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

by Deborah Davitt

  Their conversation died as they entered the main hall, where the great tables had been covered with maps that conveyed the totality of the world, in cunning detail. The gods of Valhalla and their various attendants—dwarves, in the main—stood around them, frowning down at the pages, which shifted and grew more detailed as someone looked at them. Mercury stared down at them, and asked, How do you all see the ground outside of your lands so clearly?

  Tyr looked up and grinned at him. The most excellent satellites in orbit around the Earth, of course. The ones built by your people, the Nipponese, and the Judeans. We borrow their imagery.

  And add a few layers of our own information. Heimdall moved one of the maps aside. At the moment, those satellites might well be all that holds the world together. Humans remain connected by the tenuous, invisible threads of those orbital platforms. They communicate by their telephones and see events thousands of miles away, of which, centuries ago, they would have been unaware until the history books were written, and distributed. Such silken bonds with which to tie this fraying world together.

  Odin touched a map. Rome cannot reinforce its troops in the western hemisphere, thanks to the uncertainty of the seas, so they concentrate instead, on the center of their power. That leaves us to fight the legions in Europa, and to attempt to defend our people from sacrifice raids and invasions in the new world. We are open to attack from their gods whenever we leave Valhalla alone, however—

  —Neptune attacked Njord, though he and Skadi were hardly alone. He was confident in his ability to kill two of us. That, from Thor.

  Freyr raised a hand. There is a disturbance now, in Caesaria Aquilonis. Our southern neighbors battle.

  The view from above was grainy as they concentrated down on two armies clashing in a dense jungle region. It was difficult to see who was winning, and who was losing, thanks to the heavy cover of the trees and undergrowth. Ornithopters swooped in, dropping chemical bombs that ignited the forest, and sent clouds of biliously-colored smoke into the air. Helicopters, from above, looked like hovering beetles, firing down at troops on the ground.

  In spite of the ornithopters and helicopters, there were figures in the air, fighting at the same time as the humans did on the ground. Who are they? Thor asked. I cannot tell from the tops of their heads. Technology . . . bah.

  Chalchiuhtlicue, I think. A Nahautl goddess. She was the bride of Tlaloc, Odin said, barely glancing at the map. She stands beside Chaac. Now his voice was uneasy.

  Mercury’s head came up. Chaac is a Quecha god! They fight each other, you mean?

  They are standing back-to-back. Chaac is a lord of rain and storms, like her lost mate, Odin reminded him. A sound alliance, if one that will put them both at odds with all their brethren. They are fighting . . . Yum Kaax, I think.

  Mercury blinked. Quechan god of the hunt and wild creatures. They are fighting one of Chaac’s brethren . . . .

  Odin lifted his head. Not just fighting. I believe they are hunting each other’s foes. To gain in power.

  Mercury ached to ask his questions. To ask which of them knew—if any of them did!—about the goddess who lurked in the shadows just outside Valhalla. But he thought that remaining silent, and investigating on his own might be the safest route for the moment. He could press Hecate for answers, and determine if this entity happened to be a threat to his benefactors. But for now, he stayed silent, and watched the battle unfold on the maps on the table. And winced, along with the other gods, as Yum Kaax managed to kill Chalchiuhtlicue, and the energy wave slaughtered the armies at the gods’ feet. Chaac and he began to fight directly, and the area flooded as rain poured down. The earth heaved and buckled, and a ridge of stone rose up, a mile long. An incipient mountain, forming in moments, instead of eons, and the earth around it trembled and tore. This may go on for some time, Odin finally said, quietly. And we all have many tasks. Everyone, to your business.

  Caesarius 32, 1995 AC

  While perceptually, each trip to her keep or Valhalla took hours, Sigrun no longer considered them derelictions of duty, but very needed respites. They usually took only a few minutes in reality; at most, an hour or so. And then she’d return to her tasks.

  She wasn’t hunting the Potentia conspirators anymore; they’d caught everyone directly related to the attacks on Cimbri and Crann Péitseog. There were undoubtedly more disaffected people out there. More people rousing the rabble, protesting current conditions, and complaining of ill-treatment by the gods. She’d ground her teeth in irritation at the modern sense of entitlement that had crept into her people. The gods should do something about it, was one thing. Why aren’t they doing something about it? was understandable. But the gods aren’t doing anything. This is all their fault was intolerable. As was the fact that people who adopted that attitude also tended to accept charity, but wouldn’t give anything back. This was a marked change in attitude in her proud people, and she couldn’t fathom it.

  She understood that millions of people were out of work. Entire industries had collapsed, thanks to the loss of overseas shipping. But where there was demand, there should also be . . . industries arising to supply that demand. And yet no one seemed to have the capital with which to start new businesses. The gold and silver coins of the Empire were still circulating in the rebellious provinces. They should have been worth exactly the same amount today, as ten years ago. But without the Empire setting benchmark prices, and without the stability of food shipments and everything else . . . local economies were spiraling out of control.

  The survivors of Cimbri had been moved to other cities, or had shifted to the outskirts of their own ruined homeland. What care could be given to them, was being given. The same applied to the survivors of Crann Péitseog. Still, people flooded towards the border from Nahautl into Novo Gaul every day, only to be turned back—if the border guards could manage it. Sigrun herself was dividing her time between the border, the ruins of Cimbri, and Novo Trier; the other gods were all split in much the same way. Some had to stay in Iberian Gaul and Britannia and Europa, to help defend their refugees and their Gallic allies—while under continuous threat of attack by the Roman gods. Others had to stay in Caesaria Aquilonis, under similar threat of attack from the gods of Nahautl . . . though the internecine strife between Quecha and Nahautl meant that the gods of Nahautl had to split their attentions, too.

  The border work was tense, because of the potential for attacks from the south. Contingents of the flayed men and the ahuizotl and even regular army troops from Nahautl, trying to round up fresh sacrifices, spilled over the border. Sigrun and Nith had no mercy on those, raining down lightning and ice on anyone they caught crossing under arms. The Jaguar warriors were the hardest to catch, being masters of stealth, and Sigrun hated fighting them; every time a group of them was found, she knew that she was attacking people beside whom Ehecatl and Mazatl could have stood. That some of them, undoubtedly, were fighting not because they wished to, but because if they did not, their families would be the next people taken to the altars. And yet, there they were. Attacking her allies. And so she and Nith brought death down on them.

  The solitary bright spot on the southern border was the day that an entire Roman garrison marched up from the south, and surrendered. Tanks. Personnel carriers. Mobile rocket platforms and trucks full of people. Every last man put down his weapons, dropped to the ground, and set hands to his head. They had their wives and children with them, tired and foot-sore, the children crying from exhaustion and fear as they, too, sat on the ground in clear surrender.

  She and the Morrigan had been on patrol in the area, and they both dropped from the sky to meet with the commanders. Nith landed cautiously, studying the surrendering soldiers with suspicion. “If you don’t mind my asking,” Sigrun asked one of the tribunes in charge, “why exactly are you all here? Novo Gaul is in rebellion against Rome.” She wore her mask, but consciously used her voice to speak with them. She’d been in the service of Rome for sixty-five years, give or take, in unifo
rm and out of it. A tribune’s insignia got her respect.

  The tribune glanced from her to the Morrigan and back again, uneasily, and gave Nith an awed look, as well. “This is all so far over my pay-grade . . . .” he finally told her, his voice quiet. “We thought we’d be met by the Novo Gaul legions. Army. Whatever they’re calling themselves. Not by you.”

  Thirty-five thousand soldiers, the entirety of the largest Roman base in Nahautl, the Morrigan said. Moment by moment, her visage shifted between the three faces of the goddesses she held within herself. All war goddesses. All savage fighters. From Macha, her central, crow aspect, to that of Nemain, whose eyes were wild with battle-frenzy at all times. Thirty-five thousand men, and your families. And weapons. Our people are positioned strategically close, in case this is some sort of a new tactic, bringing your families with you as shields. Her teeth bared for a moment, and her face shifted again, becoming Badb, another crow-goddess, her white skin covered in blood-spray and woad tattoos. But we also thought it a good thing to keep our people back, in case you meant to surrender, in truth. One finger too quick upon a trigger, and there would be . . . an incident. Her face became Macha once more; a little older, a little wiser, and skin clean of blood.

  Her voice cut through the men, who wavered on their feet. Sigrun got the tribune to face her. “Just tell us why you’re all here, surrendering, rather than staying at your base in Nahautl.”

  The tribune swallowed. “My centurions got wind of some potential desertions. I reported it up the chain. My legate told me to get control of the men, and told me to execute anyone who tried to desert, in fact.” His dark eyes were bloodshot. “It boils down to this, ah, domina.” Another apprehensive glance at Nith and the Morrigan, and then he defaulted to addressing Sigrun. “We could have stayed huddled in our base, where we’re surrounded, and we’d have been starved out. Eventually, when we’re weak, they’d come in and take us captive and sacrifice us and our families.” He grimaced. “Or we could have finally gotten the order to leave base and attack . . . gods know what. The nearest town, say.”

  Another tribune, his face gray under his dark tan, picked up the conversation. “Trouble is, we’re cut off from reinforcements. Every hand around us, is against us. If we’re ordered to attack Novo Gaul, the Nahautl will rise up and attack us on our way to fight you. If we fight the Nahautl, their ordinary citizens will take up arms against us, out of pure fear of what will happen to them if they don’t, I think.” He swallowed. “So, we die, and that leaves our women and children on the base alone and unprotected. Better to do what we did. Cut our way through to the border, and hope that we have only one enemy to fight, not two.”

  The original officer shook his head. “Our superiors have been ordered to execute people for desertion, for . . . not showing a fighting spirit. The Legion has been largely professional for hundreds of years. Oh, there are still conscripts who are criminals, assigned to us as hardship duty. We use them to clear minefields and dig ditches and other such duties. But for most of us . . . the Legion is a choice. And I’ve been proud to be a legionnaire my entire life.” His face was weary. “But when it comes right down to it? I’ve got a responsibility to the lives of those under my command.”

  “So yes. We surrender.” The other tribune shook his head. “Gods. If you can’t feed prisoners of war right now? We’ll fight for you. Not against Rome. But against Nahautl incursions, yes.”

  The Morrigan tipped her head to the side, her face shifting as she conferred with her internal chorus. A man who would change sides once, will likely change sides again.

  I see no lies in the eyes of the officers, Sigrun said, quietly, reverting to mind-speech to address the Morrigan, and maintaining it as she spoke to the men again. They seem to be men of honor, if ones much pressed. However, gentlemen . . . if we lose this war, and Rome reasserts control of these rebellious provinces . . . you could all be crucified as deserters and traitors.

  The tribunes hung their heads. “You have a point,” the first man agreed. “But gods . . . I took my oath to defend Rome. I don’t see Rome in the orders I’ve been getting lately. You might be barbarians, but you’re the most civilized option around here, at the moment. And I would much rather die fighting, than on someone’s altar, sacrificed to a god gone mad.” He stole a glance up at the Morrigan and Sigrun, and swallowed. “Meaning . . . absolutely no offense in the world.” He glanced at his fellow officers, all of whom now remained wisely silent. “Look, if your people want to just keep us in an internment camp . . . we’d understand that. But we’d rather earn your trust. Earn the right for our families to be fed. Instead of being a burden on your people’s . . . civility.”

  One of the dozens of crows that eternally followed the Morrigan around, like a black storm, landed on her shoulder, and stroked its beak along her cheek, and her gray eyes gleamed with a certain fey enjoyment. Fairly enough spoken, mortal. You have said much that I find of interest. I will leave it to my people to decide, but I am minded to recommend that they permit this, if your wives and children stand as guarantors of your good behavior. I will suggest to our local people that they allow you to fight . . . and to visit your families, to ensure their well-treatment. She smiled, her teeth startlingly white, and her eyes glinting. Is this not fair?

  I would also recommend asking them to swear fealty to your people, Sigrun suggested. Any who are so inclined, might also accept blood-bonds to you, or Taranis, or the others. They would thus be hidden from the gods of Rome. She realized that she wasn’t speaking out loud, and added, “Don’t call on your gods, tribune. Pass the word down to the ranks. That might call more attention to you than you might prefer.” She grimaced behind her mask. “In this time, the sound of a god’s Name on the air resonates more than it once did.”

  When Sigrun wasn’t on the Nahautl border, her second area of responsibility was the ruins of her hometown of Cimbri. The region was a refugee crisis that dwarfed anything Judea had seen in the past twenty-five years. Crops had been covered in ice repeatedly so far this year, due to the unnatural winter spawned by Skadi’s death. Entire herds of cattle had been slaughtered, because there was no grain with which to feed the animals. So there was a surplus of meat, but there would be shortages of that staple next year. Transporting food to the devastated city was difficult, but other communities in the region were trying to bring goods in by road and train, in spite of the freak blizzards that rolled across the plains. Sigrun did her best to shape the weather, whenever she was there, as did Tyr and Thor. At the outset, she learned by lending her strength to the other gods. Diverting a storm around the city . . . and forcing it to dump most of its water into Lake Caestus. She rapidly realized that weather control on the large scale was at least as difficult as open combat; humans didn’t grasp how much the atmosphere weighed. She usually felt as if she were wrestling with something about the size of Nith as she struggled to redirect this storm cell here, unspin that one there, or convince a warm and cold front not to collide.

  Novo Trier was, however, the worst of her three responsibilities. There, too, she needed to exert control of the weather, but that wasn’t her primary concern here. It had been a city of ten million people, months ago. Three million people had died on the first day. Not as bad, in terms of raw death toll, as Crann Péitseog or Cimbri. But three million others, at least, had been affected in physical or mental ways. Some people had been set on fire, and could not put themselves out. Some of the fiery ones went entirely mad, experiencing this as an unspeakable punishment for sins unknown. They ran through the streets, leaving flame in their wake, usually screaming. The gardia had dealt with those by shooting them on sight, and most people thought this a mercy.

  Lassair worked here, meeting with those who hadn’t been driven entirely mad. Who didn’t experience the flames as a continuous, agonizing pain without respite. These people, Lassair and other fire-spirits were training to sublimate the fire, and to ignite when a weapon was required. Many of them were bitter about the sudde
n, unexpected powers, but some, predictably, felt exalted, raised above other mortals by the gods, and that attitude grated on the other survivors.

  With three million people killed in a single day, there were survivors going door-to-door in apartment and office buildings left unsteady and unstable after the wave of power had all but gutted the once-proud city. The retrieval crews went through silent apartment and office buildings, all of which had been damaged, and the crew members all had a numb, shell-shocked aura to them. They found family pets, often cats, feeding on the bodies of the dead. They found the dead bodies themselves, put covers over them, and marked the doors with paint in a grim kind of shorthand.

  Cae. 17: 2 ad., 1 m, 1 f. 3 ch. unkn. Fam.?

  Cae. 29: Bodies rem. 3 cats found and shot.

  Cae. 23: 17 adults, 7 m, 10 f. Office.

  Cae. 30: Bodies rem. Building clear for demo.

  Caes. 24: 2 ad. f. 25 ch., unkn.

  Sept. 1. Bodies rem. Daycare class. All in smocks w/school logo. Find parents for id.

  The crews had all done their share of digging in the rubble of completely collapsed buildings, listening for the sounds of survivors. But now they were surveying buildings that weren’t completely destroyed, as they walked the shattered halls, all in the dwindling hope of finding survivors who’d been too frightened, or maddened to leave their homes. In the knowledge that the mad ones could well turn on them when they opened a door. In the knowledge that the bodies had to be collected . . . though the rats and the insects were already dining very well indeed. They took what they found to the crematoriums, which were working around the clock to identify corpses and then reduce them to ash for sanitation purposes.