She got no further than that. Her cropping the growing barley had hurt Baivers, but had not quenched his determination—very much the reverse. He grabbed the axe handle. Voldar screeched in rage. Gerin felt a harsh tingling run up Baivers’ arms, as if he’d grabbed hold of a lightning bolt. Baivers wrestled the axe from Voldar and threw it far—maybe infinitely far—away.
Gerin had hoped a good part of Voldar’s power dwelt in that axe, and that without it she would be diminished. If she was, she gave no outward sign of it. She dealt Baivers a buffet that would have caved in the skull of an ordinary mortal.
The only ordinary mortal in that clearing, though, was Gerin, and he wasn’t there in the flesh. A lot of flesh was flying, and fur, and divine ichor, from both the underground powers and the Gradi gods. The Fox couldn’t help thinking Sithonian deities would have handled the battle with more elegance and panache. Any elegance or panache would have been more than was on display at the moment. Neither the monsters’ gods nor those of the Gradi had much in the way of subtlety. They found the nearest foe and went at him, much as monsters and Gradi would have done had they collided in the northlands.
One of the Gradi gods burst into flame. The underground power he was fighting screeched. Another of the monsters’ gods, though, tackled the Gradi god and rolled with him in the snow, after which his fire was extinguished for a while. And the subterranean god who had been burned healed with supernatural speed.
An underground power sprang on Voldar, claw raking cuts along her haunch. She screamed in mingled pain and fury and kicked out behind her like an angry horse. The monsters’ god flew through the air and smashed headfirst into the trunk of a fir. He did not get up right away. He did not get up at all. Gerin wondered if he would ever get up again.
A Gradi god to whom the Fox had not been introduced tried to freeze Baivers where he stood, blowing an icy blast at him as if from the side of some snow-covered northern mountain. However hostile his intent, his power did not measure up to it. In response, Baivers pointed a finger at him. All the hair on his arms, on his face, on his head, turned to growing barley. He wailed and clawed at himself, but remained green and growing.
“How dare you interfere with our plans?” Voldar demanded of Baivers.
“Who’s interfering in whose part of the world?” the god of barley retorted. “You leave my earth alone, maybe I’ll think of leaving you alone. And maybe not, too. You deserve what you’re getting, all the trouble you’ve caused there ’twixt the Niffet and the Kirs.”
“Not half so much as we will cause,” Voldar snarled. “We’ll take revenge for eons, see if we don’t.”
She broke off men, with a howl of outrage, for one of the monsters’ gods, one who beside her was like a small dog beside a man, bit her in the ankle. Gerin admired the courage of the underground power, and wished he’d had the chance to meet more of the monsters’ gods in anything but the most perfunctory way before leading them into this fight.
The monsters’ god was small, but held power not to be despised. Voldar’s leg did not work as it should have after he sank his teeth into her. She beat on him with all her strength, but he would not let go his hold. “What are you, you savage worm?” she cried.
Speaking mind to mind, the underground power did not have to leave off biting her to reply, “I am Death.”
Excitement rippled through Gerin when he caught that answer. Even Voldar might have trouble against such a foe. Were gods truly immortal? Would he find out now? Something that might have been alarm in her voice, Voldar shrilly cried, “Smerts! To me!”
Seeing Smerts, the Fox realized he—no, she, for the emaciated frame carried shrunken breasts—was Death’s Gradi equivalent. Where Voldar had been unable to free herself from the underground power’s onslaught, Smerts tore the fierce little god away from the queen of the Gradi pantheon. “You are mine,” Smerts crooned in a fierce, hungry whisper.
“No,” the monsters’ Death said, just as hungrily, “you are mine.” And he bit the hand that held him. Smerts squeezed him with her other hand. Gerin wondered what would happen if they slew each other. Would that bring immortality into the world?
Whether or not Voldar was immortal, she was imbued with enormous vitality. As soon as Smerts had plucked Death from her, she regained full use of that leg, and used it to smash in the ribs of an underground power who had torn a Gradi god almost in two.
The kicked power stumbled backward, groaning, and knocked Death out of Smerts’ hands. Smerts seized the new underground power, while Death clamped his teeth into the first Gradi god he could reach. Gerin wished he had a body with which to groan. Mortality’s power in the world would continue to hold sway.
He risked a question of Baivers: “Are we winning?”
“Don’t know,” the Elabonian god replied. He looked around the field, which meant Gerin perforce looked around the field, too: What he saw was what he’d seen since the brawl began: chaos loosed in the divine Gradihome. “Don’t know if we’re winning,” Baivers repeated, “but I don’t reckon we’re losing, neither.”
That was as much as Gerin had hoped for when he led the underground powers here. It seemed to be plenty to satisfy the monsters’ gods, too. Some of the Gradi gods knocked down or uprooted trees with their bare hands and swung them, like enormous spearshafts, at their foes. That distressed the monsters’ gods, who were unused to trees in all ways, and especially as weapons.
But Baivers knew about trees. Some of the power he used to make barley spring to life also worked on them. Their branches and roots turned unnaturally lively, grappling with the Gradi gods who tried to wield the trunks. And while the trees discommoded the Gradi gods, the underground powers sprang on them, rending and tearing.
Before the monsters’ gods reached the divine Gradihome, their grim and savage intensity, their bloodthirsty devotion to slaughter, had alarmed the Fox, who wondered whether they weren’t apt to be a worse bargain for the northlands than Voldar and her companions. He had thought the underground powers would only have grown more ferocious once they joined battle with the Gradi gods.
So far as he could tell, that wasn’t happening. The clearing was filled not just with quasiphysical screams and shouts and groans, but also with the thoughts and feelings of the battling gods, sometimes as weapons, sometimes merely there. Gerin did not catch the same rage now from the monsters’ gods as he’d felt when they were coming toward this fight. What he did get from them was so surprising, he had to pause and consider before he was willing to admit, even to himself, that he fully grasped it.
“They’re enjoying themselves!” he told Baivers, almost indignantly. “They’re like a serf village on a holiday, when they’ve got a couple of pigs roasting over the fire and plenty of your good ale and no work to do. They’re having the time of their lives.”
“They wanted battle,” Baivers answered. “You’ve given ’em what they wanted, and then some. Bet they’ll like you real well when this here is done.”
Gerin didn’t know whether that prospect was more appealing—if the underground powers felt well disposed toward him, they might be inclined to control the monsters’ depredations—or appalling. What he did know was that the Gradi gods were not enjoying themselves. He had the feeling from previous encounters with them that they seldom enjoyed themselves, at least by any standards with which he was familiar.
What they felt now was anger, of a peculiar sort: the anger of those who see plans they had reckoned certain of success suddenly falling to pieces all around them. In his little space inside Baivers’ sensorium, the Fox exulted. The Gradi and their gods had reckoned the northlands ripe for conquest and transformation. Now they were finding it wasn’t so, and not caring for the discovery.
Here came Smerts, looking more deathly than ever. She seized Baivers as she had seized the death god among the underground powers. As she had with him, she crooned, “You are mine.”
Baivers groaned. Dwelling inside him—dwelling, in effect, as part of him—
Gerin felt vitality flowing out of him and into Smerts. It was like watching ale leak out of a cracked jar—the level went down, down, down, steadily, inexorably. That gave the Fox an idea. “Feed Smerts more life than she can hold all at once,” he thought at Baivers. “You’re a god of growing things—make her grow lively if you can.”
“If I can,” Baivers said doubtfully. He seemed to quiver, gathering himself. Then—it was as if a lightning bolt passed from him to Smerts.
The Gradi goddess gasped. Her eyes opened very wide. The stringy white stood out straight on her skull. Was it the Fox’s imagination, or did she all at once look less skeletal than she had?
“You can’t do that,” she gasped at Baivers. “You can’t.” But her voice was not the harsh croak it had been a moment before. It was smoother, richer: almost the voice of a being concerned with something other than extinction.
Gerin still wondered if he was more hopeful than he should have been, if he was letting that hope color what his senses (always unreliable on this plane anyhow) told him. No: Baivers sensed Smerts’ weakness, too. “Yes I can,” he said, fresh confidence in his own voice.
Watching Smerts, Gerin watched years peel away and emaciation flesh out. Contemplating his own middle-aged carcass back in the merely material world, he wished Baivers would put him through a similar course. It soon proved too much for the Gradi goddess. She broke free of Baivers and fled. At each stride, she seemed to age a few years, and was soon back to what she had been, but she did not challenge the god of barley again.
“I thank you,” Baivers said to Gerin. “That was right sly. Worst thing for a lot of folks is too much of what they tell you they want” He strode toward Voldar, shouting to her, “You, there! We weren’t done, the two of us!”
She whirled to face him. “No, we weren’t,” she said. Gerin wondered about the wisdom of confronting the queen of the Gradi pantheon so directly. Before he could more than begin to frame that thought, though, Voldar’s pale gaze pierced the encystment within Baivers where his own small spirit sheltered. “You!” she cried, and she was not speaking to the Elabonian god.
“Yes, me,” Gerin answered, as steadfastly as he could. “I told you that you weren’t welcome in the northlands, and that I’d do everything I could to stop you.”
Voldar’s eyes flashed pale fire. “I never dreamt one mortal could cause so much trouble.” Her wave encompassed the chaos all around, chaos with no resolution anywhere near at hand. Then she stabbed out a finger at the Fox. “And I say you may not come to the Gradihome of the gods.” Her voice rose to a shrill shriek: “Begone!”
Darkness.
Gerin opened his eyes. He was in the shack again. “Did we win?” Van asked.
XI
Gerin cast a wary eye up to the sky. The day was hot and fair; the sun blazed down like a ball of molten bronze in the middle of a blue enamel bowl. The cold, nasty rain that had plagued the last part of the ride up from Ikos was gone, vanished more suddenly than a natural storm had any business disappearing.
Wiping his forehead with a sleeve, he said, “Unless I miss my guess, Stribog is either still fighting one of the monsters’ gods or else laid up from having fought him.”
“Been four days now since you and Baivers and all the underground powers went to fight Voldar and her chums,” Van said. “Still no notion of how the fight turned out?”
“Not even the slightest,” Gerin answered. “Every day since, I’ve tried to summon Baivers, I’ve tried to summon the monsters’ gods, but I get no answer. Maybe they’ve been destroyed, but I don’t think so. If they had been, the Gradi would be swarming up the Niffet in their war galleys, and we haven’t seen a single fire beacon. The weather’s too fine to make me think the Gradi gods won, too.”
“What then?” Van asked.
“My best guess is that they’re still fighting up there, out there, on that plane where the gods can go and we mostly can’t,” the Fox said. “Neither side looked to have any sort of edge when Voldar booted me off my perch on Baivers’ shoulder, you might say.”
“A fight that doesn’t stop.” Van sighed wistfully. “Must be a fine thing to be a god, to never need to eat or sleep, to heal up as fast as you’re hurt, to war for as long as you like, for years on end, maybe.” He let out a snort of laughter. “But then, I know a bit about warring for years on end. I ought to, married to Fand like I am.”
He looked indignant when Gerin didn’t chuckle at that. “Warring for years on end,” Gerin said. He nodded, more to himself than to Van. “It could be so.” He hoped it was so. If the Gradi were locked in battle with the underground powers and with Baivers for years, they’d have neither the time nor the ability to help their human followers. He smacked one fist into the other palm. “We have to hit the Gradi while their gods are busy—can’t waste a moment. The more we drive those cursed raiders back, the harder the time they’ll have recovering, even if their gods do end up beating the ones I turned loose on them.”
Van stared at him. “You sound like you’re heading out on campaign this very day”
“Tomorrow will have to do, I think,” the Fox said reluctantly. “But I’m going to send out a messenger this instant to let Adiatunnus know we’re on our way. We’re going across the Venien again, and this time we’re not coming back till we’ve beaten the Gradi.”
“You’ve said that before,” Van answered. “It didn’t work out.”
“I wish you hadn’t reminded me,” Gerin said, which made the outlander chuckle and bow as if he’d just been thanked for doing a favor. Slowly, Gerin went on, “If we can’t beat them on the land they’ve stolen while their gods are busy, though … I don’t think we’ll be able to beat them at all. What we’ll have to do in that case is not go after them any more, but hunker down in our keeps, fight them as hard as we can for as long as we can when they come to us, and probably end by going down fighting.”
̴There are worse ways to end,” Van said. “I don’t think I’d want to get old and creaky and have a fit so one side of my body doesn’t want to work and spend my last days gumming gruel on account of I can’t chew and I can hardly swallow. Next to that, an axe that splits my skull is kind.”
“I wasn’t thinking so much of my end,” Gerin said. “I don’t want to watch everything I’ve spent my life building fall to pieces, though, and see my children made into serfs for the Gradi.”
“If the Gradi win, you won’t see any of that, for they’ll surely kill you,” Van said, and the Fox could hardly disagree. “Still and all, I follow what you’re saying,” the outlander continued. “I tell you true, there are times I’m glad I don’t try to look so far ahead as you do.”
“We’re all different,” Gerin said with a shrug, “and we’re all still free. Now we’ll find out how long we get to stay that way.”
In times gone by, the guards at the eastern border of Adiatunnus’ holding would have fled at the approach of the Elabonian army Gerin led—either fled or, with mad Trokmê courage, tried to sell their lives dear. Now, instead, they let out whoops of delight. Their voices broke as they cried out: they had hardly more than Duren’s years, with only light down on their faces.
“What word from the Venien?” Gerin called to them in their own language.
“ ’Twas said the Gradi were after moving men up toward that stream,” one of the youths replied. “How any man could be sure, though, with the bad weather we’ve been having and all, is past me, indeed and it is.”
“What’s the weather like on the other side of the river these days?” the Fox asked, remembering the summer blizzard that had done more to defeat him than the axes of the Gradi.
Both the young sentries shrugged. “Been warmer here o’ late,” said the one who hadn’t spoken before. “And you’re only a day and a little bit behind the chariot you sent out, the which, I’ve no doubt, our chief will be right glad to see.”
“And even gladder to see the whole lot of you,” the other youngster added. “Adiatunnus is after g
athering all the men he may, to hold the Gradi back, that being the reason the two of us get to do a soldier’s job so soon.”
“Do well. Do as well as you can,” Germ told them. “But we don’t aim to hold back the Gradi. We aim to go after ’em and beat ’em.” The Trokmê sentries cheered again. So did his own men.
On into Adiatunnus’ holding rode the Elabonian army. The Elabonian serfs in the fields, seeing soldiers, mostly fled into the woods regardless of whether they spoke the same language. Soldiers were soldiers, and all too liable to be dangerous. “We might as well be Gradi or Trokmoi ourselves, as far as they’re concerned,” Duren said, watching them run.
“Remember that,” Gerin told him. “My serfs don’t think of my warriors that way, and yours shouldn’t, either, once you’ve taken over at the holding your grandfather ruled.”
Mischief in his voice, Van said, “But these are your serfs, too, Fox, for isn’t Adiatunnus your vassal?”
“When he feels like it,” Gerin answered dryly, which made his son and his friend laugh. Gerin drummed his fingers on the chariot rail. “If we win against the Gradi, he may have to decide whether he’s my vassal or my foe—I may make him decide that, I should say. Till then, I’m just glad he hasn’t sided with them instead of with me.”
They passed that night camped by a keep that had held an Elabonian petty baron in the days before the Trokmoi swarmed south over the Niffet and was now home to woodsrunners who lorded it over the serfs at a nearby village. A lot of the men were gone from the keep, summoned by Adiatunnus to protect his western border. The Trokmê women, bolder in their habits than Elabonians would have been, wasted little time in getting friendly—or more than friendly—with the newcomers.
The night was made for such games, being unusually dark in its early states: all four moons were past full, the first of them, Nothos, not rising till almost halfway between sunset and midnight. Gerin was anything but surprised to see Van heading upstairs with a brash Trokmê woman who put him in mind of Fand. He had no doubt Fand would guess, one of these days before too long, what the outlander was up to. His ears rang in anticipation.
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