bodily, into realms that they were not ready to enter.
None of them knew it then, but neither Eir nor Coyote would re-emerge. Later, they wouldn’t even be certain that the pair had entered the Veil, in the end. If they’d somehow gone to the Aether . . . they’d be lost there, forever. Nameless.
At that moment, however, that was not Loki’s concern. The two of them were handling the problem of the humans, and the tears could be repaired. His real concern at the moment was Jormangand. We must help him! Loki called to the others. He is wounded! Freya, I beg of you, he is flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood, and he has just saved us all—
The god-beast, however, was a searing mass of pain and hate, and Freya could not approach him without the dangerous jaws engaging. Jormangand’s eyes were gone, as was a fair bit of his face. He must be allowed to rest and heal, he insisted, again.
I agree, Odin said, and gestured after the beast. However, he moves on a direct course for human habitations, and the earth trembles with his pain.
It trembles with more than that, Freya warned. The ley-lines are damaged, and the tears pull at too much of this world. She turned to look at Loki. He does not hear you. He does not hear any of us. He consumed much of the godling’s essence, and that has a known effect. Those who consume them, burn with the desire to devour.
That does not mean that he will do so, Loki replied, coldly. I will go to him.
Sleipnir carried him to Jormangand, and Loki called to this child of his, split off from his essence, l
ong ago . . . and the world-serpent turned on him, teeth snapping closed as Sleipnir danced out of the way. Jormangand, you must stop. You will harm more humans, if you continue in your path. The others will put you down like a rabid dog, if you do not calm yourself!
The only reply was a roar of agony.
On returning to the others, Loki’s eyebrows rose. Niðhoggr was speaking. Part of the bargain for Jormangand’s services was respite, the dragon reminded them all. Let him depart. Let him leave this earth, and heal. He agreed to Stormborn’s proposition, that he be allowed to go to Mars. Let him go there, where his pain and his madness may, in time, abate.
Transporting him there has ever been a thorny issue, Freya admitted. After a glance after the world-serpent, however, she nodded. Fetch Hecate. I will stand ready to give the lady of doorways her . . . payment.
Loki glanced at Sigrun. Will you, or shall I?
Nith and I will go, the erstwhile valkyrie replied, looking down at the blasted, desolate plain below them. We will bring Prometheus, too, if he will come.
Moment later, Sigrun and Niðhoggr returned. Loki watched as Prometheus and the black-cloaked goddess embraced, and Hecate actually let her hood fall back from her face, revealing her visage. The titan stroked her face, and Loki stiffened.
Prometheus knew something. And so did Hecate.
She leaned up, and kissed her titan lover on the lips. Better luck next time, she said, inexplicably. Remember this, foresighted one. Look back this once, I bid you. She lifted herself into the air, and landed behind Loki on Sleipnir’s back. Stormborn!
Sigrun’s head snapped around. A debt is owed! Hecate called. I require you to pay it, when the time comes. Remember what I have taught you!
And then Loki turned his mount, and carried Hecate with him back towards Jormangand. You speak as one about to die, he said, quietly.
I hope that such is not the case. But Prometheus does not see me returning. Her tone was unruffled and cool. He tells me, in tones of great grief, that the probability of Jormangand turning on me and devouring me after transit, is great. Greater still is the probability that I will burn out what power I have left, taking the serpent to Mars. I may die. Or I may become no more than a house-spirit. She paused, thoughtfully. We will have to see if I have regained enough of my power to survive.
Partake of me, Loki urged. Use my power to strengthen yourself.
Hecate’s lips curled at the corners. Nay, trickster. You will require every dram of your power, yourself, ere the end. They were hovering near Jormangand now, as the serpent plowed through earth and stone, churning along the ground. Farewell, Loki. Remember this. Remember me.
She stepped off Sleipnir’s back, and into empty air, as Jormangand paused and turned his savagely wounded head towards them both. Loki held up his hands, and told his son, No more pain. No more duty. Just rest. Rest in a world that is made of nothing but rock and stone. A place to which you can bring life, if you wish it. Where you will be known as both creator and destroyer. Sorrow rose in him, keen as a knife. This was a part of himself that was being exiled. A part of himself that had served valiantly, and well. Farewell, my son.
Hecate raised her hands, and space and time . . . folded. Bent. Distorted.
And then they were gone.
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In the Cydonia region of Mars, Dr. Akiko Maeda paused in the access tunnel to the greenhouses. The colonia had been built underground, painstakingly burrowed out of the raw terrain, to avoid the radiation that barraged the surface. It also significantly helped with thermal losses. She reached up and put a hand to the curving ceiling over her head; anyone over six feet in height was forced to hunch in the access tunnels. “Hmm,” the botanist said, quietly. “I could have sworn I felt an earthquake.” Of course, there couldn’t be any such thing. Mars was a dead world, geologically and biologically. No kami, either, she thought, and pushed her way through the airlock into one of the large, rounded caverns that were lit with UV lamps. These greenhouses provided most of the colony’s air and food, and the Judeans on the team persisted in calling the caverns Eden. Something out of their mythology, probably. She personally thought of them as wombs, tucked away under the ground. Waiting to spill forth new life.
Earth might be on the verge of collapse, from all reports, but she had plants to tend to, watering systems to repair, and fertilizer to apply, and none of it would get done if she didn’t do it.
Still, as she passed through the airlock doors, she felt a chill. And, much to her surprise, a breeze ruffled her short hair, though there were no input or output air valves here. After another tremor shook the world at her feet, she looked up . . . and took a rice cake out of her pocket. Put it on the table that held the gardening tools, and made a gentle, reverent gesture. “Burning incense clogs the CO2 filters,” she said, quietly. “But if Mars has any kami after all . . . please accept my offering.”
There were no mice in Eden. But when she returned to the table ten minutes later, the rice cake was gone.
Eurasia, 1999 AC.
Caesaria Aquilonis, 1999 AC.
Chapter 15: Ragnarok, Part 1
People seem to be fascinated by the concept of last words. As if the man choking on his own breath will be able to sum up the totality of his existence, or convey some wisdom, some meaning, from just over the horizon that only he can see. In my experience, the most dying men and woman generally manage to say is, Stop. It hurts. They don’t usually manage to say goodbye, or I love you. Those are what the people they leave behind say. And if it helps, good for them.
Some of the interest is, of course, linked to early thoughts on magic and sacrifice. The curse of a dying man or woman was thought to be highly potent, because of all the life-energy being loosed at once. But most people don’t have the capacity to shape their own energies. A few might, out of pure will-power and determination, manage enough focus at the very end, to turn their life-energy into something directed.
How many dying curses have been spoken in the past twenty years? How many people have poured out their life-energy, and tried to direct it at someone or something that threatened them, or their families?
And when a whole world dies, whom will it curse? And who will write its epitaph?
—Kanmi Eshmunazar, private notes, Iunius 27, 1999 AC.
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Ianuarius 1, 1999 AC
The first day of the new year was traditionally a time to clean out the old. It was bittersweet for Adam ben Maor because as he was sorting through the closet he’d shared with Sigrun for decades, he found the swan-cloak and armor she’d worn at their wedding, and, in a box beside that, the legionnaire’s armor he had worn, himself. All carefully packed away so that dust and sunlight couldn’t fade the colors. He brushed a hand over the feathers wistfully. It all seemed like a dream, these days. A time when the world had been a little brighter and better. And the problems they’d had back then had at least had solutions.
It seemed inconceivable that he could ever have worn that armor. Still, his hands remembered all the buckles, and he sat down to polish it. It was . . . something to do. And old men had little more to do than remember old glories. Caliburn sat on the bedside table, and he could smell its gun-oil and metal. It seemed like a hundred years since he’d smelled shampoo-powder in Sigrun’s hair, or the scent of Freya’s apples on her skin. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept in the bed; when she visited, she tended to keep watch over him in a chair by the bed until morning, not wanting to disturb his light, restless sleep. She’d visited for Yule and Hanukkah—barren holidays, of late, with little in the world to celebrate. Rationing remained in effect, and while the nuclear reactors continued to supply Judea with electricity, there were rolling blackouts to conserve power. And there were Persian and Roman troops within a hundred miles of Jerusalem to the north and to the south.
Adam’s hands polished the breastplate with smooth strokes, and his mind wandered. He would be seventy in a few weeks
. Threescore and ten, and what did he have to show for his time on earth? A box of commendations on yellowing paper, and a variety of medals to go with them. No children to carry on his legacy, but he’d taught hundreds of people, over the years. That surely counted for something. An eternally-young wife, whom he wished he could hold tightly in his arms, and who seemed to be turning into a ghost before his eyes. Or maybe he was the one turning into a ghost. It was hard to tell, some days.
He’d tugged her upstairs to bed at Yule, and had lain there with his arm draped over her . . . but he’d known she wasn’t asleep. “An assarius for your thoughts?” he’d finally asked, quietly.
“I am listening,” she’d told him, quietly, her body motionless. “Odin’s ravens report that there is a mad godling—a large one—moving over the Alps and into the northern reaches of Italia. The gods of Rome will have to respond. Quetzalcoatl says that infighting continues in Nahautl. His brethren lack a clear leader, and thus, vie with each other for control. The human generals of that land are not fools, however. With the fall of Divodurum, they’re pushing north. Taranis reports unrest in Novo Gaul. People are turning against the gods. A Gaul by the name of Maelchon, who claims to be a spokesman for Blood Pact, is calling for the destruction of all temples. The gods got us into this, he says. The gods must die, so that we may live. Destroy their Names. Destroy their temples.” Sigrun had paused. “Freya suspects that he may attempt to unName a god.”
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