The Valkyrie (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 1)

by Deborah Davitt

  “You underestimate the power of the male imagination.” Adam had both hands on the wheel again. “Also, in case you haven’t noticed, you’re more than reasonably attractive. The women there could accuse you of trying to steal their livelihood.”

  Sigrun twisted in her seat, and the look of incredulity on her face made him laugh all the harder.

  And with that, there was little more conversation, for the next hour or so, as the green-brown marshes became the jade-green haze of the jungle, and their wheels ate the miles.

  ____________________

  Iunius 6, 1954 AC

  Twenty hours of driving, with a stop overnight in a substandard traveler’s hotel, brought them to the Tikali region at sundown on Sunnandæg night.

  Monandæg morning, Sigrun rose at dawn, as did all her fellow core-team lictors. Adam had talked them all into at least an hour of sparring before breakfast each morning that they could fit it into the schedule, and Sigrun had to chuckle at Kanmi’s skeptical expression as he stood, leaning against a wall beside Ehecatl outside the hotel. They were in a small, sunken courtyard usually used as a ball-court, currently partially flooded at one end from overnight rains.

  Adam and Trennus had already gotten started. Trennus had height and weight on Adam, and, when he pulled off his shirt to compensate for the muggy, thick air, looked surprisingly muscular and fit. He was good, but he didn’t have Adam’s level of speed or training. There had been a time in the Empire when every boxing match in an arena only ended when one man died. Generally speaking, that had been phased out; likewise, not every gladiatorial fight in the arena ended in a death, either. Nevertheless, there was a large segment of the population that enjoyed gladiatorial fighting and bare-knuckle, no-holds-barred fighting, and could watch it in person or on their far-viewers. Many enthusiasts participated in fighting collegia, as well. And because of the wide reach of the Empire, literally hundreds of fighting styles had been imported from dozens of cultures.

  Praetorians, in order to be able to do their jobs, needed to be able to counter whatever they happened to encounter. Adam’s style was bitahevn, the JDF’s system of self-defense, which derived from various western and eastern martial art systems, and had been developed over centuries as Roman and Judean traders had explored Asia and Indonesia. There were elements of something called muay thai in it, along with boxing, grappling, and wrestling. He’d picked up Nahautl knife-forms from Ehecatl, and after two years in India, had learned something he called mushti-yuddha, which was a hard-strikes school that employed kicking, punching, and elbows. He was all about speed and power and not being where his opponent thought he’d be.

  Trennus, laughing, admitted, “I’m not much good at the dodging around part. I generally just try to close and grapple.”

  “Dodging is a very good thing to learn when knives are involved,” Ehecatl called.

  “Typically, when I’ve used weapons, they’ve been swords, three-and-a-half feet long. They’re for taking the legs off horses . . . and people.” Trennus used his reach to his advantage, and closed on Adam again. “And again, typically, when fighting someone else carrying one, we try to get the swords off-line, close, and grapple.”

  “You can’t always rely on brute strength, Tren. Sooner or later, you will find someone bigger and stronger.”

  “Already have. I have older brothers, you know.” He got his arms around Adam’s waist and started to throw the shorter man to the ground . . . only to have Adam’s hands, thought-fast, slap lightly against his ears, simulating a move that would have damaged his eardrums, or at least stunned him and forced him to release his grip.

  They went back and forth a few times, and then they broke apart, beckoning Kanmi and Ehecatl in; Trennus moved to work with Ehecatl, while Adam beckoned to Kanmi. The Carthaginian shook his head, but went along with the exercise. “I’ll agree that a strong body helps make a strong mind,” he said, shortly, “but I’m no good at this. Never will be. But I’ll be your punching bag, if it makes you all feel better.”

  “Not really the point. The point is, we can all learn things from each other. I can’t learn how to do magic, I suspect, but I can learn about it. You might not learn how to field-strip a gun or rig a detonator from me, but you might learn something about the process.” Adam shrugged, and walked Kanmi through how to throw someone, from the shoulder, two or three different methods.

  “I’ll admit that I wish I’d known how to do this when I was a child, back before I knew I was a sorcerer,” Kanmi said, after a while, and gave Trennus a bright, tight smile. “You’re not the only one with older brothers.”

  Sigrun had mostly sat atop the high wall of the ball court, looking down, until Adam looked up and asked, “You joining us, or what?”

  “And miss watching my own private arena matches? I thought I might lounge up here like an Imperatrix and call someone to bring me grapes.”

  That made them all guffaw. Sigrun slid off the wall and dropped the full eighteen feet to the ground, not even thinking about it. Her boots squelched in the water, and a half-dozen mosquitoes immediately buzzed around her, sensing a new source of food. “The footing here is miserable.”

  “Talk to management about it.” Adam told her.

  “I might, at that.” She shrugged. “Who do you want me working with?”

  “Each in turn. Kanmi first.”

  She could, simply by virtue of what she was, and how she’d been trained, see the shifts in body language before Kanmi even moved. Caught and redirected his strikes, letting his energy, his inertia, flow past her, before simulating a throw, to avoid actually dumping him in the puddles and stone of the ball-court. He was faster than Trennus, and a little stronger than she’d expected, which made it a bit more fun. Sigrun nodded to him as they stepped apart. “You’ve worked for a living at some point, Kanmi. Would it spoil your mystique if I asked what you did before magic called you?”

  He snorted, and massaged a wrist where she’d demonstrated a throw’s set-up with a little too much vigor. “Everyone in my family, or almost, is a fisherman. My father was a guard on a merchant ship on the Mediterranean, but my grandfather was a fisherman. Still is. He used to take me and my brothers out on the boats when we were younger.” His eyes shifted to the side, his face closed. “But I haven’t hauled in a net since I was twelve.”

  Sigrun filed the fact away. His determined dislike of anyone he thought to be high-born, or who thought themselves, for that reason, better than he was, matched up with a desperately poor background. His dossier had hinted at some of that, but it had been vague on particulars.

  Trennus, on the other hand, was very fit indeed. “A lifetime of hunting deer and tramping through the hills behind my father and brothers. Twenty miles in a day was a light day during hunting season,” he admitted, chuckling under his breath. A petty king in Britannia in this day and age was very often an administrator and a trained lawyer, among other things, but Trennus’ father had played as hard as he worked, and usually donated half of the game that he hunted to the poor . . . or it fed his own family in their large stone house. As such, the tall man was physically powerful, and Sigrun made a point of not allowing him to get her into a hold . . . until Kanmi laughed and said, “What happens when someone his size actually does get ahold of you, Caetia?”

  Sigrun shrugged. “Grab me from behind,” she told Trennus, who flushed a little, but did as he was told . . . and she dropped to a crouch, shoving her hips back to create space, stepped a little to her right, and dropped her hand down to groin-level. “And then I grab and I twist,” Sigrun said, lightly. “Nature’s great equalizer.”

  “And that is when I drop my hands and clutch myself, and stagger away mewling,” Trennus said, laughing.

  “There’s also the fact that you could pick him up and throw him with one hand,” Ehecatl put in.

  Sigrun grimaced. “It doesn’t pay to advertise, Ehe.”

  Kanmi shook his head. “It’s all good in theory. But I can add force to any pun
ch I take with magic. I can throw someone harder with magic, than I can with my hands.”

  Sigrun glanced over at Adam, who had an oddly patient look on his face. “Of course you can,” Adam said. “It’s just that there are times when you’re not going to advertise that you’re a sorcerer. Or someone, somewhere, somehow, will figure out a way to cut you off from magic.” Adam looked at Kanmi, who was already opening his mouth. “Don’t,” ben Maor said, quickly. “I’ll listen to you both on the source of magic discussion . . . again . . . some other time. But that’s not what I really want to talk about right now.”

  “Let me put it this way. Punch me,” Sigrun told Kanmi.

  “What?”

  “Just punch me. Hard as you can.”

  Kanmi squinted at her. “This sounds like a set-up.”

  “That would be because it is. Hit me, Kanmi. Show me what you’re made of. Throw in some magic. I won’t mind if it lands.”

  “This could be fun,” Ehecatl said, finding a stone bench to sit on.

  “It’s the if it lands part that’s making me suspicious.” Kanmi frowned at her, and then punched, a hook aimed for her face, and she could feel energy behind it, even as her hand shot up . . . and she just caught his fist against her palm, and closed her fingers. Held it. Didn’t redirect the inertia into a throw.

  Kanmi looked up at her, his hand held, not in a bone-crushing grip, but still very much immobilized. Oddly, there was no affront in his face. Interest, but unlike many men she’d met in her life, no wounded ego at all. “So what you’re saying is, this is completely a waste of time for you?”

  “No.” Sigrun gave him a look. “I mean that Adam is correct. This is a useful exercise for all of us. Cross-training promotes flexibility. And gives us all a better understanding of many different opponents. None of you were trained in the Odinhall in Burgundoi. I was, for four years. All of the things I can do, were taught there, or I picked up on the Mongolian border, or up in the countries of far northern Europa, or from my fellow lictors. But I am what I am, and I can’t change it. I can barely even hide it. The rest of you are not so crippled in that. You can all choose to be . . . what you are not. You can be more than what you are today, or choose to appear to be less” Sigrun released Kanmi’s hand. “You are . . . extraordinarily fortunate. All of you.” She nodded to Adam. “I’m going to go eat, if you don’t mind.” Unconsciously, her phrasing softened, relaxed. Inasmuch as she was aware of it, she used the informal tone in order to demonstrate that Adam was her co-leader on the detail, to reinforce his status for the other, newer lictors.

  “What, the rest of them don’t get a shot at you?” Trennus asked, picking up his shirt to pull it on, covering his various tribal tattoos, and the amulets he wore once more.

  “Some other time, maybe,” Sigrun murmured.

  “I’m holding you to that,” Adam called after her, lightly, and she raised a hand in acknowledgement, before heading up the stairs out of the ball court and back to the hotel.

  The practice, the team-building, as Adam called it, had taken an hour. And now, they needed to get to work. They were divided into teams today. Trennus and Kanmi were to visit a local ley-energy platform, newly built; Adam and Livorus were heading into the city center to speak with the regional nobles and the leader of the local Roman garrisons. And Sigrun and Ehecatl were assigned to speak with the local religious leaders. “That is, actually, exactly how our contact in Tenochtitlan said to contact the leader of the rebels. To get in touch with the temple of Chaac, which is engaged in a serious rivalry with the regional temple of Tlaloc. Similar gods, different names.” Livorus raised his eyebrows. “When you enter that temple, and engage one of the priests in conversation, mention that you’ve heard the names of some of the ancient rulers of Quecha. Eighteen Rabbit. Head on Earth. Smoke Jaguar.” Livorus held up a hand. “Please, try not to laugh. What would your names render as, if translated, pray?”

  “Battle-rune,” Sigrun replied promptly. “And the last name means spear.” Her lips quirked. “Battle-Rune Spear, as opposed to Eighteen Rabbit?”

  “Windserpent Obsidian Knife,” Ehecatl put in, grinning. “One of the lesser names of Quetzalcoatl. It has a little more dignity than Head on Earth, yes.”

  “Man, son of Light,” Adam replied, looking up at the ceiling. “I’m really not making that up.”

  “ . . . er, strong,” Trennus said, after a moment. “From the family of the good bear.” He fidgeted at the table. “I think that does beat Head on Earth.”

  Kanmi shook his head. “Don’t ask me to participate in the party game here. I’m named for some dead king of Carthage or another. I’m sure it’s something embarrassing like ‘he eats babies for breakfast.’” He looked around the table. “So, where’s this ley-facility located?”

  Chapter VII: Investigations

  Welcome to Hellas, the land of Socrates, Aristotle, Plato, Euripides, Aeschylus, and Sophocles! Enjoy our white sand beaches and a culture of hospitality that goes back to Homeric times. Book a tour of the Parthenon or journey to fabled Delphi to delve into the mysteries of your future in a private consultation with a Pythian sibyl. See the Colossus of Rhodes (rebuilt in 76 AC, on the site of the original), or experience the bounty of the Ephesian Artemis with her hundreds of breasts. Debate philosophy on the campus of the University of Athens in the morning, take in a play or listen to a poetry reading in the afternoon, feast on lamb and fish and drink good wine in the evening, and know that, in the morning, whatever happens in Hellas, stays in Hellas.

  —The Hellene Board of Tourism, 1951 AC

  There is a lively debate as to what allows the Pythias of Delphi to access their powers here, as no other place in the world. Some attribute the best prophecies of antiquity to ethylene vapors which once rose from the rocks of the caves. These were, however, cut off after a series of earthquakes in 645 AC. There were no god-born of Apollo in residence at the temple as it was being rebuilt.

  The priests and priestesses, in order to maintain their livelihoods, and their connection to their god, turned to a variety of psychotropic compounds, some imported from India, or as far away as Caesaria Aquilonis and Caesaria Australis. It worked; the Oracle at Delphi was saved, and continues to dispense good, if cryptic advice to this day.

  In truth, god-born Pythias do not require any such chemical intervention; their gift of prophecy travels with them, no matter where in the world they might be. But remarkably, that gift comes to its fullest potential only here, in sacred Delphi—in the total absence of the ethylene vapors that once were the region’s hallmarks. Truly, Apollo must smile on this place as no other.

  Some travelers to Delphi have complained of headaches, migraines, nausea, and vivid hallucinations regarding events in the future or the past. All tap water in the region is checked routinely by Imperial specialists, and rates highly for its potability. Air quality in the region is also monitored, and is usually considered better than that of Rome or Athens. Travelers with pre-existing medical conditions such as heart disease, high blood pressure, and pulmonary diseases such as tuberculosis are, however, advised to exercise caution when exploring the area around the temple by foot, as they should in any mountainous region.

  Travelers are also warned not to accept offers of prophecy from any person outside of the Temple grounds; there are fakes, charlatans, and addicts all through the countryside who will invent prophecy and mutter incomprehensible words for a few small coins. These are beggars, and should not be trusted. Only accept real, one-hundred-percent verifiable prophecies given by a genuine Pythia.

  —The Delphic Board of Tourism, 1953 AC

  Travelers are advised that organic and chemical compounds legal in Hellas are not necessarily legal elsewhere in the Empire, and any illegal substances found in your suitcases will be confiscated, and you will be subjected to a fine of no less than two aurei for the attempted importation of such drugs without a pharmaceutical license, doctor’s prescription, or writ of religious dispensation.


  Travelers are further advised that many social diseases are common in Hellas, and to exercise caution and sobriety in their excursions in this land. Condoms are available for free in all hostelries, courtesy of the Imperial Council of Physicians.

  —The Imperial Department of Travel, 1954 AC

  The rumors of the prevalence of social diseases in Hellas are greatly exaggerated! Our brothels are subjected to the same rigorous licensing standards as any other portion of the Empire, and our incidence of disease in the rest of the population is below five point eight percent.

  —The Hellene Anti-Defamation League

  ______________________

  Iunius 6, 1954 AC

  “Agent Caetia?” The words were in Latin, and caught Sigrun’s ear as she passed by the front desk with Adam as they headed for the front door.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a call for you. Long-distance, from Hellas. Will you accept it?”

  Sigrun winced. There was only one person who’d be calling her from Hellas. “Is there a private place I can take the call?” she asked, shifting her shoulders uncomfortably.

  “Of course—you can use the manager’s office.”

  Sigrun stepped into the tile-walled office, dodging around a rubber tree in a pot—people around here seemed to be intensely fond of bringing jungle plants indoors, for some reason—and picked up the black phone on its cradle on the desk, studying the flashing lights at the base, below the rotating dial. She pressed the red light to transfer the call. “Waes hael,” she said, after a moment. No Latin ave. She knew who this was.

  “Sigrun!”

  Her little sister had always greeted her in exactly this way, a cry of pure joy. For a moment, Sigrun was lost in a flash of memory.