“And what about the kingdoms you will pass through?” asked O’Connell, his brows narrowed. “What about their gods? What if they don’t agree with your passage?”
“I have someone working on that,” said Rory with a smile, hoping that person suceeded.
* * *
Tengri sat on the mat on the floor, the scent of incense rising from the sconces in the four corners of the room. The doors to the veranda were open, letting in the fragrance of the gardens below as well, and the light of the moon above.
He could feel that light, even if he couldn’t see it through his closed eyelids. The scents and sounds were on the edge of his awareness. The rest of his mind quested in the spheres above the world, searching for the mind of a god.
He had already visited the gods of the Angles and the Britains, who really were just alternate manifestations of the deities of the Eirish. There were some slight differences, based on the beliefs of their worshippers. There were more similarities, and a close link between the energy sources that were the actual deities. Much as he had been before taking a permanent organic form.
Now he was seeking for Tiw, the King of the Gods of the Geats. Wodin was also one of the gods of this people, as Thunor and Frige, who were alternate aspects of the Norse and Frank Gods. Tiw was not in those pantheons, and received most of the prayer energy of the Geats, making him supreme in their lands. And Geatland was one of the Kingdoms the Eirish army would have to traverse to make it into the land of the Franks. If their gods didn’t approve, that passage would become impossible.
And it would be nice if their warriors would not only fail to oppose the passage, but join in the campaign was well, thought the demigod.
Who are you? roared a voice of power in his mind, almost ejecting him from his trance state.
Tengri, once the sky god of the Turks.
Once?
My brother, Erlic, had my worshippers killed. And because of that, I was ejected from the realm of the divine and became a walking god, really no god at all.
And what do you want with me? asked the god, his confusion coming through the thoughts.
Tengri knew the god had no idea about walking gods. He hadn’t when he had been nothing but a divine power, without the real personality that he had developed since his fall. Walking gods did not occur very often, the last known thousands of years before. After that the tribes of the world had remained stable. Their borderlands might be conquered at one time, their people might be the invader of others, but the core populations of tribes continued to worship their gods in their core lands. Until Erlic had come along to change the equation.
We wish to stop Erlic before he kills more people, more populations of peoples, and ejects more gods from the divine. He wishes to make himself the only god on this world.
Impossible, thought Tiw. No one will throw me out of my heaven. The superior arrogance of the god came through the thought transmission, the disbelief than anything could be as powerful as it was. And definitely not more powerful.
Tengri had run into the same argument from the other deities he had talked to. Those, so far at least, had been different aspects of the Eirish Gods, and had been relatively easy to convince, since Morrigan had already agreed with him. Her thoughts rang true with them, though they had still resisted somewhat.
Look into my mind, thought Tengri, concentrating on his own fall from heaven. Know that it is the truth, and that no god is immune.
It took some minutes for Tiw to run through the images in the demigod’s mind. At the end of that period Tengri could feel the anger radiating from the god.
Your brother will not do that to me, proclaimed the arrogant god, and Tengri thought he had lost. But I will not wait for him to come to my lands with his army of death. The Eirish can march through my lands, they and their priests. And my people will join with them, to swell their force.
The presence of the god faded, leaving Tengri to smile where he sat. Another god, another people, added to the crusade. Things were looking up, though he wasn’t sure they would have enough even if all the peoples of the west jumped aboard. Still, the more they had, the better the chance.
* * *
“These are the new apprentices, Master,” said Bastet, looking into the eyes of Aepep, doubt on her face.
Marcus was also appraising the Eirish recruits, not liking what he saw. While some looked promising enough, the younger sons and daughters of nobles or prosperous merchants, others had the look of street urchins about them. He closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated his second sight on the hundred odd people. They looked much more promising to that view, all radiating the natural aura of magic needed to control the arcane arts. In varying degrees, of course, but having it at all was the important thing, since that would allow them to absorb the training that would increase the power of that aura. Maybe.
“They are yours to train, Marcus,” said Aepep, looking over at his most advanced apprentice.
Marcus looked at the man in surprise. “Me, Master?”
“They require rudimentary instruction,” said the master, nodding. “You are as qualified as I to give them that. And I can see the question in your eyes. I will be involved in the most important task of all. Turning all of you into the adepts you need to be. Except for you, Marcus. You I will make a master.”
Marcus stared open mouthed at Aepep, unable to believe what the man was saying. It took decades to achieve master status, and he had only been studying the magical arts for one decade.
“Close your mouth, boy, before an insect decides he wants to fly in,” chided the master with a smile. “We need senior mages, and if they aren’t available, we will have to make them. So, whether you believe you are worth it or not, you will achieve master status before we campaign with our new king.
“Now, we need to assess this group for natural talents, such as they may be, then divide them up into classes. After which, all of my old apprentices will begin their lessons. That will be in the mornings and afternoons. You will have other duties in the evening.”
“What other duties, Master?” asked Bastet in confusion.
“Your lessons with me,” said the smiling master, listening to the groans of the young people. “Oh, you will get some sleep. Not much, but believe me when I say it will be a deep slumber, when you can get it.”
* * *
“Can you sign your name, lad?” asked the old sergeant in the undress uniform of the imperial guard, looking with a jaundiced eye at the young man standing in front of him.
“That I can, sir,” answered Conner O’Kelly, shuffling from one foot to the other. Many of the farm boys here to sign with the army of the kingdom couldn’t, and Conner was proud of his ability to read. His father had intended for him to become one of the priesthood, and he had studied with a monastic order for a year before being deemed unsuitable for vestments due to his ill-disciplined nature. Then he had gone into the carpentry trade, where reading and writing were a definite plus for reading plans and diagrams.
“My friends may have to make their mark, if that is fine with your lordship.” He glanced back at Caomh and Faelan, two young men he had grown up with, and like him, tired of looking at the rear end of a mule day in and out. Only they hadn’t even gained the skills to move off the farm.
The sergeant laughed. “I am no lord, and most of my men can neither read or write.” He pointed a finger at Connor. “You will be an exception, and if you live long enough you might find yourself a sergeant.”
Connor smiled back. He had heard that the kingdom was signing every able-bodied man they could, and that the pay was good. That had been enough. Though there had been a retired mercenary in his village who owned pub. The man had cautioned him that most soldiers didn’t come back to spend their gains, but like all young men Connor and his friends believed in their own invulnerability. It might happen to someone else, but never to them. They would become the hero of his own story, of course.
“I want to be a musketman,” bl
urted Caomh.
Connor wanted to be on a gun crew himself, to serve a field piece as it sent heavy balls into the enemy. Someplace where he could use his ability to use math. He was soon disabused of that notion.
“We have plenty of artillerymen, with more coming from the fleet,” said the sergeant after a laugh. “And musketmen are recruited from experienced soldiers, those we are sure will stand their ground and move where we want them to. You three don’t even know which end of a pike to hold, and will have to become proficient with polearm and sword before you’re entrusted with firearms. Now, do you want to sign or not? Because there are plenty behind you who will.”
Connor leaned over and signed his name to the offered piece of paper, followed by the brothers making their mark.
“Good lads,” said the sergeant, his smile changing, taking on a harsher aspect. “Now report to the tent over there to get fitted for uniforms. And know you this. Desertion is a capital offense. Meaning you will be hanged if you don’t toe the line and do as you’re told.”
“When do we fight?” asked an anxious Faelan, attempting to act tough and failing.
“In the spring,” answered the sergeant, staring at the lad who was now less than horse-crap to the sub-officer’s way of thinking. “We don’t campaign in the winter, and it will take that long to teach plow pushers like yourselves how to tell your right foot from your left. Now away with you.”
Connor motioned for the others to follow and hurried toward the indicated tent. He didn’t want to start off his career in the army already in trouble with the leaders. The people in the tent fitted them for uniforms, then let them change outside, throwing their old clothing into a pile. Then it was line up with other new recruits to be marched to the drill field, where they spent the rest of the day marching in formation back and forth. They were at it until the sun went down, at which time they were fed a plain but filling meal. Then into their beds, a straw mat and a blanket on the hard ground.
The next week was more marching. And more. More than they had ever thought possible, back and forth in limitless evolutions of the small fields. A lot of the new recruits complained when they thought no one was listening. They wanted to know when they were going to get armor, when they would get weapons training, when they were going to do something soldierly. They thought no one was listening, but they were wrong.
“I have heard that many of you are questioning your training,” said the old man who strode back in forth in front of them, speaking in a carrying voice. “You want to know when you will get armor. When you will get swords. First, we have to find out if you are worthy of arming and armoring. Some of you may only be good for moving supplies, or as decoys for the enemy to charge. Until we discover that, you will continue to march until your legs feel like they are about to fall off. Then, those deemed worthy will get armor. And you will then march with that weight while it rubs your skin raw, until you are toughened to the point where you might think you are soldiers.”
The man stopped for a moment, seeing the smiles on some of the faces at the word soldiers. “And you would be wrong. None of you will be soldiers until you have faced the enemy, seen blood spurting, smelled the stench of loosened bowels. Maybe even vomited your guts out while trying to keep your head on your shoulders. Survive that, stand without calling for your mothers and running for the hills, and you will be soldiers. Now fall out and into you marching companies. You have a long way to go, and we don’t have much time.”
There were soft groans, everyone being careful not to be singled out. The rest of the day passed as most of the others, marching back and forth, changing formations, going from column to line and back. The next morning was something new, as they shouldered bags of rocks and went on their first road march, walking miles of road into the hills surrounding the capital. Some fell out, some fell over, but most made it. There were few physical weaklings in their group, and Connor was proud to have made it to the end of the march among the leaders.
Chapter Fifteen
“We would see your king,” said the muscular man in accented Gaelic. He wore archaic armor of beautiful construction, shining in the sun, his red hair like burnished copper, his skin a tint of gold. He would have attracted the attention of everyone in the area, if not for the woman who stood beside him. She was taller than most men, and of breathtaking beauty. Hair of burnished gold contrasted with fair skin, and her finely wrought chainmail glinted in the sun.
“And who would we say is calling,” said the sneering officer who bared their way, hand on his sword hilt. A quartet of guardsmen stood behind him, also in states of readiness, though they seemed smarter than their leader, showing their discomfort at being confronted by what they were sure were beings of great power.
“I will tell him when I see him,” said the man, glaring at the officer with a gaze that beat down upon the man with a physical force.
“I would speak with the other god who walks among you,” said the woman in a voice that seemed to echo between the stars.
“What have we here?” said a commanding voice from behind the officer.
“My Lord,” stammered the officer, breaking the gaze of the woman. “These people demanded to talk to the king. Then said something about the god that walks among us.”
“I am Duke Connor Flannery, one of the king’s generals,” said the nobleman, making eye contact with the man and holding it. “What can we do for my Lord and Lady?”
* * *
Tengri looked over the two walking gods as he came up to the pair. They looked powerful enough, though nowhere near as strong as they had been in the realm of the divine. If he recalled correctly, the male, Perun by name, was the storm god of many of the Slavic peoples, a deity of lightning and thunder, who had held great power in his heaven. That was much the same position he had held among his own people, and in a way it was gratifying to think that he himself had not been the only sky god to be struck down. The woman he didn’t recognized, except to note that she was of divine origin, and beautiful beyond belief. Perfect of face and body, if one liked a woman who looked like she could take the heads from an entire company without breaking a sweat.
“I am Tengri,” he said to the pair, giving a slight bow.
“And where is the king we have come to see?” asked the male, Perun, turning his arrogant gaze on the Turkish demigod.
“I would battle this one,” said the woman, glaring at Tengri. “I would be leader here, and you are the one I must unseat.”
“We have agreed that I would be the leader,” growled Perun in a voice deep as thunder.
“We made no such agreement,” said the woman, shaking her head. “You put forth your demand, and I ignored you.”
“And you are?” asked Tengri, looking straight into the blue orbs of the once goddess.
“I am Freya, goddess of the Norse,” she said, the ice of the north dripping from every word. “And you are Tengri, god of these damned nomads who killed my worshippers. For that you shall pay.”
The woman held forth a yard-long staff. With a shake of her hand it grew into an eight-foot spear, shining in the light of the sun. She crouched, holding the spear at the ready.
“You will fight me, damn you,” she shouted in a voice that carried over the field.
“So, you would have dominance here,” said Tengri, dropping his cloak, his own mail shining in the light of day. He pulled his sword from his sheath, its blade glowing. “To the first blood?”
“To the death,” shouted the woman, springing forward, murderous rage in her eyes.
Tengri leapt back, avoiding the point of the spear that would have spitted him despite his divine armor if he hadn’t moved. Freya snarled and spun in place, spear coming back and going forward in a flash. The woman was faster than he was, but he was hoping he would have the advantage in strength. That may or may not have been true when they were gods, but now both inhabited material bodies, and the laws of mass and momentum held true.
Tengri brought his blade dow
n and knocked the spear point aside, then stepped forward, turning his wrist and bringing his sword back in, aiming for an arm. He didn’t want to kill Freya, despite her belligerence. They needed all the help they could get on this crusade, and more walking gods would be welcome additions, each worth more than a hundred normal warriors in the field.
“I don’t want to kill you,” yelled Tengri as his sword missed the dodging target.
“But I want to kill you,” screamed the woman as she spun her spear in the air and clipped Tengri on the side of the head. It was a blow that would have killed any born mortal and left the walking god with a ringing in his ears.
She came back again, this time with a wordless scream, and would have thrust her spear through Tengri if not for a last second dodge. The flat of his sword came around and hit her in the back, sending her staggering. He followed, with the intention of grabbing her and throwing her to the ground, where he could use his greater mass to pin her, but she regained her balance and spun around too fast.
A crowd had gathered, everyone on the drill field running to join the spectators. Even the pike trainees were coming, following their drill masters to see the spectacle.
Tengri knocked aside another thrust, wondering if he would be able to end this contest without killing the woman. He wanted her to live, to fight for his cause, but he wasn’t willing to give his life to achieve that outcome. Tengri figured he would be just as valuable as she was, and by the hells of his brother, he wanted to be there to defeat Erlic, even if it meant killing this other demigod. But if he could wound her seriously that would end it, and she would recover from anything not fatal. Another thrust, and again he was able to turn it. She had a greater distance to cover in the attack than he did in the defense, negating much of her speed advantage. While she wouldn’t stay in one place long enough for his greater strength to come into play.
The Chronicles of the Eirish: Book 1: The Lich's Horde Page 14
