I am injured, dread lord. But while the enemy comes to me, at this watering hole of energy and power, I can draw on that power myself. Heal myself, while attacking them. The ground cannot be any more damaged by their deaths, or by mine, than it is already. Her words were exquisitely logical. And in this manner, I redeem myself and my honor for the death of Cocidius.
Juno clearly heard the words, and shouted, from across the Veil, There is no honor left, you fool! There is only survival. Survival for our people. Survival for ourselves!
If our people do not have ideals to strive for, if they have no sense of what is just . . . the words faded out for a moment, on a wave of pain . . or right, or honorable . . . then they will die in truth. And the light of civilization dies with them. We will not . . . deserve . . . to live . . . .
Juno turned aside, covering her face with her hands. The usually irascible queen of the gods wept, as the four remaining greater gods of Olympus felt the tie between them and Minerva snap. However tenuous that bond had become after her flight into the deep Veil to escape Jupiter’s wrath, they had still been connected.
And now they were not.
She died well, Thor offered after a moment, and Baldur nodded. Both Valhallans were bleeding.
Quetzalcoatl crouched, leaning against one of the empty thrones in the echoing, vacant meeting hall, and laughed harshly, wiping away turquoise blood. We may all hope for that to be our epitaph. But who will be left to write it?
Fragile Iris, who had been the sole remaining guard for Olympus, beyond creatures who were scarcely more than house-spirits in power, like Priapus, huddled beside the dying hearth fire, overshadowed by the gloom among the vaulted ceiling alcoves. What do we do now?
There was time here to think. Pluto looked at his hands, which were not, for once, uncoiling. The shockwave reached Rome, he said, quietly. The avalanches should prevent more ettin and grendels from entering the peninsula. But the warping power . . . there will be mutations and madness all through northern Italia. He looked at Juno, and then at Aeva, dozing in her cradle by the dying fire. We must protect those who remain. We must bring them to us.
Mercury’s eyes went wide. You’re not suggesting . . . .
They have always believed that they come to me, at the end of their lives. Why not bring them to me, while they yet live? Pluto shrugged. I will not have enough power for all of them. But those we draw here will be safe for a time. He regarded them all. Rome will endure. The laws will endure. The culture will survive. The people will not die.
You’ll burn yourself out, Venus whispered, her sense uneasy. You’ll destroy yourself.
I would have agreed with that assessment not long ago. But in the last year, I’ve been given gifts I have never had before. With Juno to hold the portal open for him, he might not even need to leave the Veil fully to do this. Mercury . . . go to Judea. Defend the enclave of our people there. Consult with Prometheus on what else might be done. Venus, you may decide for yourself, what you would do. Defend southern Italia, retreat to Judea, or stay here and help guard and guide our people. For they will surely have much need of guidance here. They will find the Veil vastly confusing, and your touch is far gentler than mine. Pluto regarded Iris, and then gave Juno a questioning glance. Iris was her handmaiden; no servant of his.
Juno nodded. You, too, are free to find your own tasks, Iris. I will not bind you to this service.
I . . . will stay here. Aeva needs a nursemaid. And that is the happiest task I have had in centuries. Iris looked away, flushing.
Pluto nodded to the other gods. We will come to your aid, if we are able.
Amaterasu stared at him. I spirited away three hundred people at a time, and considered it well-done. If I understand your intention correctly . . . you are quite mad.
Without their city, what is a Roman? Pluto asked, straightening his shoulders. Not a Roman. Hardly anything at all.
_________________________
In Rome, the earth trembled, and Mariana, along with the handful of patricians, Praetorians, Senators, and servants who’d taken refuge in the palace, fled outside to stand in the frozen gardens, under the gray skies, as the walls cracked and buckled. She stopped to gasp for air, waiting for the usual stupid spasm of pain under her left ribs to subside, and listened with the others to radio reports about a storm-wall of clouds to the north. Ashes fell, and Mariana shivered, wondering if they could risk going back inside, out of the cold.
And then the sky overhead . . . dissolved. The gray became black, for a moment, the black of a cavern ceiling, and she swore she could see veins of gold ore. “We’re sinking,” she blurted out, feeling foolish. “We’re sinking into the earth!”
Mariana felt hands catch her thin shoulders, clutching her so tightly that she would surely be bruised tomorrow . . . and then she wondered why people were screaming. The chill on the wind had abated. The snow and ash on the ground had been swept away, and the palace gardens were green once more. The low hedges around the statues of the gods and emperors were covered in roses, perfuming the air. She looked up, but the sky was still black and starless, as if they were in a vast underground cavern. And when she looked down at herself, she blinked in surprise. Her breasts had long ago shriveled, and they’d been a shock to her every time she’d seen them in the mirror, for she tended to expect what she’d seen there since she was thirteen—firm flesh, not too big, and not too small. She pulled back her shawl and studied her arms—no loose bags of flesh around the elbows, no arthritic buckles at her knuckles. No liver spots. No wrinkles.
She turned, looking for those who’d been with her, and saw dozens of people, huddling in on themselves on the ground, rocking. Hiding their eyes from the beauty around them. And so, she was the first, and perhaps only person in the garden, to see the beautiful woman appear. Long golden hair, waving to her knees, and a hint of sadness in her demeanor. Lady, she said, dropping the personage a slight bow. Are you a spirit? Am I dead? And, with a sudden, wild hope, she added, quickly, If this is Elysium, is not my Antonius here? May I not see him?
The beautiful woman turned, held out her arms, and gave her the gentlest, most loving embrace that she could remember receiving since Livorus had died. This is not Elysium, I fear. I am sorry, Mariana of the steadfast heart. I know what it is, to lose the one you love, and hope . . . against all rationality . . . for his return. The gentle voice paused, and a tear rolled down her perfect cheek. She did not question how the woman knew her name. The voice held too much power, too much authority. This is the Veil, where Olympus and Tartarus meet. Pluto and Juno work to move Rome here, to our realm, so as many of our people can be preserved, as possible. Come. You and I will find those who have been taken here, and comfort them.
Her heart had shriveled inside of her, on realizing that she was not . . . quite dead. And that Livorus was not here, somehow, in the realm of the gods, as he should have been. And yet . . . But why do they cry out in fear? There is nothing here that is not beautiful.
You thought yourself dead, but did not fear, for you spent your life working for the good of others. You loved, and were loved, and were not ashamed. These others see the world that they created within their own minds and hearts. The woman stared at them dispassionately. They will go mad, if they do not learn to control their thoughts. Come. We will aid them.
I am sorry, but . . . who are you?
A quick, faint smile. You already know my Name, Mariana. I have been with you every day of your life, since you met Livorus the Lawgiver.
Her eyes filled with tears. Lady . . . Venus. I will help you aid these others. But please . . . when we are done . . . can you not send me to him?
Another tear trickled down a perfect cheek as Venus replied, He is with my beloved Mars. And if I knew where they were, I would go with you to meet them.
Caesarius 26, 1999 AC
Drust usually congregated with a group of other men at the on-ramp of one of Burgundoi's Imperial highways. Typically, people would arrive with trucks
around nine antemeridian, looking for laborers. The work was invariably backbreaking and low-paying—if it paid at all. Today, for example, all the trucks were city-owned. That meant that they were looking for volunteers. Their pay would be lunch, and maybe a chit for dinner, if they worked past sunset.
The faces on the corner with him were Gothic, Gallic, and Nahautl, but they were all . . . gray. From exhaustion, mainly. Malnutrition, too. Burgundoi was better off than almost every other city on the continent at the moment. Crops grew outside of town, and the ground wasn't frozen. But there simply wasn't enough food to go around. Certainly not enough for all the refugees. The locals kept their distance, and with reason. There had been incidents. Murders, rapes, kidnappings for extortion. The refugees were desperate, and many of them had seen and done far too much to get here, to return quietly to civilized habits.
Drust hopped up into the cab of the truck, reluctantly. Volunteer work meant he wouldn't be bringing anything home for Sadb. She was working as an assistant in a refugee shelter, but it would be damned nice to eat a dinner they'd paid for themselves, not one handed to them by one of her coworkers. They gave what little coin they earned to the family with whom they were staying, trying to help with rent costs. That was often all they could manage.
As the truck sped to the east side, however, maneuvering through the hilly, winding streets, Drust happened to look up, and saw all the skyscrapers in the downtown area begin to sway. They were built to withstand earthquakes and high winds by means of flexible structures in their skeletons, which allowed them to bend, rather than snapping. "Look!"
The driver pulled over to the side of the road, and now Drust could feel the earth’s tremors resonating up through the vehicle. Everyone in the back of the truck had gone silent. Finally, the driver turned on the radio to one of the fuzzy, low-power stations, saying, “Let's find out what's going on. We might have to turn around and help with debris removal and rescue operations.”
And body retrieval, Drust thought, but didn't add. They were all thinking it.
It wasn't a local fault, and though all the people in the truck muttered, quietly, that a god might have died, or a mad god might have attacked, news sources had no information, until late in the afternoon, when ash began to fall from the sky. A few smaller buildings had collapsed, and they worked in the downtown rubble for hours, making facemasks out of strips of cloth torn from the bottoms of their shirts to keep the dust and chemicals out of their lungs . . . a futile effort. In spite of the heavy work of lifting blocks and the danger of falling debris, and the numbing horror when he'd find an unidentifiable piece of red flesh, and knew that it had once belonged to a living being . . . it still felt good to be helping. Not huddling in a camp, or walking along a highway, gun in hand, watching for scavengers and bandits.
There were god-born here to help, too. Startling numbers of them. Huge, bearded men, who could lift fallen beams, so that they didn't need to position cranes on the shifting, unstable piles of rubble. Valkyrie, who could fly above the debris and lift pieces straight up . . . and who always seemed to know when the person they’d uncovered was alive, dead, or too far past saving to do more for, than give them a little water to wet their dust-covered lips.
Drust found himself working with one of the valkyrie, one with gray eyes, and whose armor was covered almost completely in dust. Long hair, pale copper, braided and pinned in such a way that the helmet of her armor wouldn't interfere, when she wore one, and she eschewed the breather-masks that the rest of them were wearing. Little more than a surgeon’s flimsy paper, but still, it kept some of the dust out. “You're going to catch black lung if you don't wear a mask, æðelinga,” he warned, using the Gothic honorific uncertainly. He'd never spoken to a god-born before.
“I thank you for your concern, but there’s no need.” Diamond-clear Cimbric accent. Drust winced. He couldn't even remember when Cimbri-on-the-Caestus had been blown up by the gods-be-damned Potentia bastards. It was all part of the haze of misery and destruction in his memory, all grays and blood and dust.
“Were you there when Cimbri . . . ?” The words limped out as they moved a fallen beam.
“No. I was called there after, though.” Her face didn't change, but her voice held a world of hurt.
I bet you were.
Moments later, a wall collapsed in on them. He caught her by an armored arm to pull her out of the way, as dozens of other workers fled. His skin froze, instantly, white-hot with cold, and Drust jerked back, watching as the bricks behind her fell towards them . . . and she raised a hand, and the collapse simply stopped. The bricks reversed their course, leaping back up into the wall, and pieces of broken rebar rose in the air, welding themselves across the structure to hold it in place. Drust stared at her for a long moment, finally mumbling, “I didn't know that valkyrie could do that, æðelinga. I thought you were like the Morrigan’s raven-maidens.”
“Most cannot. I am an exception.” A fine drift of dust fell across her face from above, adding to the collection of grime and dirt on her face and hair, and she held out her hand. “Give me your hand. You were injured, and the fault is mine.”
He hesitated before giving her his hand, quailing internally at the thought of touching her again. But while her skin was cool, it didn't harm him. A soothing warmth rose, and he could see fine traceries of light working across her face and fingers, as she healed the frostbitten appendage. After a moment, he said, "Thank you, æðelinga."
Another survivor found. Drust couldn't even tell if the mangled body was male or female. Goths wore their hair long or short on a whim, male and female alike. All he could see was medium-length blond hair, blood, and dirt. “Poor bastard,” he grunted, waiting for the valkyrie to indicate if they should go on digging. She put a hand to the victim’s shoulder, and light radiated out from her. After a moment, a female voice said, weakly, “I can feel my legs . . . .” and they dug further.
The gratitude on the rescued woman's face was clear as they pulled her out of the rubble. And then she looked at the valkyrie, her eyes widening, and she whispered, “Sigrun Stormborn. . . ?”
“I believe you will find that this man, Drust, had as much to do with your rescue as I did.” A gentle pat on the woman's shoulder.
Drust didn't remember having given the valkyrie his name. And the word Stormborn—Yrmabearn—sounded familiar, though he wasn't sure why. Something the Goths muttered to themselves, maybe.
After an hour or so, Drust finally found the courage to ask, “Æðelinga?”
“My name is Sigrun. I would be pleased if you used it.”
“Sigrun, then.” He paused, uncomfortable. “What caused all this? Which god died?”
She paused, leaning on her shovel. Her hands had weapon calluses, but he didn't see any signs of blisters from the shovel, in spite of her not wearing gloves. Not a single cut from all the shredded metal that they’d moved. Just dirt, like that on his own work gloves. “The gods of Rome and Valhalla, along with other allies, met the mad godlings in battle north of the Alps yesterday.”
"And that affects us here?” Drust had once read the newspaper daily, particularly the Imperial politics section, but now she spoke of events all the way around the planet from Burgundoi, and he’d gotten depressingly used to only being concerned about the mile ahead of him, and the mile behind him. And while being back in a city had widened his perspective again, it was still hard to imagine anything outside of twenty-five miles being . . . relevant to him.
“Yes,” she told him, as she dragged the remains of a metal fire door out of the way. “Because the energies released when the mad ones, Vesta, and Minerva died resonated with other broken ley-lines. And that energy moved through fault lines all across the world. In the early hours of this morning, the Mitsi'adazi supervolcano began to erupt in several locations.”
Drust’s mouth hung open for a moment. “Mitsi'adazi,” he said, dazed. “A group of refugees on the highway were trying to talk us into going there . . . .”
> The valkyrie looked tired. “Between the carbon dioxide gas being released, the ash, and the actual superheated rock . . . they could be alive, but I wouldn’t put coin on it.”
He shook his head. He wouldn’t have put coin on them surviving the cold, let alone the volcanoes. “All this ash comes from east of here, then?” Drust was surprised by how many answers he was getting, really.
“No. The Mitsi'adazi ash is being pushed eastwards, by the jet stream. It’s covering the ruins of Cimbri-on-the-Caestus now. A layer of gray over all the snow. The satellites should provide local news stations with some footage by tonight. The ash we’re seeing here comes from the Yohhe'met region, east of here, around Lake Monache.” Her eyes went distant. “Those once-dormant volcanoes are erupting, as well.”
Drust stared at her through the low-voiced recitation. “How do you know all of this?” And why are you telling me?
She shrugged. “Because it is my job to know it. And because you are an honest man, and deserve to know the truth.” She heaved a girder out of the way, and asked, diffidently, “If you could wish for one thing, Drust, what would it be?”
The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3) Page 154
