The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3)

by Deborah Davitt

  The castle was, Sigrun knew, occupied . . . the pazuzu was in residence, reluctant warden. She could sense its presence, walking the borders of her realm. We’ll need to gather more of Hel’s allies, she told Niðhoggr. But not today. We need to go to Mamaquilla’s land.

  Rest first. The godling’s attack injured you.

  She pulled away her armor as they landed, and found where tendrils of dark energy had sliced through her shoulder; the skin, even in the Veil, looked eroded and lividly red. Perhaps a short respite, she said, and gave the dragon a steady look. But you will rest first.

  The massive head swung towards her, in confusion and consternation. The needs of the body are an illusion. I do not require sleep. I do not require sustenance. I do not require . . . .

  There is what you require, and there is also what you might desire. Would you like to sleep, Nith? I will watch over you. I will make sure that you are safe. And you may even dream. She paused. You were mortal once. Put your head down, and rest.

  Another hesitation. There is no need for such recompense—

  You were also injured by the godling. Your scales are marred and broken in places. Rest.

  Niðhoggr reluctantly placed his head on the ground in the courtyard of the castle, and closed his eyes. This is foolish. I have not slept in centuries. I no longer know how to do so. The words were a growl.

  Perhaps it will come back to you. She curled up against the scales of his long neck, and looked around at the plants Saraid and Worldwalker had caused to grow here. All of them perfumed the night air, and the tiny pearls of light at the heart of each glowed like the stars overhead. She was weary, but this place was eternally night. And night was her time. Stormborn stroked a hand over the massive head. Sleep.

  For a wonder, Niðhoggr slept, but within twenty minutes of passing into slumber, he began to shake as nightmares wracked him. The tip of his tail lashed out, narrowly missing her, and hit one of the cloud-walls, instead. Stormborn put a hand to the dragon’s neck and felt a shock go through the massive body, and his eyes snapped open, wide and unseeing. For an instant, she felt the danger of him, as he looked at her as if she were something to be hunted . . . and then it all faded away, and Nith turned away, clearly ashamed. Why do humans court dreams? I have two thousand years of memories. I do not wish to relive any of them.

  She stroked the armored neck and face, gently. Because most of the time, the night brings no horrors. Rest. I will wake you before the next dream twists.

  He took longer to doze once more, and she endured the curious, hostile stare of the pazuzu as the creature swung past the courtyard on its endless patrol. And when Niðhoggr awoke once more, Stormborn looked up at the dragon. Next time, we’ll work on food. I will admit that leftovers from a restaurant are too small for you to taste, but perhaps a cow on a spit, well-seasoned . . . .

  The great beast shook his head. Why do you wish for me to be more human, Sigrun? It detracts from my focus. I am a . . . .

  Weapon?

  Yes.

  I have considered myself such for most of my life. You are more than that, Nith. A pause. “Niðhoggr.” It meant Malice-Striker, and it was even a poetic kenning for a sword, on occasion. But it means more than that. Nið, as a concept, is . . . anathema. Our people still use niðing poles to cast curses, and a niðing person is a coward, a caitiff, a worthless creature.

  A wary glance. Yes. She meant that I was . . . vile. Accursed.

  You are neither malicious nor worthless. I think that your Name calls you the destroyer of all that is niðing. You destroy the accursed, the evil, the vile. You protect innocents at my side. And thus, I should not shorten your name to Nith. I should not call you Malice, or Anathema, or Curse, when you are . . . a protector. The embodiment of retaliation at the wicked. Justice, in a sense.

  She had a sense of embarrassment from him. I do not mind. You do not mean evil or vile when you say it. And I have only been permitted to fight whom I wish to fight . . . since you came.

  Then take your Name and make it mean what you wish it to mean, Malice-Striker. Evil’s Bane. Sigrun translated into her own dialect of Cimbric. Anda’hnitan.

  The moonfire eyes closed again, this time almost in bliss. Say it again . . . say it like that.

  Anda’hnitan?

  My Name is my Name, regardless of the language in which it is spoken. Just . . . say it again.

  Niðhoggr. Niðhnitan. Niðofslean. Niðfordon. Anda’hnitan, Anda’ofslean, Anda’fordon. Nith . . . . An endless chain of meaning whispered around her words. Malice-Striker, Bane of the Accursed, Destroyer of the Malicious, Vanquisher of the Vile, Evil’s Bane, Evil’s End, Evil’s Destroyer, Evil’s Vanquisher . . . .

  His eyes opened. There are no words. His tail gently wrapped around her. Thank you.

  Perceptually, she’d spent almost a full day in the Veil, but in reality, no more than fifteen minutes had passed when they exploded back out into the open air, this time over Tawantinsuyu. On this side of the equator, it was the middle of winter, and snow flurries chased them as Niðhoggr cruised in towards Machu Picchu, which had become the main seat of government for Mamaquilla and her court. Landing the dragon in the courtyard of the ancient palace of the Incas was difficult; it simply wasn’t sized for Nith. But Sigrun dropped lightly to the stone flagstones from his back as he hovered, and looked around at the hundreds of rivulets and carefully-engineered streams that conducted water to a dozen fountains all around her. “I am here to see Mamaquilla,” she told a stunned-looking servitor, who had been carrying a heavy load up a set of stairs to the courtyard in which she’d landed. She reached out a hand, and caught the box on his shoulder before he could drop it. “Please inform her that Sigrun Cae . . . Sigrun Stormborn is here to help escort the Gauls and Goths leaving her lands to their homes.”

  The man simply gaped at her for a moment, and, after about ten seconds, Sigrun realized that she was in her full regalia. Damn it all. Nith, you’re having an effect on me.

  Good. That is my intention. The dragon’s thoughts were sardonic from where he wheeled overhead.

  Stormborn! The voice was like a klaxon in her head, and Sigrun whirled in time to see Mamaquilla’s sleek, blue-green scaled form hastening down the steps nearby, and Sigrun hastily removed her helmet out of respect. The moonglow eyes met her own, and Mamaquilla smiled, and reached out to embrace her. You are thrice-welcome, child. Come. We must talk. My attempt to keep my people neutral in these matters is not having quite the desired effect.

  “Were you not intending to step down to allow your people to self-govern once more?” Sigrun asked, as Mamaquilla hurried her up the steps.

  I did. They have elections for their legislature, the practice of serfdom has been abolished, and one of my god-born descendants is on the throne as an executive authority. I have studied Rome’s laws, and adjusted them for the needs of my people. And they may change those laws in turn, to suit themselves. Mamaquilla lifted her hands, palms up, at the door of the palace, and then gestured for Sigrun to precede her into the dim halls. Unfortunately, the mad godlings and the . . . disagreement between Rome’s gods and the others . . . has forced me to remain far more involved in my people’s lives than I would like. I do not wish for them to be dependent on me.

  “Desperate times,” Sigrun admitted, and was introduced to the current Sapa Inca . . . the first female ruler of Tawantinsuyu in its long history, a lovely god-born woman with the same penetrating white eyes with black sclera that Cocohuay had once had. And who happened, in fact, to be one of that redoubtable priestess’ daughters. Queen Anahuarque smiled at Sigrun, and greeted her with deep inclination of her head, a gesture of reverence that made Sigrun acutely uncomfortable. “Please, do not.”

  “You are one of the godslayers, the ones who came to free Mamaquilla and Inti,” Anahuarque murmured. “I honor you for your courage, nothing more.”

  Sigrun got a good look at the tactical situation once Anahuarque’s generals entered the conference room, and began
showing her the locations of the Roman forts all along the Quecha border, on the other side of the mountains. Many were either in heavily mountainous areas, or in regions of sweltering rainforest. “The Romans built the forts to keep us all from each other’s throats,” Anahuarque said, brushing her perfectly straight, ink-black hair from her face. “Many Quechan rebels—the ones looking to reform their government—have taken refuge on our side of the border. The Legion would find their camps and drive them out, and then they’d just sneak across once again. Quecha began punitive expeditions across the border, which the Legion responded to, in force . . . and now they come across in search of sacrifices for their gods, and the Legion is losing your people. We are losing your people.”

  “If any of them volunteer to remain as landsknechten, as mercenaries, they’ll need to be organized as such,” Sigrun muttered. “And they will need guarantees that they will not be attacked or set upon by the Roman legionnaires.”

  Anahuarque sighed. “Therein lies the problem. I cannot control the legions. The legate in charge of the legions here in Tawantinsuyu is a patrician—distantly related, apparently, to Mico Cornelius, the half-Roman technomancer who helped engineer the Great Trap—”

  “I never actually met the man,” Sigrun said. Minori, Lassair, Kanmi, and Trennus had. Briefly, in some cases. “He will not hear you?”

  Anahuarque waved a hand. “He is of the opinion that the words of the ruling monarch and the legislative bodies of Tawantinsuyu mean nothing to him, because the only person to whom he answers is the Emperor in Rome. He is here to enforce the Empire’s laws and I am left with only the option of rallying a militia of my own people to make him hear me.” The queen’s luminous eyes narrowed. “Garbage was thrown at his vehicle in the streets, even before the events of the past year. The name Cornelius is remembered by my people.”

  Sigrun exhaled. “The damage to the buildings has been repaired,” she said, quietly. “You’ve rebuilt, and your country is still beautiful . . . but it takes lifetimes for scars in the mind to fade.” It’ll take until the people who were alive when Inti died, are all dead, themselves. At the least. “I can try to speak with him. I served a propraetor for over twenty years. He might hear my words more clearly than yours.”

  So she met with Legate Amandus Jovianus Cornelius at the Legion administrative building in Cuzco, arriving not in her regalia, but in a plain leather bodice, laced jeans, and a dark cloak, and she showed her ælagol identification at the door. It still jarred her every time she looked down, and didn’t see her Praetorian badge in the leather sheaf. Another habit of thought.

  She was escorted in, and left to wait in a sitting room for over an hour—a period of time calculated, Sigrun thought, to irritate her, put her off-guard from boredom, and demonstrate how little she meant to the legate. On being shown to his office, the Roman glared at her, the Imperial eagles glinting on the collar of his uniform. “You are here as a representative of the rebels?”

  Sigrun glanced out the window at the setting sun. She’d fought a mad godling, conducted high-level diplomacy with the main goddess of Tawantinsuyu and the ruling queen on behalf of the Odinhall, and ventured into space today. The legate’s attitude was already getting on her nerves. But she swallowed her yawn, and met the legate’s eyes calmly, “I am a recognized ambassador for my people to the court of Queen Anahuarque, yes.”

  “Only a legitimate government can send an ambassador—”

  “The legitimacy of a government is derived from many factors, legate, chief of which is diplomatic recognition by other governments. My people’s government has already been recognized by Qin, India, the Mongol Khanate, and Tawantinsuyu. Even Persia recognizes us, though I realize that that is hardly a recommendation.” She regarded him, steadily. “You are a military commander, legate. Leave the diplomatic wrangling to the foreign service bureaucrats and any propraetor sent to Queen Anahuarque’s court to try to resolve matters.”

  “The Emperor of Rome is the supreme commander of the Legion. Even the governor of this province would not attempt to contravene my orders—”

  “A governor who has, by tradition, very little say in the governance of this subject nation.” Sigrun riposted swiftly before continuing, “I did not speak of contravening your orders." All the years of conditioning as Livorus' lictor ensured that her voice stayed calm, and her face expressionless. "Though I would ask you, legate, as a commander of men, these few questions. If the levy forces from Gaul and Germania depart, your effective fighting force will be depleted by close to fifty percent. Will this be a sufficient number of soldiers to maintain the borders between Tawantinsuyu and Quecha, and between Nahautl and Tawantinsuyu?”

  The muscles in his jaw clenched. “No. That is why they cannot desert—”

  “Excuse me, legate.” Sigrun raised a finger, cutting him off. “At the moment, I'm addressing logistical and strategic realities. Without these levy forces, you may need to recruit locally. Given that much of Quecha and Nahautl are in outright rebellion, this will be difficult. And transporting troops from elsewhere is problematic, given the current danger of overseas travel.”

  “Danger that does not seem to have deterred you. If one lone ambassador could come here, a full legion or two can manage the journey.” He folded his arms over his chest, still glaring.

  “My method of travel is not available to the Roman Legion.” Sigrun raised her brows. “Accept the fact that reinforcements will not be forthcoming from across the Sea of Atlas, legate. You will be forced to recruit troops from among the locals, or will be forced to draft the men you need, by force. You will be required to train and equip these green recruits, all while maintaining the security of the borders with half the men that you normally require to accomplish this task.”

  His jaw clenched again. “Your point is?”

  “If the Sapa Inca hires foreign mercenaries to help protect her borders, that is a decision internal to Tawantinsuyu, correct? You have no say in internal policies, though the governor may advise the local ruler.” Sigrun stared him down. “Your only concern would be the logistics of coordinating with these mercenaries.”

  His expression became grudgingly interested. “Correct, in general terms. Precisely where would the queen be obtaining foreign mercenaries?”

  “Vidarr's Lindworms may be opening a local branch.” Sigrun's tone was neutral. “The Belgae Gryphons and the Lutetia Black Lions, as well. There are also a few local organizations springing up. All highly-trained soldiers, so they have that going for them.”

  The legate's expression froze. “These are my men.”

  “No, they are not. Many of these people are returning home to establish new defense forces for Novo Gaul and Nova Germania. Those who choose to remain, may opt to take up arms on behalf of Tawantinsuyu. These will mostly be people who have families in the area, I suspect.”

  “They are not to be in possession of Roman arms or materials. I expect that they will turn in the weapons that they stole as they left, as well as their uniforms.”

  “Ah, but someone is not a deserter until they leave behind their uniform. Until then, they are only absent without leave.” Sigrun held up a finger at the legate. “I will not permit you to try to force these men and women into a technical state of desertion that would qualify them for a firing squad or crucifixion, under the regulations of the Legion.”

  She had to admit to a certain dark delight at the expression that crossed the legate's face at that moment. He hadn’t apparently had his staff pull her full service record, or he would have known her background as a Praetorian and an ælagol, not to mention her former Legion rank as a tribuni angusticlavii. “They'll turn in their weapons.” Cornelius’ voice was uncompromising.

  “Certainly. But they will return the weapons to the Tawantinsuyan government, from which your supply officers may retrieve the guns. I’m sure that the queen can work out an arrangement by which her government may lease the weapons from you for the use of her mercenaries.” Sigrun smiled
humorlessly at the legate. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have dinner with Mamaquilla, the Sapa Inca, and the provincial governor in a half hour.”

  "Sigrun Caetia." He bit the name off. “There is a standing order for all military and gardia personnel to detain you and return you to the Empire for questioning.”

  Sigrun looked out the window as the sun dropped under the horizon, and then returned her gaze to the legate. “Really? In regards to what?”

  “Fomenting rebellion, chiefly. With attendant charges of treason and murder.”

  She’d long since stopped resisting othersight. Sigrun looked at Cornelius now, and through him. Read him. “Legate, you are . . . fifty-two years old” Sigrun watched him stiffen. “Before you were born, I was an officer in the Legion, first on the Persian border, and then on that irritating strip of land north of the Caspian that Raccia, the Khanate, and Rome used to argue about so frequently. When you were eight years old, I was recruited by the Praetorian Guard as a lictor for Propraetor Antonius Livorus.” Sigrun stood, and deliberately put her hands on the legate’s desk, staring down at him. “My security clearance in the Empire, until I resigned my commission, was higher than yours.” She watched red flecks of anger rise in his spirit. “I take offense to being called a traitor, when it is Rome’s Emperor and Rome’s gods who have betrayed me.”