Ima’s directive on dress occasions was a dark green sleeveless jerkin with a crisp white undershirt, with black or dark green pants. He’d tried scrounging for items that fit from the various nieten, but he’d been forced to go to a tailor, anyway. But he’d refused to wear the trousers. He had one good kilt that sort of matched the rest of the uniform. But he chafed at the jerkin with its stiff, high collar, and wondered if this was what a dog felt like, having been taken to the veterinarian and a cardboard cone left around its neck to prevent it from licking its balls. Do you know why we have been summoned here? Heolstor asked, silently, as Maccis, on his back, approached the main gates, with Scimar and Rodor padding behind them. They were getting quite a few looks as they walked through the streets.
Not a clue, Maccis admitted. Ah. I see Vidarr and Ima’s flatbed.
To his surprise, all three lindworms were admitted with him, though this occasioned some effort on their part to squeeze through doors intended for human-sized guests. Their commanders were already in what had once been a banquet hall, which had been converted to a meeting room for conferences that included representatives of the bigger-boned subspecies of humanity. Maccis wasn’t surprised to see Solinus and Rig already there, backs to the wall, faces impassive as they guarded Caesarion. But seeing Uncle Kanmi, Aunt Minori, and Erida all in attendance made him uneasy. This does not bode well, he thought, but kept his misgivings to himself as the lindworms crowded into the space, their tails lashing in excitement. Scimar wound up against the wall beside Solinus, and Rodor slipped up beside Rig, who turned to give the lindworm a single, slightly uneasy glance.
Deo and Caranti hadn’t been the only ones confused by how easily Rig and Sol took to flying. Both of them had strapped into the harnesses that held them to the saddles as if they’d done it hundreds of times before. Checked the leather and the metal for fatigue. And the lindworms had reported that they both knew precisely when to lean, and when to brace during maneuvers. Neither had panicked at being off the ground. Maccis hadn’t expected Sol to do so; his brother could go phoenix form and fly on his own. But Rig had stunned all of them by adapting so easily. He had no previous flight experience, beyond parachuting in behind enemy lines. But even given a submachine gun and a target near the barns, he’d easily compensated for Rodor’s movement in the air, and shredded his target. He’d even drawn the Helsword and worked with Rodor on high-speed passes near a target that was meant to simulate an ornithopter so that the agile beasts could swoop in and around it.
But Rig had been white-lipped by the end. Maccis suspected it was because it had come so easily, so naturally. And Maccis could personally see dozens of applications for Rig’s skills in the air. Truly stealthed lindworm flights were an option if Rig happened to be along. Lorelei could do the same thing, but she tended to stay with Brandr, or with the harpies. Then again, Maccis didn’t usually work with the lindworms, either, other than training.
The two men had brought their families along, trying to put their incessant dreams to rest. Rodor had doted on Rig’s daughter Vigdis, who, all of eight now, had hovered at his side like the small valkyrie that she was, and told him how much he reminded her of Nith, in spite of his blue scales. Hanni had actually taken to the air alongside Solinus on Scimar, and flown alongside his adoptive father and the lindworm, trying to keep up for a time, and had laughed out loud in exhilaration as they came in for a landing. Solinus’ expression on looking at Hanni and the lindworm had been cautious. “On the one hand, it’s so good to hear him laugh, that I wish I’d done this sooner,” Solinus had told them all.
“And on the other hand,” Rig muttered, “I kind of feel like I’m walking into an ambush.” His expression as Rodor and Vigdis began playing tag in the air, was tense. “It’s too easy. And Aunt Sig’s said for years that prophecy’s a trap.”
Maccis had been mildly amused by the fact that all the children begged to come back and meet the lindworms again. And again. Not one of them had been afraid of the creatures. Of course, all of them were used to wonders. They had dryad and centaur playmates. They saw Aunt Sigrun come by with Nith once a month or so. They saw wonder, and loved it.
In the here and now, Vidarr made the introductions while helping Caesarion spread out a map on the table. “Your imperial majesty, you’ve seen Rodor, Scimar, and Heolstor at the training grounds before. And this is Maccis Matrugena. He’s a shapeshifter, and one of our finest operatives. Trained by Fenrir Vánagandr himself.”
“I recall seeing him when you first demonstrated the lindworms’ capabilities, and their voices. Another son of the redoubtable Trennus Matrugena.” Caesarion said, mildly, glancing up from the map. “One of your brothers, Solinus?”
“Yes, sir. The eldest of my half-siblings, specifically.” Solinus paused, and said, deliberately. “If my father adheres to my uncle’s dying wishes, and selects his heir from his children by Saraid, Maccis could be the next king of the Picts.”
“Gods forbid,” Maccis muttered. He didn’t want to speak out of turn around Caesarion, but he’d rather see Solinus tagged with that unenviable duty. Solinus got along with almost everyone, and even people who didn’t necessarily like him, respected him. Sol would make a fine king. Maccis knew he had too much of the solitary wanderer in his soul to be a politician or a ruler.
Caesarion’s blue eyes narrowed for a moment. “I do not like the idea of three people from the same family undertaking a mission like this,” he warned Vidarr. “That is, in fact, one of the reasons I did not wish to see the young twins involved in this mission.”
“With respect, your majesty,” Ima said, quietly, her ears twitching, “They’re the right people for this job, as you’ve identified the needs of the mission. They can ensure that it succeeds.”
Minori shook her head, her expression as grim as Maccis had ever seen it. “I am not eager to see this spell used again,” she said, tightly. “The drawbacks outweigh the benefits.”
Caesarion raised a hand. “That is for me to decide, is it not, Doctor Eshmunazar?” His eyebrows rose. “You’ve expressed your concerns. And yet, here is our strategic situation. We’re receiving minimal supplies from Rome by sea, and returning minimal manufactured goods. We can expect no fresh troops. No reinforcements. We have Persian troops and even civilians trying to enter this province from the east and north. We have the rest of the Persian army trying to invade from the south. They took the island of Ikaros from us close to three years ago, and they are using it as their staging area.” He’d been sweeping his fingers along the map in demonstration, and now straightened, looking remarkably tired. “From what little reconnaissance we have on the island, there are, indeed, Immortals there. Probably the largest contingent of them left in the Persian Empire. They’re fairly distinctive on satellite imagery.”
“It could be a feint,” Kanmi pointed out, his voice harsh. “They know we’re relying on the satellites. It doesn’t much effort to put together a group of largely naked, tattooed men. I can do that in a half hour, by offering free beer and using a box of fountain pens.” The technomancer paused. “If you really think Antiochus is there . . . .” He shook his head. “He’ll have decoys.”
Maccis’ heart hammered at the jolt of adrenaline suddenly spurting through him. A chance to attack the leader of the enemy forces? Is this what this meeting is about?
Heolstor raised his head. Like Nith, his eyes were moonfire white, while Scimar’s were golden, and Rodor’s were corundum blue. And they gleamed now, as he said, For a chance to end the war among the humans? I would volunteer for any mission. It is enough that we must fight ghul and the mad ones.
“And the mad godlings,” Kanmi muttered. “There can’t be peace or even equilibrium while they remain.”
Caesarion nodded. “As far as we can tell, he has at least three decoys. And he might not be any of the three. Personally, if I were to become an entire coward, I would make myself a cook’s apprentice at the very rear of my own army. Except that the tail end of his army is dee
p in ghul territory.” He shrugged. “But that does not fit Antiochus’ modes of behavior or attitudes. He is a paranoiac, to be sure . . . but he must also be in control. The Persian Empire has always required a very firm hand from its emperors. The ones whose hands slip on the reins, have been usually deposed, by their kin, or their generals, or both.” Caesarion paused. “No, he’s at one of these locations. I lean towards Ikaros, because it has the most apparent Immortals. But because of the uncertainty . . . I propose to make it certain. Three locations. Three spells.”
Erida covered her mouth with her hands. “Your majesty, forgive me, but . . . three hydrogen spells? That will summon godlings. And when they’re done with the Persians in the vicinity, we have no assurance that they will not finally attempt to cross the border and enter Judea. Certainly, their ghul will.” She paused. “Perhaps another attempt to contact Emperor Antiochus, and forge some kind of peace treaty . . . ? I would go myself.”
Caesarion set his hands down on the table, and sighed. Maccis looked at the graying hair, the dark shadows under the eyes. The Imperator wasn’t a young man; he was in his mid-fifties. But while Erida and Kanmi and Minori were older than he was, by a solid twenty years, at least, they didn’t look it. Though each of them looked almost as tired as he did. “Lady Lelayn,” Caesarion said, at last, “I’ve sent diplomatic envoys to Antiochus, proposing alliance on our terms repeatedly over the past three years. None of them have returned, besides the last two . . . who were sent back to me with their heads missing.” Caesarion’s fists clenched, and he looked down at the map, his jaw working for a moment. “Antiochus offered a treaty, when we were at odds with the Imperial government, but it was a treaty that would have turned this province into an annex of the Persian empire. I declined that generous offer. And now that I am the Imperial government, we all see the price.” He exhaled. “If we could be assured that they would hold fast outside the border, it would be tempting to try to use them as a buffer state. Something that the mad gods would turn on, before they turn on us. Except that it won’t work that way.” He looked at Kanmi, directly. “Will it?”
Kanmi reluctantly shook his head. “The Persians still have stocks of spells and magical devices that they’re using in combat. The remaining Immortals still hold powerful spirits. In the absence of other power sources, they’re going to become beacons to the mad ones.” He paused. “Magi, ley-mages, and sorcerers outside of Judea are starting to stand out like lighthouses at night.”
Erida covered her face, clearly distraught.
“I understand why you do not wish to see this spell used. Any of you.” Caesarion looked up, meeting the others’ eyes. “But even if we don’t manage to catch Antiochus himself, or break his people’s will to fight? It would still be strategically wise to kill as many magi and Immortals as possible, even at the risk of luring mad godlings to the borders. Because they’re going to come anyway. But let them come to the sight of a fireworks display, a bright flash of light, and then nothing. They may well move away in search of better prey. And in the meantime, we will have fewer sorcerers and Immortals in the field. And possibly one less Emperor to worry about.”
There was silence for a long moment after that. Then Vidarr cleared his throat. “So, three strike teams. But to give them maximum opportunity to get through the Persian-controlled areas, we’ll have to disguise it with a general offensive, I’d think.”
Caesarion nodded. “Doctor Eshmunazar, if you and your husband would lead one team, I think with Ima’s able assistance, you’ll be pushing towards what’s left of Bishapour. Lady Lelayn, you and your efreet husband, along with Vidarr, will be pushing for a second location, Ayapir. And Solinus, you and Lokison have been itching to get back into the fight for a while. I would like you to take Maccis, and head for Ikaros. The lindworms will assure you of transportation and additional firepower, if needed.” Caesarion’s shoulders slumped. “You might be curious about the team composition.”
“Each team has at least one person whom the hydrogen spell will not affect,” Kanmi said, simply. “Two, in some cases. Those of us who are functionally immune to fire, or can dissipate our corporeal nature entirely, will carry the spell-stones and set them off. The others are to make sure we get through without any problems . . . and if we happen to die en route . . . .”
“We’re to see that the mission succeeds without them.” Maccis heard the words fall out of his own mouth. Everyone looked at him. He wasn’t sure why. It seemed fairly natural to him.
“One more thing,” Caesarion said, quietly. “There is a fairly substantial chance, that it won’t just be regular Persian troops and Immortals and the odd magus that you’ll see. As Dr. Eshmunazar said, using the spell might call whichever of their daevas still exist. Or a mad godling.”
There were no windows in the old dining hall to let in a draft, but Maccis still felt a chill. Solinus nodded, slowly. “I would like to think that I’ve grown a little since the last time I saw a daeva,” Solinus replied, quietly. “I’m not sure if the fight would be as clean as Aunt Sig’s execution of Tawrich . . . .”
“If you see a daeva, I want you to run,” Minori said, bluntly. “It’s not that you and Rig couldn’t kill one, Solinus. It has to do with not destabilizing the world’s ley-lines any further. The system will never recover, if we don’t stop damaging it.”
“If they force me to fight, I’ll fight,” Solinus returned, evenly. “But if I have a choice, then yes, I’ll try to get across whatever line in the sand offers the protection of Judea. If that will even work. Obsidian Butterfly came across that line to attack Aunt Sig.”
Another cold, uneasy silence. “This is really our best option,” Caesarion told them all. “It’s not much of an inspiring speech, I’m afraid. You have a few days to prepare and get together anything you need for the mission. Then go and do what needs doing. So that we’re not overrun inside the next six weeks.”
Outside, Maccis looked up at the sky. It was spitting a little snow, but by all accounts, Judea was balmy, compared to other regions of the world. Crops were still being planted, and Aunt Lassair and Inghean and others were ensuring that they grew. People were hungry, but they weren’t starving. And those in the countries around them, whose homes lay in ruins, who were starving, and whose children were starving, or under threat from the mad godlings . . . saw this as plenty. As a chance to survive. Your right to survival extends just as far as mine does. And if you threaten mine, I see no reason not to take yours.
Iulius 17, 1999 AC
Drust thanked whatever gods were left for his foresight in having traded for the best boots he and Sadb could find. Their companions’ shoes were missing heels or had flapping soles by the end of the second week of walking. The cold had turned even more bitter, and by the end of four weeks, he often saw footprints ahead of them in the snow on the highways that were outlined in blood. People wrapped their frostbitten feet and hands in rags, and every night was a twelve-hour fight against hypothermia. Sharing a bedroll with Sadb helped with that, though it was more important than ever that one of them stay awake. Not just to guard against those who might kill or steal from them, though that was vital—Drust had seen the lust in people’s eyes at the sight of their warm, rubber-soled boots—but one of them also had to stay awake to ensure that they didn’t freeze to death. So every night, Drust cut whatever branches he could find to form a sort of rough, springy bed on the snow, and they’d bed down atop them in their sleeping roll, usually without taking off their shoes, though that was unwise. They probably needed to let their socks dry out. But taking off the boots? They’d be stolen . . . or, if they needed to get up and start moving in the middle of the night, as when a group of raiders attacked the camp halfway between Nimes and Burgundoi? They couldn’t afford to be hopping around barefoot in the snow.
Every day brought more of the white drifts, or driving needles of frozen rain. Periodically, they’d set up a fire in between a couple of hollows in the snow, only to discover that the mounds were
n’t rocks, but the bodies of refugees who’d died en route, usually already stripped of their belongings, and left along the shoulder. It was impossible to dig down in the frozen earth to bury someone now. Sometimes, the previous travelers who’d left the bodies, or found them before Drust’s companions, had cannibalized them, out of desperation. It made looking at the sides of the road an uncomfortable experience. Wondering which of the vague shapes were boulders, and which were former travelers. Wondering what he’d look like beneath the snow, himself, if he faltered now.
Once in a while, the body was that of a single traveler, who’d died of exposure, and had had no companions to strip the body. Who’d been missed by previous looters. With grim practicality, the outer garments were stripped away, and lots were cast to see who got them. Any supplies that the deceased had possessed were distributed. “What does bad luck matter now?” someone asked, and Drust nodded in agreement. And when he won an extra cloak in a dice toss, he gave it the young couple who usually straggled at the back of the group. The wife was pregnant, and her husband had to carry her through the worst of the snow.
It was hard to believe that it was high summer. It was hard to remember that summer even existed. But when they saw a mile marker for Burgundoi that read forty-five miles to go, and they started seeing the urban sprawl of the satellite cities that surrounded it . . . the weather began to become mild again. “Sea currents,” the young wife suggested, knowledgably, from the rear of the group. “Burgundoi’s seventy degrees all year, every year.” She paused. “Except maybe this year.”
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