The Goddess Denied (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 2)

by Deborah Davitt

  “Why has their government given up?” Zaya demanded. “It’s only been two years!”

  “They haven’t given up. They’re just withdrawing their civilians to wait for the volcanoes to settle, and the mad godlings to leave, before returning.” Erida murmured. “If they can. Their neighbors will not be welcoming for long. That large of a displaced population? It dwarfs our refugee issues here, even with all the problems of Hellas, Carthage, and the northern kingdoms. All of those places could at least still sustain some life and commerce inside protected zones. The volcanoes of Nippon are not permitting that.”

  Zhi’s outline rippled. Withdrawing the gods, god-born, sorcerers, summoners, and spirits may be a valid tactic, presenting the godlings with nothing worth eating. His tone was dubious, however. They will, however, just follow their prey. To new lands. And when they run out of humans with power to feed upon, they will feed on the life-energies of every other human there is. As a cow grazes in a pasture.

  “In the end, the soldiers and their god-born and sorcerers can only do so much,” Erida countered. “They can fight the ghul the godlings raise. But they can’t fight the mad ones. Not unless their god-born are very powerful.” Erida rubbed at her eyes. “Their gods need to stabilize the situation. That’s . . . probably the thought behind the evacuation. Get the people out, and let the gods that remain fight the mad ones in a location that humans won’t be affected by the energy dispersals. Then let the humans return, once the land settles.”

  “Is there no way in which the humans can fight on their own?” Zaya asked. “Some sort of infused device? Enchanted missiles?”

  Maccis muttered, “Ley-based bombs. Maybe . . . make them overfeed.”

  I am not sure what would happen if they did overfeed. Zhi’s voice was . . . uncomfortable. I had to withdraw to the Veil after consuming one of them, when it was relatively small. They have no such recourse, or so it seems. Not one of them, as yet, has entered the Veil. If they had, we would all know it. And I am grateful for that. Because then they might be undefeatable.

  The news broadcast went on, pitilessly.

  “. . . The Mongol Khanate has continued its retreat, breaking off its alliance-of-convenience with India. Reports out of Beijing indicate that the Khanate had sued for peace before communications were broken off entirely. The nomadic nature of the Khanate’s government, and the mountainous region into which they have retreated has made it difficult for western reporters and even Roman diplomats to gain access to the current Great Khan to ascertain why he has changed his course so abruptly, but repeated earthquakes deep in Mongolia suggest that mad god activity may be the root cause. In the meantime, the konung of Raccia has relocated his capital from Novgorod to Chelyaby, some fourteen hundred miles further east, while the Raccian military has attempted to regroup in its effort to drive out the invading ettin, fenris, lindworms, and grendels, which have been pushing into Raccian territory for decades now.”

  Maccis winced. Part of him wanted to be up there, now, calling to the fenris to awaken. To come south, and be . . . human again. So many of them had now been born in the wild, to maddened parents. The parents didn’t remember being human, and their pups, therefore, had no speech. It made awakening them even harder for his mother than before. “So what other good news do we have tonight?” he muttered, sliding his fingers loosely through Zaya’s. He was surprised by how small her hands seemed; he really had grown a lot in the past two years.

  As if in response, the news anchor switched out the piece of paper in front of her. “Potentia ad Populum continued in its protests in Gaul and Novo Gaul today, calling for an end to the stratified citizenship system of the Roman Empire. Their contention is that sorcerers, ley-mages, summoners, god-born, and even the gods themselves, are in part responsible for the presence of the mad gods in the world today, and that the current system, which they claim gives those individuals rights outside those of normal citizens, should be ended, as a first step towards restoring order and justice to the Empire. Local gardia units were called in to disperse the crowds when the protests became a riot in Lutetia Parisiorum, and in Divodurum in Novo Gaul.” The anchor paused, and brushed her dark hair out of her eyes. “Fighting continued on the Quecha-Tawantinsuyu border today, with Legion troops attempting to keep Quechan soldiers from entering the lands of the neighboring subject nation. Quechan rebels have declared for the better part of two decades that they wish to see their own government enact reforms similar to those instituted by god-empress Mamaquilla, who gave up temporal power to a new god-born empress and a bicameral ‘senate’ several years ago. These rebels have taken refuge in Tawantinsuyu, where Quechan governmental forces could not reach them without triggering an international incident. Quechan rulers have accused the Tawantinsuyan government of harboring these rebels, and today crossed the border in order to attack the rebel camps . . . which led to an armed skirmish between them, Tawantinsuyu’s troops, and the Legion.”

  Maccis sank lower into the couch. “I’m sorry I asked.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not over yet,” Erida said, quietly.

  “Today’s top story, however, comes from the top of the world. Seismologists have long understood that the earth’s crust is thicker around the equator and thinner at the poles, because the earth is not a perfectly-formed sphere. And the Arctic Sea, itself, is a shallow ocean, under its blanket of ice.” The anchor paused. She was an old hand at delivering bad news, but even this seemed to disquiet her. “A volcano of some sort erupted far below the ice sheet today, and continues to do so, judging from seismic activity. Sea levels have already risen six inches since the Greenland sheet began to break apart a year ago. While this does not sound like a large amount, please consider that this kind of change usually takes a century to occur, not a single year, and has already caused cities like Londonium and Lutetia and Venetia to implement flood control measures. Scientists say there is no cause to evacuate coastal areas—”

  Maccis was already nodding, flushing a little. He’d thought he’d be filling sandbags in Britannia a year ago, but he’d actually wound up dealing with Greenland refugees, instead. “—and they further stress that if the eruption ceases shortly, there should be no further reason for alarm. However, if this activity continues at its current rate, the polar ice sheet could begin to show cracks within the next several months, and some of the more alarmist speculation has water levels rising three to four feet, worldwide, within the next three years.”

  Zaya looked up. “Athim and Deiana are in Londonium. Trying to work on levee systems and persuading the local spirits to help build those.” Her voice was concerned.

  The sea levels won’t rise tomorrow, Zhi said, quietly. I would go and investigate, except that these volcanoes are under . . . considerable amounts of water. It is a predicament. A water spirit could investigate, but might not be able to affect the fire and stone. I could affect the fire, but I cannot, very likely, reach the eruption.

  “And I am out of stone elementals with whom I might bargain,” Erida said, quietly. “Maccis, dear, I’ll order the car around for you.”

  “There’s no need,” he said, hastily. “I can walk. No one really bothers me when I go on all fours.”

  Erida’s eyebrows rose. “I would be remiss if I did not return you safely to your parents.”

  Maccis winced a little. The last thing he wanted—other than incurring Erida and Zhi’s wrath—was to look like he was taking advantage of Zaya and her family’s wealth, or putting on airs. “Really, I don’t want to put you to the trouble. A good run usually clears my head, anyway.”

  Ten minutes after that, he wasn’t entirely sure how he’d lost the argument, but he was tired, and he wasn’t going to fight the luxury of driving somewhere in a motorcar with no one else in the seat beside him, digging into his ribs.

  What none of them noticed as he left, because Erida had muted the far-viewer so that they could say their farewells, was a close-up of Tyre harbor, where a destroyer was in dry-dock. A hole
was being patched in its side, and the scrolling letters below indicated that the vessel had been attacked by the kraken two years before, and was finally completing its repairs. The camera panned to the ‘weapon’ that the kraken had used to impale the ship, as it sat, alone and covered by dried seaweed and coral, beside an abandoned shrine of Dagon. It was a particularly ancient-looking and ugly statue. Mesopotamian, certainly, and over fifteen feet tall, the creature depicted had the mouth of a scorpion, a scorpion’s claws in place of hands, and enormous, folded wings. Various professors of archaeology were interviewed, all in varying stages of eloquent excitement. Apparently, finding such a thing at the bottom of the Mediterranean, so close to Cyprus, was highly unusual. The statue had surely weighed over a ton, an enormous weight to be carried by ships of its evident era. Some were apparently calling it a fraud or a hoax, while others seemed to wish to maintain an open mind, until they could get a team down to translate the writings chiseled into its sides, which years of coral growth and silt had largely obscured.

  Chapter 18: Enduring

  Ex nihilo nihil fit. From nothing, nothing comes. It is the single maxim to which summoning, sorcery, and science must all agree. Without motive force, without energy, without a spark, a motorcar does not run. A sorcerer cannot create fire. A ley-mage cannot shape stone. And a summoner cannot bargain with a spirit without having something which to give in return for services rendered. Everything has a price.

  And in a world gone mad, is there any sacrifice too great to make, to try to save it? By this, I mean, of course, personal sacrifice. The mere shedding of another’s blood is, in the end, no great cost to you, personally. The shedding of a son or daughter’s blood? Perhaps a little more. But the greatest sacrifice that someone can make, is to lay down his or her own life, for a friend. In the dark. When it is possible that no one will ever know what was done, or what was lost.

  —Trennus Matrugena, “The Mortal made Divine: In Memoriam.” September 1, 1998 AC

  ______________________

  Martius 15, 1992 AC

  “. . . today marks the twelfth anniversary of the assassination of retired propraetor, Antonius Valerius Livorus. His eldest son, Senator Marcus Valerius Livorus, and daughter, Aquila Valeria Caesarius, wife of the third son of the reigning Imperator, marked the day, as usual, with offerings of flowers, incense, and a sacrificial dove at their father’s grave, in spite of driving rain and howling winds. It’s nice to see that filial piety still exists, even in these trying times.”

  Adam ben Maor looked up at that particular news report, and grimaced. “I think the world waited until you died to go straight to gehenna,” he told Livorus’ ghost, grimly. “A few quiet words from you in the right ears, and we might have gotten Persia to the peace table. A few more words, and Potentia ad Populum wouldn’t have the traction it has currently in its seething hatred for the nobility, the sorcerers, the ley-mages, the god-born . . . .”

  He shook his head again. He had the horrible feeling that no matter how much time he put in with Judean Intelligence, cracking codes, looking through satellite photographs . . . everything he did right now, was just . . . marking time. Marking time till he died, or the world did. Whichever came first. Sigrun was right. Sophia’s despair is a disease, and it’s infectious.

  He was doing his best. He’d pulled a few strings with his intel connections, and the people he still knew at the Temple Archives, and gotten them at least talking with Trennus, Erida, and young Zaya. Every time that young woman mentioned, even half-heartedly, summoning the godslayers, Adam felt chills run down his spine. Is that how it’s going to happen? Is that how I’m going to become a monster? Because some child is going to say a few magic words over my corpse, and then . . . presto. One godslayer. Made to order. Hope the damned thing doesn’t mind the arthritis. Thank god Sigrun only listens to Sophia’s ramblings with one ear by this point. Otherwise, she’d have put it together by now.

  “. . . in more troubling news, flooding continues to inundate downtown Londonium, and the coastline of Britannia and northern Gaul. The Tamesis river remains three feet above flood stage, and the Sequana in Lutetia Parisiorum is three and a half feet above flood stage as well. Venetia’s lagoon, already in a perpetual state of flood, has risen almost four feet, and water is working its way into the lower levels of buildings there. Ships at sea in the Mediterranean are urged to exercise caution, as sounding charts are out of date, and on attempting to make anchor in many harbors, crews should pay special attention to marker buoys, which indicate poured-stone piers that are currently underwater . . . .”

  Adam put his hands on the table to lever himself to his feet, pushing the chair back carefully with stiff legs. Damn it. He couldn’t feel his feet. He’d tried walking on them numb a few times of late, as he’d been perfectly capable of doing as a younger man, and had promptly set them down wrong, rolled over his own toes, and fallen forwards, heavily, managing to catch himself against a wall before actually hitting the ground. He therefore knew better. Let the blood work its way back through the tissues, and nevermind how long it takes . . . just don’t let Sig catch me standing here half-up, half-down . . . .

  Too late. The back door opened and closed, and before he could recover and make himself look as if he’d just been standing and turning to head to the kitchen, Sigrun was at his side, her hand curling under his left arm, gently. “Stop it,” he snapped at her. “I’m fine. I just wanted to go put my shoes on and go out.”

  He hated himself. He hated the irascibility in his own voice, the fact that he knew perfectly well he was taking out his bad temper at his own uselessness on her. He hated the way her face closed down as she let her hand drop. “I’m sorry,” Sigrun told him, her voice so calm, he knew it was a lie. “Your father’s cane is upstairs. I could get that for you.” Neutral tone.

  “I don’t need a cane.” Adam said between his teeth. “I still try to make it on the sparring mats.”

  He did. Mostly to oversee training. He’d do a few throws, feel winded, and couldn’t allow himself to be thrown anymore. He was teaching Maccis the neck breaks and other kill moves that the young man would probably wind up needing in special forces, and other than that . . . trying not to let Trennus maul him. He couldn’t keep up with the young people anymore . . . and Trennus, damn him, was older than he was, and yet, was still young. And that was on days when the arthritis in his knees and hips let him move around with any real ease. He’d been a warrior. He’d used his body very hard for forty years. And now, the bills were coming due. And both he and Sigrun knew it. So why in god’s name am I snapping at her? Why can’t I stop the words before they come out of my mouth?

  Sigrun lowered her head slightly. “My mistake,” she told him, quietly. “I finished pulling all the weeds in the yard. I left the pruning for you, though, since I know you enjoy it.”

  Adam leaned the knuckles of one hand on the table, for discreet balance, and ran his left hand over his hair in exasperation. Why won’t she fight me? Where did all her spark go? A belated realization . . . Sigrun had never really fought him, if she could avoid it. She’d hold her ground on a principle, but while they’d joked and teased and matched wits together, she’d never really fought him. And he’d never really wanted to fight her, either. Fighting had always meant that someone, somewhere, had failed in their job. And of course . . . she only fights equals. Or at least, that’s the rule when people give her the option. Understanding was bitter in his mouth. He was picking a fight out of frustration. At what the world looked like. At his inability to do anything about it. At his own age and increasing debility. At her youth and beauty, which he treasured. “Sig,” Adam said, reaching out and touching her cheek, lightly. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s of no moment,” she assured him, quietly. “How long do you plan to be out? I was going to bake some bread, so you wouldn’t have to go to the corner market while I’m away.”

  Adam gritted his teeth at the reminder. She’d been back in Judea for less than three
months this time. She’d forced herself out of bed every morning to work with the Praetorians, and, almost all of her so-called spare time had been spent at the refugee camps. And now she was being sent back up into Germania, as the people there retreated towards the Alps. Gotaland and Cimbri had fallen, though there were hold-out groups of jotun and fenris up in the north. When they’d last heard from him, Erikir had been with them. “Thought I might drive down into the Old City.”

  Their bedroom was upstairs. He was feeling too stubborn at the moment to let her fetch him a pair of shoes, so he toiled his way up, and stopped in the bedroom, looking at the nightstand. He opened the top drawer, and found the locked gun-case inside. On opening it, Caliburn looked much as it had last year, when he’d last cleaned and oiled the god-touched weapon. It was still a semi-automatic pistol, cold and gray, with a single sunburst mark on the handle. It felt heavy and right in his hand, and he dug out the concealed-carry harness, and strapped it in place. Slid the gun to the small of his back and pulled out a light traveling cloak that he’d had for . . . god. Forty years or so. This was the one he’d been wearing in Ponca, if he remembered correctly. His other favorite, he’d used to hold Kanmi’s bones, and his friend’s carbonized remains had been buried in it. This one was good, solid wool. Practically indestructible, if a little out of style. Like me, I suppose. Though the wool might outlast me. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, trying to reach down to tie his shoes, then levering his legs up. Attacking the problem from different angles.