That prompted them to bring them to a large Roman-style villa, which they called the palace of their king. The governor sniffed. They aped their betters, but they hardly got the proportions right. And the place hasn’t, clearly, been renovated since sometime in the eighteenth century.
Inside, he found a group of long-haired brigands who purported to be the king’s own guards. Every one of them was wild-eyed, and on the verge of tears. “Well, if you are the king’s guards, then where is the king?” the governor demanded, and they parted ranks, silently, to let him see the body lying on a table. The white hair had been smoothed out, and the hands folded over the hilt of a sword that looked more ceremonial than functional.
“I was with him, during the passing,” one of the guards said, quietly. “He looked around at the forest, the mad, undying Woods. He said that if he were about to die, he chose to pass . . . here. And to tell his brother that he’d built a better kingdom in his heart and head than any he had ever seen . . . and that he needed to make it real, now.”
The governor ignored these ramblings, mostly because they didn’t make sense. “If this is your king, then who is his heir?”
“That would be Trennus Matrugena,” the guards said, looking at one another, a little uneasily. “The old king named him heir before the . . . crossing.”
“And where is he?”
“He lives in Jerusalem, half the year. He was here when the mad god attacked, and the wyrm of fire crawled out of the sea.” Nonsensical words, blank, dazed faces. “And then he took us to the Undying Lands, and through them, to here.”
“I believe that the locals may have some objections to having you camp on their lands!”
“We’re not camping. These are our houses. Our mountains. Our woods and our fields. I can see Loch Calder out the window.” One guard looked at the others. “I think I’m going to miss the sea.” Dazed tone. Numb words.
Fools. Ingrates. Useless. The governor turned to the rest of his delegation. “Start a records search. I don’t know who this Trennus Matrugena is, but he might be at the heart of this . . . this . . . whatever this is. Mass hallucination. Hoax. Land-grab. What-have-you.”
_________________________
The Persians, on seeing the entire region reshaped around them, suffered a certain amount of morale degradation. Common soldiers wanted nothing to do with this haunted, accursed land. They reported seeing eyes in the darkness between the trees. Hearing laughter in the branches. The generals pushed them on, regardless. Bade them set fire to the trees, with flamethrowers, magic, and rockets. The first tree so kindled, burned, naturally enough. The problem was that it uprooted itself, still on fire, and moved, its roots undulating over the ground, to retaliate against the soldiers who’d attacked it, and then gone on a flaming, angry rampage through the camp and its buildings, trampling over any who stood in its way. It was finally taken down by a barrage of bullets that splintered its weakened trunk and effectively sawed the tree in half . . . and then it promptly fell across a command tent.
Over a hundred structures blazed in its wake, and the Persian rank-and-file were unreceptive to orders to cut down the trees, burn them, or otherwise get them out of the way so that combat could once more commence. Even taking the chance of lodging a bullet in one of the trees seemed risky to the average soldier now . . . and that was before an entire squad got lost in the trees, only to be found, a day later, listening to a birch tree sing. They hadn’t slept, eaten, or drunk anything in that time; they’d urinated and defecated right where they’d sat, and probably would have been content to sit there, listening, until they died, if a patrol with a summoner hadn’t happened to be the one to find them. All of the men reacted like addicts, however, on being removed, and begged to be allowed to go back. Screamed when their rescuers used a thermite grenade, usually reserved for disabling Judean and Roman artillery, to set the singing tree on fire. Tried to rescue the tree . . . and then wept that they would no longer have any beauty in their lives. As such, they were all confined to a brig facility, so that their commanders could decide if they needed to be shot as a risk to the rest of their forces, or not.
The Persian commanders were stymied. The Romans still had air superiority, and could bomb their camps from above with impunity; an enraged, flaming, ambulatory tree that had just been hit by a Judean rocket launched from a mile up wasn’t going to go after the pilot, but rather, the perceived enemies around it. Their ornithopters couldn’t match the Judean jets in the air, and anti-aircraft batteries had already claimed far too many of the vehicles and their pilots as it was. They couldn’t reach the Legion encampment with tanks anymore, thanks to the eerie, preternatural forest, which the common soldiers refused to chop down, or enter—even when the other choice was a firing squad. Being offered the opportunity of being ‘promoted’ into the Immortals was, however, making more of the rank-and-file rapidly reassess their willingness to carry out their commanders’ orders. Of course, the Immortals’ ranks were limited . . . .
“And you do not use Immortals to chop wood.”
“I will happily order them to do exactly that. Or get a cadre of summoners with earth elementals bound to them in here, and have them knock over the trees with their fists, or very large rocks. I care not, so long as we have an avenue of attack!”
“Ahh, but when you have beaten your head into a wall enough times, it becomes useful to check to see if it has a window. The forest gives us cover. We can send infiltration teams through it, right up to the edge of the Roman encampment. From there, they can launch attacks with bottled efreeti and other such niceties.”
“And when the Romans sortie to counter-attack?” A pause. “Ahh. Our infiltrators can have dug in mines and whatnot, between them and any opposition.”
“Absolutely. And when the mines go off, and the woods are in flames, no doubt the trees will attack the Romans nearby as the proximate cause of the fire, and not our men.” A faint shrug.
“What happens if the trees are intelligent enough to tell who actually caused the fire?”
“Intelligent trees.”
“I realize what it sounds like.”
“Then we will have obtained important information, and someone will be in line for a commendation for this intelligence-gathering.”
“You are a genius.”
“I do try.”
Life in the Legion camps therefore became even more vicious, as bottled efreeti and ancient, long-unsummoned creatures rampaged through the camps, tasking counter-summoners to the limits. Latirian learned this the hard way. She’d been dozing at the shift desk one evening, with only a bulb burning beside her, and had opened her eyes in time to see dark mist creeping through the doorway just in front of her, forming into a tall, hunched body and madly glaring green eyes. The laugh as the creature formed itself into flesh, manifesting itself, chilled her to her soul, and she leaped over the desk, fully awake, and pulling fire to her hands. Her fires illuminated the entire room, and then she threw it orbs of it into the demon’s face. Her mother’s gift, the gift of her lineage . . . but enhanced and honed by Aunt Sig’s training.
The creature howled and leaped on her, pinning her to the desk, which skidded back several feet, and she clamped her hands around its throat and visualized the kind of heat usually found in the hearts of volcanoes, even as she’d struggled to keep its teeth out of her throat. Half of the legionnaires in the ward struggled out of their beds, and one of them, bravely, but futilely, attacked the creature with a chair, sending splinters of wood flying over Latirian’s face. “Iron,” Latirian gasped as clawed hands closed around her throat now, in return. “Bullets, enchanted, gun in the desk—” Her head swam, and she knew she had only seconds before the carotid arteries were pinched closed and she’d fall unconscious.
The young centurion dug out the pistol and fired, point-blank into the creature’s face, which forced the hands around her throat to release . . . and the fire in her own hands finally did the trick, burning through the neck, and lett
ing the ruined head topple from the body. She sat up, wheezing, on the edge of the desk. Something else I can’t tell Himi about, she thought, resignedly. Her husband was an amazing doctor. He wasn’t a stranger to the idea of his loved ones being off and in danger, thanks to his parents. He knew she was spirit-born—no one else could know better. And Himi had no desire to re-enact the fights between Kanmi and Bastet, his parents. But he did get a certain stubborn expression on his face when he thought she’d been exposed to unnecessary danger, and that someone should have been doing a better job of keeping her safe. And this sometimes led him to ask if she’d considered requesting a position at a military hospital in Judea . . . something she’d already spent several years of her life doing.
Latirian already knew she was missing her children’s early years. She knew she was missing vital time with her beloved husband. But she also knew that a normal doctor, sitting at that desk tonight, would have just died, and the demon would have rampaged through the ward unchecked. “You all right, doctor?” the young centurion asked her, eying her hands warily.
She looked down, and snuffed her flames. “Yes. Let’s get some lights on in here. I recognized that creature from some of my father’s stories. It was an alu-demon, I think.” Her voice was a thin rasp. “Light won’t stop them, but it will make them hesitate before entering. They hunt in packs. There are probably more of them all over the compound right now.” As if on cue, she heard chilling laughter from outside. Her fingers found the overhead light switches, and she flooded the area with fluorescent light, before tabbing the intercom. “This is Dr. Eshmunazar. Get lights on in every ward, and every closet. Guard details, keep an eye on doors and windows. Orderlies, move patients away from the windows.” She rubbed at her face, trying to think if she’d missed anything. I thought all of these creatures had been bound, and the containers put in Roman hands, by treaty. Latirian grimaced. Something else to ask about, when I get telephone privileges. Mother is not answering my thoughts, and I do not understand why. And if anyone knows what is going on, it would be the family.
After a long, nervous night, spent with armed guards in her ward, and a wild-eyed summoner having been escorted across the compound to mark put down binding circles all over the medical center, Latirian finally did get access to a phone line for fifteen minutes. Grainy-eyed, she waited out four long rings, thinking Pick up, pick up, pick up, this is my only call out for the next two weeks, and I’m not using it to call my husband and children. Pick up.
A young female voice answered, and Latirian had to think for a moment to place it as Eisa, who’d just turned eighteen. “Eisa, could you put Da on the line? Or tell Mother to speak with me directly, please?”
Eisa sounded uncomfortable. “Mother’s not here. She’s, ah . . . moved out. Sort of.”
Latirian’s mind went blank. “She what?”
“She severed her bond with Father to give him the power to move the Caledonian Forest here—”
“. . . I’ve noticed the trees outside, yes. Da did this?” Latirian’s voice pitched up, but she switched to Pictish-inflected Gallic and lowered her voice, too. “And she severed the soul-bond? Doesn’t that mean he’d die?” Slight, reflexive panic, tamped down by experience.
“He’s tired, but definitely not dead.” Eisa’s voice was subdued. “He didn’t do it alone, Tiri. Da said he’d called on about a hundred spirits who owed him debts, and Nodens himself lent a hand to the working. But he’s going to have to spend three to four months a year in the Veil, physically, to . . . balance things out. Provide a conduit for all the energy, and stabilize it. It might take ten years, a hundred, even a thousand, for things to . . . settle down.”
Latirian’s mouth opened and closed. She’d always known her father was powerful, but he wore that power quietly. He was self-effacing, almost to a fault. He enjoyed sparring, wrestling, matching his strength and will and wits against others, but didn’t like killing. He had always seemed to adore her mother and Saraid, and yet now . . . . “So why is Mother leaving?” Latirian paused. “What about the little ones? Saenu’s just nine, Esico and Senecita just turned seven, and Aesu and Sintorix are only three!”
More discomfort in Eisa’s voice. “I don’t know precisely what’s going on, sister. Father’s hiring a pedagogue to come and live in—and for the moment, Aunt Min’s here. Mother says she wants to get her phoenix back, before she loses it. I asked her if spirits could have mid-life crises and she told me no.”
She swallowed. “All right. That all can wait till I’m home or until Mother’s willing to talk to me. I need to know about alu-demons. Ask Da to call me back when he has a chance. His Praetorian authority should get an override on the comm protocols, at least.”
“I’ll do so.” Eisa sighed. “He’s got a delegation of Picts in the living room right now, two Roman governors, about five priests from the Temple, not to mention Uncle Adam. Uncle Vin declared Da his heir before he died. Under the condition that the kingship only be passed down to Aunt Sari’s children.” Eisa sounded annoyed about that. “Apparently, we were still no good to him, even at the end.”
Latirian’s mind blanked again, and for a long moment, she had no idea what to say. Finally, she opted for, “Don’t be like that, little one. Aunt Sari was a part of their lives for generations. Our mother spent all her early years near Lutetia. Besides, do you really want to be queen?”
“I think I’d make a good one. I speak half a dozen languages, and I always did want to be a diplomat, like all of Father’s stories about Livorus.”
“Thinking you’d be a good ruler is probably the first sign that you’d be terrible at it.” Latirian looked at the clock, and swore silently. “I have to go, little one. Tell Da alu-demons. And call Himi and the children for me, if you would, please.” Latirian missed Zinnridi, her eight-year-old scrap of mischief, and Minura, her two-year-old daughter, but she was out doing what needed to be done. The life of the god-born, just like Aunt Sig’s always said. Spirit-born, god-born, sorcerer, summoner, ley-mage. All the same. Just a question of degree.
In the Matrugena living room, over a hundred miles to the south, Adam ben Maor was doing his best impression of a diplomat. Maxim Linus Paulus, the Roman governor of Damascus, was present, and while Adam had met many a pompous patrician in his twenty years of service with Livorus, Paulus was straining his patience. Added to this was the current Roman governor of Judea, Sextus Emidius Felicianus, a handful of people from the city council of Jerusalem, and four or five Temple elders and priests, which would have made for a contentious meeting. But added to them were delegations of fractious Picts who’d arrived from regions around Tyre and Damascus. They were all clan-leaders and elected officials, and were here to argue, dispute, brawl, and probably pledge their allegiance to Trennus as their new king. Adam wasn’t honestly sure which bombshell had shaken the even keel of his thoughts more: that the Caledonian Forest was currently wrapped around Judea and Carthage like a shawl, that Lassair had moved out, or that his scholarly, retiring friend of close to forty years was now a political and even religious heavyweight.
Adam had learned about the forest on an emergency far-viewer broadcast at first, and had stood, gaping at the footage like a rank tyro in the fields of magic. His first call had actually been Minori—who hadn’t been answering her sat-phone—and then Sig, who’d apparently gone back to turning off her phone when she was in the field. When he’d arrived next door, leaning on his cane, he’d been in time to see Lassair walking out the front. She’d given him a bittersweet smile, and a kiss that had sent a shock of warmth though his body, and made him feel a good ten years younger. I will see you again, Steelsoul. Tell Stormborn, from me . . . that I thank her for her insight, wisdom, and counsel. And with those inexplicable words, the spirit had slowly transitioned into her firebird form, and flown off. Adam had stared after her, and then into the house. Minori had turned out to be on hand to help with the children, and Saraid had been there, too. And Trennus didn’t have blue-fire eyes anym
ore, and had looked distressed, tired, and a little relieved, all at once. “What’s going on?” Adam had finally asked.
“Long story. Really long damned story. How about if we sit down and have some honey-beer and talk about . . . well, anything else but it, would be my preference . . . . ”
“Trennus, it’s not even noon yet.” The days of needing to drink alcohol because water supplies were unhygienic were centuries past, and Trennus was usually abstemious by nature when it came to alcohol.
“It’s five postmeridian somewhere, and I put in a very full day’s work already.” Trennus’ grin had been lopsided as he leaned on Saraid’s shoulders. “Let me tell you a story about a mad godling, a very angry world-serpent, and my homeland.”
By the end of the story, Adam had been shaking his head. It wasn’t quite disbelief. He’d seen too much for that. But he was sixty-three, and at that stage of life, it took a little more effort to adapt to sudden changes than it had when he’d been younger. “The social impact is going to be even bigger than when we first started absorbing the fenris, nieten, jotun, and other Goths. That was a refugee crisis, but at least it was slow, and we only got a thousand or two a week, until the population more or less stabilized. Same thing with the Hellene refugees, including the harpies and dryads and centaurs. This is an overnight population in the millions, parked on Jerusalem’s front doorstep.” Adam was trying to wrap his head around the numbers. “Fritti is going to have her hands full.”
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