Tezcatlipoca appeared, and soared towards her and Nith, his knife once more in his hand. She let him come to them, and pulled down a storm atop them, which Tezcatlipoca took and spun into a hurricane, as she expected. He used the winds to tear at Nith, wrenching her from his back, and Sigrun watched as Nith vanished into the Veil, and let Tezcatlipoca get close enough to swing his knife at her face.
And then she dissipated, becoming night, and let herself be carried by the winds, blown away from his reach, while bringing lightning down on him, again and again. He chased after her, and she moved lithely out of his way, drawing him into the center of the storm he’d created, popping through the eyewall and into the calm at its heart, where there seemed to be almost no sound at all, in contrast to the roar of the winds inside the storm itself. He tried to control the darkness around them, but he couldn’t lift it. He was the night wind, after all, as much as she was. You cannot hide forever! he told her, and tried to catch her evanescent form once more, this time with raw Veil power that clawed at her very spirit, cutting into her.
I don’t need to, she told him, and solidified herself, her spear in her hand and wrapped in seiðr, every rune-mark on her skin ablaze with light. He recoiled, turning away from her light, just for an instant, and she drove her spear home. He was too well-protected, of course; the spear alone wouldn’t have done anything, for all that it now represented an extension of her will, but she followed it with lightning, tearing away at his shields . . . and then hooked into his essence with raw seiðr, creating anchors. Prevented him from fleeing. Then Nith appeared behind him, and landed on his back, three-foot-long talons tearing into the god’s body, and Sigrun followed it up with another vicious strike from her spear.
Wait! Quetzalcoatl appeared beside her, coiling on himself in the middle of the storm.
You would beg for his life? Nith’s voice was a snarl. After three attacks, unprovoked? After we informed you that we would be traveling through your lands, and asked permission to cross, unmolested? He has broken the word of the gods of Nahautl! He is without honor! Nith’s claws clenched, and Tezcatlipoca bared his fangs in silent agony, but refused to cry out in pain.
I would beg that you do not loose his energies where they can harm my people! Quetzalcoatl returned, sharply.
Tezcatlipoca lifted his head, black blood streaming from his mouth, and hissed at Quetzalcoatl, You would let our ancient enmity stand between us now? You would not aid me, brother? You would not kill these invaders and use their power to save our people?
They are not invading. They have turned against Rome, and all they wish to do is go home.
They are invaders. They came here . . . a thousand years ago . . . . Tezcatlipoca writhed, and obsidian, this time red-hot and liquid, fell from the sky, scorching Nith’s wings and pouring over Sigrun’s form, entombing them both in liquid fire. The dragon’s roar of pain concealed Sigrun’s scream of agony, and, out of nothing more than instinct, Sigrun pulled them all up, towards the limits of the sky, and drove her spear home.
The shockwave of power touched nothing on the ground. No ley-line flooding. No mutations. At the very edge of space, Sigrun curled in on herself in pain, feeling her armor, super-heated, still cooking her, though she also felt a little drunk on Tezcatlipoca’s power. Take it, she told Quetzalcoatl, the edges of her consciousness wavering at the pain of the burns. Take your brother’s power from me, and use it. Protect your people.
The feathered serpent studied her for a moment. I have taken as much of him as I could, little death. The great, sun-colored eyes looked away, and Sigrun thought he looked vaguely shamed. Your presence, and your allies’, helps to prevent his energies from harming my people. Even so . . . the mad gods will come. This will be a beacon for them.
I know. Her thoughts were distant, and she lurched into Nith’s side, latching on. She let her armor dissipate, trying to cool herself, and, seeing the blackened skin on the backs of her arms, tried not to think what her back must look like. The pain was debilitating, and her consciousness wavered for a moment. Thor! Heimdall! I will . . . be back . . . .
Nith growled and took her to the Veil as her consciousness winked out, and then, once more, she found herself awakening in one of the bedrooms there, this time facedown on the bed she’d carefully imagined for herself. She groaned as she sat up, realizing that she was bare-skinned. One of these days, I will have to ask Nith how he manages to get my clothing off to prevent it from getting into the damned burns as I heal. Gods. Why does it always have to be burns?
A lump of blackness on the floor lifted its head, and looked up at her with moonfire eyes, and Sigrun hastily wrapped clothing around herself with her mind. Burns exist to keep us both humble, I think. You were unconscious for three days. You must eat and drink.
How exactly have I been eliminating wastes if I’ve been unconscious . . . nevermind. This is the Veil. You just imagined a bedpan for me, eh?
What is a bedpan? Nith’s tone was weary, and still held pain.
. . . Nevermind. Your own wounds? Are you well? I didn’t get a good look . . . She set her feet on the floor and crouched down to study his body. Gods. Nith, your entire back, your wings! She suddenly, acutely regretted her joking tone of a moment ago. Some of the liquid rock had seared holes completely through the fine membranes that served to keep him aloft. Even in his lindworm-sized self, some of the holes were large enough that she could have put her fist through them, and they still oozed ichor, black-silver blood.
They are healing. The pain will pass. The indifference in his tone was chilling, and a testament to his own assertion that his path to apotheosis had been paved in pain.
Nonsense. Let me help. Sigrun swallowed, hard.
No. Do not waste—
This is the Veil. There is no wasted power here. She put her hands on his wings, and began to knit the flesh and scales and skin back together. She wasn’t taking the wounds on herself. She was just binding the flesh together with seiðr. She could feel vibrations running through his form; vocalizations, so low in frequency that she might not have been able to hear them in the mortal realm. This feels good to you? she asked, surprised.
Yes. A little bewilderment in the reply. I would heal if left here, my friend. It would be perceptually slow, given the extent of the injury, but . . . it is only physical. There is no damage to my power, my Name, my self. And time is malleable here.
I know. But I will not leave you in pain if I have a choice in the matter. Pain need not be the whole of your existence.
Nor yours. He rolled to his paws before she could think of what to reply, and lowered his head. The others are waiting, and it has only been . . . forty-five minutes in the mortal realm. They know that you were injured. And they are concerned.
The more time Sigrun spent in what she considered, for lack of a better term, her goddess-persona, the easier it was to be the goddess. Thoughts from the other gods of Valhalla flickered across her perceptions periodically. They were not a hive mind, by any stretch of the imagination, but they shared data, information. And that data was unnerving, at times.
Germania and the northern kingdoms outside of Rome’s control, and a handful of believers in Raccia, had in 1970 AC a population of a hundred and fifty million people. On the Day of Hel’s Demise, thirty million people had died. Many of them had never actually been buried. Over time, some five million survivors had migrated to Judea. Another ten million had crossed into Gaul, five million to Rome, two million each to Hellas, Britannia, and Egypt, and another four million, all told, to various places in Asia Minor and Carthage. Another five million had taken refuge with distant relatives in Nova Germania. In the past twenty-three years, seven million people had died at the hands of the ettin, grendels, wild fenris, and lindworms. There had been births, of course. And there were still about eighty million people who needed to retreat from the northern countries.
It was, in truth, impossible. The events of that day had sparked the largest mass migration of people in huma
n history, and there simply wasn’t room for all the people in the southern lands. For example, there had been thirty million people in the Alps on the Day of Independence, Iulius 4. Even with the assistance of the gods of the Gauls, there weren’t enough soldiers or supplies to ensure the survival of their people. Tyr, Freya, Baldur, and Freyr were guiding half the refugees away from Rome towards the east, in a long hike across dangerous, rocky terrain in Hellas, and from there, through Asia Minor. There were eight thousand valkyrie and bear-warriors with them, and the gods of the Gauls were there as well. The Morrigan, Taranis, and Belenus ranged the skies, and had their own god-born along with them. The raven-guards of Morrigan were fierce, and Belenus’ god-born, all healers, ranged through the convoy.
That string of refugees—fifteen million people—stretched from horizon to horizon. They stopped traffic along Roman roads. The Roman legionnaires tried to keep them from crossing the borders—but since they were leaving Rome, there was no real reason to try to keep them in. Only the hardiest, they’d been warned, should attempt this trek. There were mad sirens, centaurs, and satyrs in Hellas, that attacked the convoy, from time to time, the sirens luring people away with their entrancing voices. Cyclopeans and minotaurs hurled boulders at them, only to be met by snarling jotun, who raced away from the convoy to fight the attackers.
Some people simply stopped along the long road. Found abandoned towns, and tried to reclaim them, if only temporarily. Found refuge with existing hold-out communities, most of whom wanted nothing to do with this mass migration, and resented the newcomers for taking up scarce resources.
And all along the road, people were dying. Of thirst, of exhaustion, of disease. There wasn’t enough food, though the gods were helping. Not enough water. They used the ditches along the sides of the roads to relieve themselves, and then had to walk through the stench of other people’s piss and shit. There weren’t enough vehicles for everyone. The elderly, the infirm, and the children had reserved seats in the vehicles. Everyone else needed to walk, and the soldiers and landsknechten, the nieten, fenris, jotun, and the normal humans all ranged along the sides of the roads, trying to keep their people safe . . . but couldn’t always manage it. There were stragglers strung out behind the convoy—ripe for the picking. Sigrun received searing mental images of women weeping and rocking the bodies of tiny, still infants, their eyes glassy as they rode in the vehicles . . . and the next day, having to walk with the others, giving up their seats so that someone else might ride. Pyres being built at night, so that the dead could be properly disposed of, or graves being dug, hastily, along the roadside.
And she could hear her own Name being spoken, and wept with her people.
On the other side of Europa, Odin, Dagr, Skadi, and Njord were escorting millions more refugees towards Gaul . . . and just as they reached Massalia, preparing to turn northwest, along the coastline, a mad god attacked, and Maponos, a Gallic sun-god, rose to defend his people. Nott and Sif were dispatched from Valhalla to help him, and Anoku, a Gallic death-god, rose up as well. Panicked thoughts echoed through Sigrun’s mind—Biggest one we’ve yet seen—it covers half the sky!
We need a war-god. We need Thor or Tyr!
Send Morrigan or Belatucadrus! That thought was more distant, the dust-dry voice of Anoku. We are not enough to destroy this one!
I come! Tyr shouted, and Sigrun rocked in place on Nith’s back, watching helplessly as images seeped into othersight. Imperative. Irresistible. Tyr was swift, tearing through the Veil to reach them, but even as fast as her grandsire was, as fleet as Belatucadrus was, as well, they were too late—the mad godling had already torn Maponos in half, and loosed his energies everywhere. Sigrun cried out, seeing the images through Tyr’s eyes as he emerged into the sky over the Massif Central region of Gaul, and saw ancient volcanoes, long extinct, covered in trees and grass, beginning to shudder as Maponos’ power pulsed through them, through the ley-lines in the ground. Saw the mad godling taking up half the sky.
We must go to him! Sigrun thought.
Stay with your convoy! That, from Freya, from across the world in Asia Minor. Forseti! Go!
Nith dropped to the ground, and Sigrun slipped off his back, trying not to see the plumes of black ash and smoke rising into the air, raining down on the fertile central region of Gaul. Fought the sight of houses buckling and collapsing at the earthquakes. Resisted the sight of Forseti, Tyr, Anoku, and Belatucadrus throwing themselves into combat against the vast creature . . . and then screamed when she saw Forseti, sent there in her place, impaled with a dozen tendrils, though Tyr hacked and hacked at them with his spear. Saw the flights of black-fletched missiles that raced away from Belatucadrus’ upraised hands, saw Anoku tearing at the godling . . . saw Forseti’s avatar, falling from the heavens, Veil energies exploding out from him in a ring, and a second set of earthquakes shook the region. Tyr racing to catch the god of the hunt . . . only to set the lifeless form atop a mountain crag and rise once more into the sky.
Sigrun covered her face with her hands and wept, unaware of the people in her own convoy who’d gathered around to stare at her in consternation. Rain began to mist down from the heavens, growing in intensity. Nith stepped carefully, and stood between her and the crowd, spreading his wings to shelter her, and set one massive forepaw on her back. The hot, steamy air of southern Novo Gaul clung to her, and another sob convulsed her frame. Let me go, let me go, let me help—
This one is too powerful. At the moment, you would only feed it. Odin’s voice was firm. Attend to your task!
Recalled to her duty, Sigrun wiped her face, shut the images away, and got back to work. And breathed a sigh of relief as Odin himself took to the sky beside Tyr, followed by Taranis of the Gauls, and they finally harried the godling out over the North Sea . . . and shattered it, releasing a dozen smaller godlings from what they were unable to absorb, themselves. More manageable, but more chaotic, Odin assessed, grimly. There is also a tear here.
Bring Hecate. Bring Worldwalker, Sigrun suggested, once more in the air over her convoy, watching over the humans below. They were able to close the one in the Arctic.
Hecate is problematic. If she leaves Valhalla, she will have to do her best to remain unseen. That, from Heimdall.
Be aware, Loki said, suddenly, Iris has arrived at Valhalla’s gates. She has Mars with her, and he demands an audience with Odin. For the return of the criminal Mercury.
That took somewhat longer than expected. They must have wanted to be very certain that it was Mercury, and that we had him. Freya’s tone was grim. We must all now be doubly on our guard, for any of us might be attacked by Rome’s gods now.
Sigrun exhaled, and tried to hold down the nausea she felt at that thought. She and Nith had been able to hold a Nahautl god at bay until reinforcements arrived, twice, and had managed to pull out a victory the third time, but she did not believe that they could hold fast against a Roman god. They could be out fighting against the mad godlings, she said, bitterly. If Apollo of Rome is so strong, if Mars is so mighty, they should be out and fighting these creatures. And then no one else need die, and they would grow even more powerful on the blood of the godlings.
Precisely why Jupiter does not wish his subordinates fighting them, Mercury whispered, and the chatter of the other gods in her mind went silent. If Mars grew strong on the blood of his foes, Mars could challenge Jupiter for control. He could become Mars Pater again, in truth. I will be certain to mention that to Mars, if he is admitted to Valhalla.
Sigrun was dazed as she and Nith stole a day to spend in Judea. She had to compress herself back down, to be Sigrun Caetia, the valkyrie, once more, and as Nith landed in the backyard of the house she’d shared with Adam for decades, Sigrun reached out and unthinkingly pulled an apple from Freya’s tree. She needed the strength. She needed memory—her memories of herself, of how she should speak and behave—to walk into that house. She opened the back door, chewing on a bite, and stopped dead in her own kitchen, finding a gun aimed at he
r chest. On seeing which gun was in Adam’s hands, she swallowed convulsively, and raised both of her own.
“Adam,” she said, the name sticking in her throat, and stared at him. White hair combed back from his face and tied back in a neat tail at the nape of his neck. Dark brown eyes, shuttered and cold at the moment. So many lines and creases in his face, it was hard to see the man he’d been, forty years ago, in that hotel in Ponca. A tear slid down her face, and she closed her eyes. “If you’re going to pull the trigger,” she said, her voice thick, “please be aware that Niðhoggr and I had to kill another Nahautl god. I don’t think Nith can absorb all of me. The shockwave will probably level Jerusalem.” She opened her eyes as another tear, damnably, snuck out and froze. “Unless the god of Abraham actually happens to intervene, if you pull that trigger, you’ll probably destroy your own people. And several million of my people, too.”
The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3) Page 76
