The problem was, sooner or later, ammunition would run out. Almost everyone was low. Sadb Corraidhin wiped dirt out of her face, and eyed the rubble that lined both sides of a street that a dangling sign from a broken streetlight announced was Micelmann Drive. The buildings here had once been faced in glass. Now, they all gaped at her like eyeless skulls. If the buildings had hauled themselves up from the ground and followed her, like ghul, she wouldn’t have been surprised, at this point.
If she could get them northwest along this road, she knew that the bay was about a half a mile away. There were chemical plants in that area. Good places to hide. She knew enough basic chemistry that she should be able to identify caustic agents, or flammable ones, and drop buckets of that kind of thing on any incoming ghul.
The problem was, getting them there. Drust had covered her body with his own when a wall had come down atop them, courtesy of a rocket. He’d been knocked unconscious, and it had taken Sadb over an hour to dig herself and him out from the debris. She had no idea where the rest of their squad was. Their radios had been damaged by the falling bricks, and she herself was covered in bruises, and had a limp. Anyone looking at me right now might think I’m a ghul, myself, except . . . they move quickly and agilely. Gods damn them. She’d put together a travois, as best she could, and settled the makeshift straps, culled from extension cords in one of the nearby offices, across her body once more, so that her hands would be free for her shotgun. And dragged her husband behind her, eyes and ears intent.
She finally found a spot where a chain-link fence could be pulled up, and pushed his body under, panting from the exertion. He was heavier than he looked, but at least the poles of the travois helped. Then she scuttled under, herself, and trudged with him, finding what looked like it had been a guard shack. She got them both inside, and collapsed, shaking, sliding down one grimy wall to sit in a heap on the floor. Sadb was tall and strong, but she’d been pushed to the limits of her endurance in the past couple of days.
Finally, she looked around, blearily, and managed to get to a sink beside a counter that held a dusty coffee maker. The sink was hardly clean, but when she moved the knobs, water came forth—rusty red at first, then clearing. Let’s hear it for plumbing, she thought, tiredly, drank from the stream, and managed to unearth a cup, so she could at least bathe Drust’s face. The prolonged unconsciousness had her worried.
A rattling sound outside got her to peek out the window, and she held very still indeed as she saw ghul milling around outside the chain-link fence. Ghul didn’t rely on eyes or noses to track people. But staying still was probably her best option for the moment, as she eased her shotgun back into her grip, and glanced towards the doors and windows. She’d bolted the door, good. The windows were surprisingly intact, but glass could be broken. She needed a more defensible spot. She hauled Drust with her, finding the men’s room after a moment. Small. Squalid. A couple of urinals and some indifferent spiders. Sadb hauled Drust in, and sat in the entry area, back against the wall, putting her feet right on the inwards-swinging door. And waited. It was all there was left to do, besides shooting any ghul that tried to get into the room with them. When Drust woke up . . . and it had to be a when, and not an if, in her mind . . . he could cobble parts from their radios together. Get them in touch with everyone else, so they could regroup with other defenders.
Sadb glanced down at Drust’s slack face, and counted his breaths as his chest moved. And tried not to wonder if she were counting out the seconds remaining in their lives, with them.
Far overhead, a dragon wheeled as ashes fell like snow all around him. As far as the gods could tell, while the outskirts of the city had fallen, the ghul and the Nahautl priests’ army had lost so many of their number, that the defenders should be able to turn this from a holding action, into a hard-won victory. They just needed to start pushing in the other direction now. Heimdall and Baldur were currently on the southern front, while Freyr was organizing troops to regroup and move on the attack against the army of the priests, and Tyr, Thor, and Sif were pushing the ghul back on the eastern side of town. Freya was downtown, healing people in the hospitals, with Loki there to guard her back, and Odin and Njord were patrolling. A few smaller mad godlings had crept close to the city in the past couple of hours, drawn by the beacon of light and power emanating from the Odinhall . . . but the gods were keeping that carefully modulated. As minimal a power output as they could, while still providing light to much of the city, and a defense against any larger-scale rockets that the Nahautl priest-army might have brought with them.
Sigrun, with Nith, was once more canvassing the highways. Pre-memory itched at the insides of their skulls. Vague recollections of a hydrogen spell going off, in the bay, near Pellicane Island.
She glanced down and watched an older-model motortruck that was heading northwest along Imperial Highway CI, letting ambulances pass it by, as it should, and passing through a checkpoint guarded by Burgundian soldiers. She’d have glanced away and discounted it, except that the truck then immediately turned off onto the Laurentum Parkway, heading for a marina on the bay. Behind her mask, Sigrun’s eyebrows rose. This section of the highway was inside of the defensive perimeter; just a half mile south, the buildings were crawling with ghul. But leaving the main road, at the moment, was tantamount to leaving the protection of the militia. There seemed to be a handful of soldiers squatting in the back of the truck . . . . Where are they going? There are no defensive positions at the marina.
A good question, Nith agreed, and veered slightly, following the motortruck, while they continued to keep watch on their surroundings for anything else that seemed out of place. Sigrun caught a glimpse of movement off to her left, at a chemical plant to the east of the bay, and pulled down lightning on a group of ghul that had gotten through the defenses. They fell, bodies burned and mangled, and she thought, Hopefully, whatever humans they were following can get away now, before returning her attention to their own quarry.
Now, the men had found themselves a boat in the marina, and appeared to be boarding it. Sigrun frowned. Unfortunately, it was daylight. She couldn’t race through the shadows to the back of the boat, surprising whoever was aboard. And they could just be trying to flee the city. There were certainly enough people fleeing to the north and east, by the roads. So why not by boat? And yet . . . as they cast off lines, the humans were invisible to othersight. Not the gray of most normal humans, but a void. An absence. They’re blood- or soul-bonded to someone.
Sigrun caught one of them looking up at Nith, holding a hand over his eyes to get a better view of the dragon, and Nith banked away, looking as casual as a hundred-foot-long dragon could manage. Does anyone have soul-bound servants or god-born in the area? she called out, touching the humming web of energy that hung between all the gods. Several humans who are impervious to othersight are boarding a ship at the marina.
Heimdall, to the south, responded first. No, all of my children are with me, fighting ghul.
And my children work to counter the battle-magics of the Nahautl priests and technomancers, Freya replied. The same response, from all the others, Odin adding, Taranis and the Morrigan, in Judea, say that none of their children are here in Burgundoi.
It could be completely innocent, but Sigrun didn’t have hours to trail along behind those on the ship, watching and waiting. A flash of pre-memory seared down the soul-cord between her and Nith . . . a light as bright as that which had started the universe, and pain. Sigrun twitched.
I remember seeing the Ceasterhild Brycgian, Nith said, slowly. The Citygate Bridge passed between the mainland and the outer peninsula, where the Odinhall was, and was considered one of the city’s landmarks. Sigrun hesitated. The location would make a good deal of sense, for someone who wished to attack the Odinhall directly, and wipe out most of the downtown area. It was a good location for a hydrogen spell activation, with much water to create the hydrogen flow, and enough salt water that it might even buffer the power use from the mad godl
ings’ notice. It made less sense as a move for an enemy who wanted to capture and hold the city for its resources . . . No, wait. Depending on the spell’s yield, it might not affect the outlying areas. The farms could be intact. The manufacturing districts might survive. And who says that this is even a military strike? None of the rest have been. She wavered. Nith, in my pre-memories, you’re burned almost to death from that spell . . . . Tenses slipped when she spoke of future memories. Gothic had no future tense to begin with, and memory was a thing of the past . . . and yet, pre-memory had yet to occur.
In my pre-memories, I am alone. This may not be the time or the place. Nith glanced back at her. But we are holding the line here. The bear-warriors and valkyrie fight alongside the humans. The gargoyles and the frost-giants are on the front lines. The gods are here. But the spell, if it is used, would be worse than anything this city has yet seen. I will take the risk, my love, if you will.
Sigrun closed her eyes, and pulled on seiðr, wrapping them in it. Land in the water ahead of the boat. I’ll fly down behind you, and land on the stern. With any luck, they’ll be quite busy looking at you . . . .
No. On any other day, I would approve of this tactic. But not today. Today, we do not separate. Nith’s voice held force, and after a moment, Sigrun acceded. She drew up every seiðr ward she could think of—things Kanmi and Minori had used over the years. Weaves that would direct heat away from her and Nith, into the air above them. Weaves that would absorb heat, and use it to power a shell that would deflect kinetic energy. I’m going to feel an idiot if they’re just taking the boat to retreat to where their families are . . . .
They landed in front of the ship before it could set out into the marina. Nith’s haunches reached the seafloor here, easily, splashing down in icy gray water. He reached out a massive paw, catching the bow of the vessel, preventing any forwards motion, and Sigrun caught the wild-eyed stares of the people aboard the boat. She raised her voice and called out, in pure, clear Latin, “Hands where I can see them!” Ludicrously, it made her think of her years as a Praetorian.
Their all glanced at each other, and Sigrun categorized them, automatically. Those three could be Gauls. Those two could be Nahautl. The last two were Goths. That in and of itself meant nothing; Burgundoi had millions of refugees at the moment, from all over the continent. But the fear in their eyes, the sidelong looks . . . Deserters, maybe. Not everyone on the line right now is a volunteer. There may be more important things that I should be doing . . . . “Strange time to go for a fishing trip,” Sigrun said, flatly. “The Roman Legion used to crucify deserters. I understand that the militia of Burgundoi doesn’t have that punishment anymore. I think they just strip you of your clothing and weapons, and send you out to the north, to die of exposure . . . assuming a bandit group doesn’t find you, first, of course.” She kept her voice even. “Why don’t you all just go back to your units, and we’ll say no more about this?”
The two Goths suddenly looked deeply apprehensive. “You’re Stormborn, aren’t you? You used to be human.” One of the men looked her in the eyes, and then had to look away. “Everything that’s happened . . . all of our cities in ruins . . . all the lives lost . . . it’s all the fault of the gods.” He blurted it out, rapidly, as if trying to convince her by pure rapidity.
No, Sigrun said, with quiet force. It is not the fault of the gods. Not entirely. Humanity has made all its own mistakes. She had to acknowledge that some of those were her errors.
Huginn, Odin’s raven, chose that moment to land on her shoulder, and both Goths took an apprehensive step backwards. “You were human,” the man blurted again. “You . . . you betrayed your own kind. All the god-born have. They should be helping us against the gods!”
The irrationality of his words made Sigrun blink behind her mask, even as one of the Gauls shook his head, his eyes suddenly empty. He spun and threw something over the edge of the boat, something that sparkled and glittered in the air. Nith exhaled before Sigrun could even speak. She’d been caught in the crux of her own justice-sense. Telling the man to die, freezing his body’s fluids into crystalline ice, without knowing what was in his hand, unconscionable. And yet, she’d been prepared by the looks in their eyes, and reached out with a tendril of thought, trying to catch the diamond spell-stone before it dipped below the waves. Screams of pain as they recoiled from Nith’s breath. The gem fell, its glitter lost against the waves. Too small for mortal eyes to see. She couldn’t catch it. The best she could do was to try to shatter it.
Her tendril of thought turned into a lash, and she directed it at everything in the area where the gem was falling. No coherent thoughts. No words. Just the need to make this not happen.
The spell-stone, caught in her wave of power, shattered. The pieces fell into the bay, each containing parts of the lethal spell, but not all of it. Sigrun ducked back, instinctively and uselessly, as the water under them bubbled, as if it were boiling, hydrogen and oxygen rising into the atmosphere in an invisible column. Nith! Veil! Now!
He responded, immediately, leaping into the other realm, just as the spell, behind them, had its second component piece engage. A single spark, injected into the hydrogen cloud that was rapidly ascending above the oxygen.
White light, and the sensation of being buffeted by solar winds. Sigrun’s mask protected her eyes, but Nith didn’t close his in time. She could feel nothing but pain from him for a moment, and then the brilliance began to fade. Wind howled around them, and her shields, overloaded, collapsed, and heat sprang in at them. It had taken less than a second, and Nith grunted in pain, and pulled them into the Veil.
Let me see, Stormborn said, leaping off his back. They were in her castle, and she had to tend to his wounds. Let me see how bad it is.
I can see with Veil senses, Nith acknowledged, grimly. But I cannot see your face with my eyes.
She hovered in the air beside his head, realizing that the frost giants were gathering all around them. His moonfire eyes were leaking black-silver blood, and had turned into black pits. I can heal this, she told him, and put her hands on his face.
Do we have time for such? His words were, as always, stoic. I cannot see as mortals see . . . but that will not keep me from fighting.
Yes! Eight hours here is scarcely five minutes in the mortal realm. This will not take me eight hours, my love. Sigrun Stormborn closed her eyes, and began to knit Niðhoggr’s wounds.
An hour later, perceptually, or half a minute later, in mortal time, they re-appeared, Niðhoggr’s wounds healed, even as a towering mushroom-shaped cloud formed over their heads. The boats that had been around them in the marina had been thrown several hundred yards, and the buildings around them, for two miles in any direction, were on fire. Sigrun stared around herself, dazed, and then looked up into the sky at the building cloud, which pierced through the veils of light sent out by the Odinhall’s defenses. “This was a fizzle,” she said, out loud, the howling vortex of wind tearing the words from her lips.
Yes. Compared to Cimbri, it was a fizzle. This is still over three square miles of destruction. Much power has been loosed. Mad ones will come. Nith sounded angry. We were so close!
Not close enough . . . Sigrun felt ill as the power of all the deaths in her near vicinity pulsed in her senses, rushing into her. She fought the sensation down, even as Nith launched himself out of the water, fighting the air currents around them. At least it didn’t level the city, Sigrun thought. The Odinhall stands. The buildings around us might be on fire, but they’re standing. That’s . . . something, isn’t it?
Inside a lavatory in a brick guard shack less than two miles away, Sadb regained consciousness, and realized that she was being carried. She managed to pull herself up a little, and Drust asked her, coughing, “Can you walk, Sadb-love?”
“I think so, yes.”
He let her slide to the ground, and they got out of the burning building. The ghul were on the ground, their bodies smoking piles of grease and ash . . . and Drust asked her,
“Where are we?”
“Chemical plant.”
“Oh, gods.” He caught her by the elbow. “Let’s get out of here before anything else explodes.”
They picked a direction that was away, heading more or less for the highway, and ran, as best they could. “At least we won’t have to worry about ghul for a while,” Drust called to her as they jogged. “I think the only reason we’re alive after . . . whatever that was . . . is because you found us an interior room without windows.”
_______________________
They were the lucky ones. While the area had been largely evacuated as the defenders pulled back, thousands had lost their lives. Thousands of defenders had been killed, although quite a few of the attackers had been slain, as well. Sigrun did her best to comfort herself with the realization that thousands were better than millions, but every life counted. Every life cost.
And of course, within hours, the handful of small mad godlings that they’d been able to destroy had become, instead, hundreds of tiny ones. Dozens of medium ones. The gods had split apart to start fending off the smallest mad ones, but as more and more began to swarm the region, the gods had to take their attention off the ghul and the army of the priests.
Nahautl battle-sorcerers began to tear at the walls of buildings in which the defenders were positioned, ripping the bricks away, and exposing the militia units to fire from rifles and enchanted arrows. The gargoyles, their numbers decimated, stayed in the fight, trying to hold off the enemy, only to be swarmed by ahuizotl, or targeted by machine-gun fire. As the fighting intensified, the mad godlings slipped past the gods, and began killing humans, raising them as fresh ghul, or simply left them to die. Sif raced in, trying to stop them, Thor and Tyr with her. The goddess of hearth and home was frantic with the need to defend this last bastion, and tore at the closest mad ones with all her strength . . . and when they died, they detonated, energy racing along the fault lines for which Burgundoi was known. Buildings swayed.
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