Sigrun ventured into the buildings with the search teams, leaving Nith outside. She could tell, usually at a glance, what had happened in each household, each office. This man went mad, and killed his wife and daughters with a gun, before shooting himself. These office workers were killed outright by the Dagr’s unleashed power, the flesh charred from their bones instantly, and mercifully. This girl, alone at home, was killed when a chunk of ceiling fell on her head, shattering her skull. This old man lived in the rubble for a month, not daring to leave, terrified for no good reason, not calling out to rescue workers . . . no running water, no functioning toilets, and finally died of hypothermia and dehydration . . . .
Nith asked her, one day, as she slumped on his back in exhaustion, Why do you go with them? Is this some obscure form of penance?
No. The crews need someone to walk beside them. In the dark places where no one thanks them, and all they see is death. Her lips had curled downwards. It seems appropriate that it should be me. Also, everywhere I go, I am a deterrent to the looters. There are people digging in the rubble for remnants of their past lives, surely. But there are also those digging to make a profit. Her teeth bared. She’d caught a few looters in the past week, all mostly fleeing Nith’s presence with their ill-gotten gains in their hands. Those who truthfully wanted the goods to sell, so as to be able to feed their families, she let go with a warning. Those who were grabbing the largest far-viewer globes to set up in their own homes, the jewelry of the dead . . . she executed. Without a shred of remorse. There was fighting in the refugee area outside of town, as well, of course. As those with strength or numbers tried to take valuables from those who were weaker. The bear-warriors were doing a fairly good job of clamping down on that, though.
A disaster never just stayed neatly centralized, of course. Shockwaves radiated out from the wounded city into the area around it. Some of those driven mad didn’t show signs of it instantly. Insanity could be a subtle knife. They left the city, and huddled in refugee centers. And then killed someone who looked at them the wrong way. Or they’d walk down the street one day, and snap, pulling someone out of their motorcar and beating them to death. Some walked into temples dedicated to the gods and began to rant and rave that the gods were at fault, that the gods were not gods, if they could die, and that all the gods brought was destruction. One man even brought a bomb into a temple of Freya, and detonated it, killing hundreds of people who were there to help refugees, and refugees there to seek assistance. The pure horror of it was . . . Sigrun wasn’t actually sure who had been driven mad by the warping power of Dagr’s death, and how many were infected by genuine despair. The result was the same.
And yet, in spite of those incidents, the humans kept going. They kept trying to clean up their city. To tear down what could not be repaired, and to repair what they could. The indomitability of the human spirit frequently moved her to tears, which she did her best to suppress. The people of the city didn’t need any worse weather than the constant sleet that sheeted down, in spite of the fact that the calendar read Caesarius.
And so, on Caesarius 32, 1995, Sigrun slipped into her accustomed spot on Nith’s back, and told him, The Judea house, please, and her voice was weary.
You should rest first. His voice was concerned.
She considered it for a moment, and then nodded. Yes. You’re right. Eight hours of sleep would be welcome. It would only take minutes, and she was empty inside. She did give Nith a glance askance, however. You will try to sleep again, too?
I do not enjoy the prospect of dreams. And I do not understand why you urge me to embrace such human things. Nith’s massive head faced away from her as they ascended, and his wings fought the heavy winds that buffeted them. His voice was marginally testy.
Perhaps I do so, because you urge me to embrace the divine. The thought held no humor. She sat slumped in place, her legs relaxed for once. She was past exhaustion.
A fair point. Nith’s tone gentled. Rest, my lady. Visits to Judea require much of your strength.
Her bedchamber within the keep hadn’t really changed. No pictures here, no books, no decorations. Just a bed that rested on a gray and roiling floor, and one window, so she could see the stars. Nothing more. She did wonder why her subconscious had created a double bed, and not the twin-sized frame she’d slept on for the first forty-five years of her life, and finally decided that it was largely a matter of mental habits.
Nith rarely reduced himself to lindworm size when at the keep, and only entered her chamber when specifically invited, or if she’d been wounded badly. He generally stayed out in the courtyard, or perched on a tower’s roof.
But often, Sigrun found that she couldn’t sleep in that silent, empty room, and wound up dragging a blanket with her down to the courtyard, where she’d put her head on the dragon’s massive flank, and rest. At least the ground is soft here, she thought hazily.
Four minutes after entering the Veil, and eight hours of rest later, Nith re-emerged over Judea, landing in the garden behind the house. Sigrun plucked an apple off the tree, tossing it to Nith, who, already down to lindworm size, snapped it easily out of the air, and then picked another for herself. It was after sundown here, as she opened the door, allowing Nith to precede her into the house, as he’d insisted on doing since the first time Adam had greeted her with Caliburn in his hands. And once more, Adam met them, his dark eyes tired, and the god-touched weapon at the ready. “Happy anniversary,” Sigrun told him, with Nith’s dark body in between her and the gun. “Thirty-nine years.” She thought that might be sufficient proof of her identity. Not that it’s not a matter of public record . . . ah, gods. Anyone could pretend to be me. I’m not that complex.
Adam safed the weapon, and came down the stairs, leaning on his cane. “I don’t suppose you can do anything about the weather?” he asked. “The damp’s gotten to my bones. I’ve been sleeping sitting up in a chair, because if I lie down, I don’t know if I’ll be able to get back up again.”
Sigrun’s throat closed as she stroked a silver strand of hair out of his face. Why will you ask me to change the weather, but not you? she wanted to demand. “I can try,” she said after a moment. “I can try to pull up an equatorial flow from the south. It would be warmer in a few hours.”
Adam blinked. “I was mostly joking. You don’t have to do that.” He paused. “You can do that? I mean, I knew about the rain, but . . . .”
“Localized winds are easy. Spot creation of a thunderstorm, not that hard. Moving entire weather fronts for a lasting effect? Much harder.” Sigrun’s voice was distant as she reached out across the city, and then south, finding a warm wind cell over the desert, and tried to nudge it northwards. She’d have to pay attention to it for the next few hours, shepherding it, and ensuring that it didn’t lose its speed and momentum up into the northern half of the peninsula.
And while she attended to the weather, they had dinner. Sigrun couldn’t think of anything to talk about over the food, and needed to spend her mental energy on the wind, so she listened to what Adam had to say about the Persians marshalling at the border once again. How Caesarion had rejected their offer of “assistance.” How Rome was sending troops into North Africa, near the city of Carthage. “They’re going to split off the rebelling provinces, one by one. Carthage is weak, in the wake of Baal-Hamon’s death. They’ll move to Egypt after that, and then hit us from the southwest. Probably at the same time Persia’s coming at us.” Adam shook his head. “How long can you stay, Sig? The JDF could really use some reinforcements.”
She bit her lip. “Just today,” she told him, wincing internally at the expression on his face. “I only came here today because it’s . . . .”
“Our anniversary,” he said, and she could see his emotional colors shift, atop that spirit that looked like poured, shining silver. A little dimmed by age, a patina of scratches and a little tarnish here and there. Red sparks of dull anger leaped up, and died again. But the blue contentment at having her here had vanis
hed as well. He ran a hand over his hair, and shook his head. “Sig . . . if we don’t get reinforcements, we’re going to lose Judea. We lose Judea, and there won’t be an Eastern Empire. Rome’s turned and looking at us right now, instead of looking at Caesaria Aquilonis—”
“I am aware that the legions are concentrating on the Mediterranean region.” She didn’t point out that Rome’s gods could attack anywhere in the world, at any moment. And had, at that. She didn’t point out that Valhalla and the Gallic gods were waiting for the next moment that Apollo exited the Veil, to try to retaliate. She didn’t point out that the legions would have a very difficult time crossing the Sea of Atlas right now, in any sort of force, because mad godlings could and did appear and attack ships and planes, at random.
“We’re supposed to be allies,” Adam said, clearly trying to word this carefully. “There has to be give and take in an alliance. We’re not seeing much of anything from the Gauls and the Goths right now, and we’ve basically pulled down our trousers and shown Julianus our asses here.”
Sigrun closed her eyes. In his way, he was doing what . . . everyone else did. Asking for intervention. Intercession. Because he knew her, very well, he wasn’t asking the human government of Gaul or Germania to send troops, he wasn’t putting in a formal request to the Odinhall to send a valkyrie . . . he was asking her, directly, to come to the aid of the land she’d called home for forty years. “Adam,” she said, carefully, putting her fork down, as Nith politely moved out of the room, finding someplace else to be, “I can’t do that—”
“If you’re about to tell me that it’s rude and it will offend my people and my god, I don’t care.” His expression darkened.
She bit back her reflexive first reply, which was, Ah, so you don’t care if I’m a goddess, so long as I do what you want, and don’t ask anything in return? It wasn’t a fair response. There was something else behind his words. He wanted her here. He wanted to be able to see her. Touch her. Have her in reach. He knew the end was drawing near, just as she could feel his mortality hiss through him every time she looked at him.
And yet . . . how could she convey what she was doing for her people? How could she tell him that she’d had to put some of them down, when in their madness, they turned on the rest of the populace? That she was needed to patrol the southern border against incursions by Nahautl gods? Or that when she wasn’t doing any of those things, that she was adjusting weather and helping to feed some twelve million refugees between Cimbri and Novo Trier? How could she tell him that, without it sounding like blatant self-aggrandizement?
Instead, she looked across at him, and said, quietly, “We used to be so good at compromising, Adam.” She paused. “What happened to us?”
He stopped moving, and didn’t answer, though his eyes turned sad. She shook her head, and replied, for him, “I suppose that the world gave us something that we can’t compromise on.” I can’t compromise on being what I am. Not in the face of this war. And you won’t compromise on becoming something other than what you are. So here we are. Stuck again..
He still hadn’t responded, except to take her hand in his, squeezing her fingers almost painfully tight. She looked up, and said, still in that very quiet tone, “I will see what I can do to get more valkyrie and bear-warriors tasked to Judea. Perhaps some of the Morrigan’s crow-maidens can come here, as well.”
Adam’s voice was a rasp. “That isn’t what I asked, Sig. I just . . . .” He shook his head. “I know I told you to . . . not make it a duty. But I miss you.”
Sigrun looked down. “I miss us,” she admitted, softly. I miss who we were. I miss who I was, before I became this. I miss who you were, before we both changed. “But I have tasks that take me far from here, Adam. And until this war is over . . . that’s not going to change.”
October 16, 1995 AC
There was a knock at the apartment door, and Maccis sat upright in bed, already awakened by the sound of footsteps outside. Zaya was still lightly asleep beside him, twitching slightly in the grip of some dream or another.
Maccis padded for the door, and peered out the peephole. His eyes only confirmed what he could already smell—Erida had come to visit, and surprisingly early in the morning. What’s more, Prometheus was with her. “Just a moment,” Maccis said, fighting down the surge of unease that made him want to growl. He retreated back into the bedroom, grabbed his kilt, and reemerged, opening the door half-dressed. “It’s five antemeridian,” he said as they entered. “Who died?”
“You didn’t feel the earthquake, then?” Erida said, her brows rising.
Maccis swore internally. “Something woke me about an hour ago. I didn’t hear anything, and I checked the doors and windows.” He rubbed at his face, annoyingly aware of the white stubble that gritted along his jaw-line. “Let me make some coffee for you.” He grimaced. “So, to rephrase . . . which god died?” He got the coffee started in a vacuum pot on the stove, before reaching around the door of the bedroom and snagging a tunic to put on. “It’s probably depressing that I can ask that so calmly,” he added, his tone dry.
Astarte, I am afraid, Prometheus replied, very quietly. Not at the hands of a Roman god, but one of the mad godlings that had already consumed various tribal gods of Africa. Quite a powerful one, which has stayed well out of reach of the other gods, thus far.
“Carthage was already under attack by Rome. They weren’t in good shape after Baal-Hamon’s death in eighty-five. No chance to recover.” Maccis gestured for his guests to sit down. “There went a big chunk of the Eastern Empire, is what you’re telling me. Egypt was hit, too?”
Earthquakes only, and torn ley-lines. We are indeed fortunate that Astarte did not die in Tyre or Damascus. Prometheus sounded deeply unsettled. With her and Baal-Hamon dead, it is extremely likely that the rest of the Carthaginian pantheon will fall in short order.
He nodded, and poured them each a cup of coffee. “I think Zee told me these were the last beans available at the store that weren’t fifty solidi a pound.” Cut off from most of Africa. Cut off from Caesaria Australis. Cut off from India and Qin and everywhere else. “The world is shrinking,” Maccis added, and shook his head. “Pretty soon, all anyone will care about is the fifty square miles directly around them.”
As it was, in ancient times. Though, more truthfully, humans rarely cared about more than what was five miles around them.
Maccis took a sip of the coffee as carefully as if it were liquid gold. It always smelled heavenly, but it never tasted as good as it smelled, unfortunately. “What brings you here today, then?”
“Zaya,” Erida said, succinctly. “A translation she did caught my attention.”
Maccis blinked. “Then I’ll go wake her. I didn’t want to disturb her when I answered the door. She told me she’s not sleeping well. Dreams.” He shrugged. He usually slept dreamlessly in the field, and snapped awake at the slightest sound. But when he slept deeply enough to remember his dreams, they were usually disturbing. Recapitulations of fighting ghul. Fighting by Fenris’ side in Caesaria Aquilonis . . . where pack-bonds still tugged at him to return. Finding the bodies of the sacrificed civilians, and seeing Zaya dragged to an altar where stone knives waited, or Baal-Hamon’s mouth gaped, full of fire. The strange dreams of soaring high over the world on Heolstor’s back, with Rig and Solinus behind him on Scimar and Rodor, were a relief, usually. Though they could be just as bloody. Visions of leaping off Heolstor’s back into lindworm shape himself, and paving the way with frost-laden breath. Rig slashing the wings off an ornithopter with the Helsword. Solinus leaping into cockpits, melting through the glass and killing the pilots, only to take the stick himself, and guide the vehicle back for a safe landing . . . .
Maccis shook it off. It wasn’t real. And what wasn’t real, didn’t matter.
An insistent hand tugged at her shoulder, and Zaya shifted in her sleep. “Aiolos!” she said, her eyes snapping open on a surge of relief. It had just been a bad dream. She hadn’t sunk a knife into hi
s heart at all. And then she blinked, rapidly, realizing that while the eyes looking down into her own were blue, the hair was white, not dark. She scrambled to regain her wits, and realized that she was Zaya, not Adamas/Ariadne. “Maccis! You’re all right?” She looked at her hands again, as if to verify that there was no blood there.
“Your mother and Prometheus are here. They want to talk to you about some translation.”
Zaya winced. She had just dreamed about a damned translation, so her conscience immediately told her that this was why they were here. And for once, a guilty conscience was entirely correct, as her mother pulled out a couple of crumbled pages of foolscap and showed them to her. “You’re going through my wastebasket?” Zaya said, in feeble indignation. “It’s not a translation. It’s more of a work of fiction. And not a good one, at that.”
Erida gave her a direct look. “A work of fiction that you decided to write in Attic Hellene, the language of Aeschylus, just to keep your skills sharp?”
“I . . . what?” Zaya picked up the pages, and frowned. She could have sworn she’d been writing in Latin. But here, the letters were clearly Hellene. “I wrote it half-asleep,” she said, with a certain amount of untruth. “Obviously, I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
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