The three shamans climbed atop the platform and faced the cheering crowd. Others stood atop the platform, elderly men and women. The men lifted Angie up next and turned her about, leaving her standing so everyone could see her—naked, terrified, and helpless. Now the crowd cheered even more, their faces shining with excitement, near-religious fervor in their eyes. She heard them chant: "Spirit-Taker, Spirit-Taker, Spirit-Taker."
Sergeant Thump stepped before Angie, holding aloft Angie's sword in its scabbard, and the cheers rose in intensity. "Yes, the Spirit-Taker, the shy bride of the Horned God!" Sergeant Thump yelled, her powerful voice booming over the clamor. "We have done as the Horned God demanded and captured her. He will be pleased. He will help us reclaim our people, those captured and held in camps. He will keep us safe from the enemy helicopters."
"He's no god!" Angie yelled. "Lodin has tricked you. He's just a Fey. Just a Fey!"
The crowd roared its disapproval, and the Grim Strangler backhanded her, snapping her head back. "Blasphemer," he snarled and raised his hand to strike once more, but before he could, Sergeant Thump punched him so hard in the jaw that he fell to the wooden platform.
The huge woman glared down at him, her face dark with anger. "You dare strike his bride?"
The gaunt man scurried back to his feet, moving away and rubbing his jaw. He looked down. "If we give her to him, how do we know he won't abandon us again, as he has done these last weeks?"
"What would you do?" Sandman asked with scorn. "Eat her?" He strolled before the crowd, his arms outstretched, a smile on his handsome features. "The Savage Sons have never met a problem they wouldn't prefer to eat."
Many in the crowd roared with derision and laughter, but not the ones with the scarred cheeks. Those Ferals glared with hostility, muttering angry words—and there were a lot of them, Angie now saw. They seemed to be everywhere, clumping together in angry knots. Even if the other Ferals weren’t cannibals, the Savage Sons were.
"And why not?" the Grim Strangler demanded, his voice shrill, his eyes bulging, his teeth like needles. "If she is truly his bride, then divinity flows through her flesh too. If we consume her, then we become gods. The people won't need the Horned God or his skinny bride."
Sergeant Thump pointed a thick finger in his face, and he blanched, stepping back quickly. "The people?" she demanded with scorn. "No, you mean only yourself, not the We Clan, not even your fellow Savage Sons, just your own foul hunger." The Grim Strangler stared at the wooden platform, but his long fingers opened and closed. Sergeant Thump turned her attention to the crowd once more, missing the look of hatred that flashed in his eyes.
"We do not consume the flesh of people," Sergeant Thump yelled. "Not even those who hunt us."
"We do! We do!" yelled those with the scarred cheeks, spittle flying from their mouths. The mood in the crowd grew dangerous as the Ferals jostled and pushed one another.
Sergeant Thump continued. "We will give her as a gift to the Horned God, as he bade us do. He will take her to his Blood Sky Heaven, and he will be grateful to us." She turned and faced Sandman, meeting his eye. "Then, when he has his shy bride, his angel, he will help your sister take her own ghost. She will not die."
"Angel, angel," screamed the crowd.
"No!" screamed Angie. "He's lying. He's no more a god than I am."
Sandman looked more than uncertain. He stepped forward, his eyes darting to Angie. "What if she speaks truth? What if he is just another of the Fey? Admit it: you've suspected as much, as have I, as have we all. He's abandoned us once already. What if he does it again? I say we keep her, at least until we know for certain."
"No, she lies," screamed the Grim Strangler. "Her flesh shines with divinity, glows with it. Can you not see?"
Those in the crowd with the scarred cheeks began to scream, "Glow, glow, glow." Their cries grew in intensity. Feral shoved Feral, and an ugly, dark mood swept through the crowd. They were only moments from a riot, Angie feared. And they'd likely tear her to pieces as well.
"She is no god," Sandman yelled. "She is as mortal as you and I. I should know. I fought her."
"Blasphemy," snarled the Grim Strangler. "You tried to capture her and failed, and for your sin, the Horned God abandoned you, abandoned us. You are in his disfavor."
"Disfavor, disfavor, disfavor," the Grim Reaper's people, the Savage Sons, screamed.
"Calm yourselves!" Sergeant Thump's voice boomed over the crowd as she moved to the edge of the wooden platform, staring them down. She drew Nightfall, discarding the burned sheath as she held aloft the beautiful, elven-forged dark-blue blade. In Sergeant Thump’s mage-hand, the occult hexes worked into the blade’s length flared with white light.
To Angie's amazement, the chants ceased, and the crowd quieted. All eyes were on Sergeant Thump, her huge body practically quivering with resolution.
It worked, Angie thought in wonder. She's calmed them.
And then the Grim Strangler stepped forward and caved in the back of Sergeant Thump's head with his ice ax.
Chapter 32
A battle broke out instantly, like a match set to gasoline. All around the platform, Feral tribesmen attacked one another, screaming with rage. Those with scarred cheeks, the Savage Sons, must have been expecting the betrayal, because they had weapons ready at hand and almost immediately began attacking those around them, hewing them down with spear, ax, and club. The third mage, Sandman, was swept away under the rush of two scarred men, disappearing from Angie's sight.
Nearby, the Grim Strangler howled like a banshee as he held up his bloody ice ax. The corpse of Sergeant Thump lay at his feet, her dead fingers still gripping Angie's side-sword. The gaunt man grinned at Angie as he licked Sergeant Thump's blood from his weapon, madness dancing in his eyes. "When I devour your flesh," he said, his lips and teeth smeared with blood, "I shall become as you, a god. Then I will fly to the Blood Sky Heaven and kill the Horned God myself and take his place."
She backed away from the madman but tripped and fell. Unable to catch herself, she slammed into the wooden boards, the air knocked from her lungs. She was helpless as the Grim Strangler straddled her with his ice ax raised to cleave in her skull.
TAKE HIS LIFE! the Shade King screamed.
But she couldn’t. Her arms were still tied to the pole.
"No!" Sandman screamed as he collided into the Grim Strangler, knocking him away, sending his ice ax whacking pick first into the wooden platform so that it stood upright.
With a battle raging all around the platform, the two men wrestled only feet from Angie. She craned her head about and saw that the Grim Strangler's ax—the serrated edge upright in the wood—was near her bound left wrist. Everywhere, Ferals fought one another. Dozens must already be dead, maybe hundreds. Had she not been on the platform, she'd have been trampled. But at any moment, the battle would wash over her.
"No," she told herself, gritting her teeth. Char wouldn’t just lie here, nor would Tec or Erin, and neither would she.
She bucked her hips, sliding closer to the edge of the ice ax. She wriggled her hips to gain more traction. The pole across her shoulders was heavy and hard to move, but if she wedged the rope binding her wrist against the edge of the ax, she could use it to saw through the rope.
Maybe.
If the pick wasn’t embedded deeply enough in the wooden platform, she’d only knock it loose.
She grunted with exertion as she pushed up with her hips, forcing the rope on her wrist against the serrated ax blade. The blade held firm, and its edge cut into the rope. It should have been impossible, lying on her back like this with her arms extended to the sides, weighed down by the pole, but desperation gave her strength. With three more heaves, she had managed to cut through most of the rope, but she couldn’t see clearly, and the blade had also scored through the flesh of her wrist. Warm blood coated her hand, but she was almost through the rope. One or two more…
Then her breath caught in her throat as she saw Sergeant Thump—still alive
despite the horrific skull wound—crawling along the wooden platform toward Angie, gripping Nightfall's exposed blade just above the intricate hilt. The huge woman's one good eye fixated on Angie, blazing with intensity as she pulled herself closer with her other hand.
As panic coursed through Angie, she redoubled her efforts, thrusting even harder with her hips, using the momentum to force the rope against the ax blade. When Sergeant Thump was almost at Angie's feet, Angie tried to kick out at her, but the huge woman rose up on one meaty hand to loom over Angie, her lips moving soundlessly, Nightfall's blade held like a dagger. Just as the rope on Angie's left wrist gave way, releasing her hand, Sergeant Thump thrust forward with Nightfall, using its sharp edge to cut through the rope on Angie's right hand.
"Bride," the woman said as she fell forward, collapsing atop Angie's hips. Dead.
But Angie was free.
She scrambled out from beneath the huge woman. If she had fallen over Angie's chest, she'd have pinned her in place. Angie pried Nightfall from the dead woman’s grip and stood on shaky feet—still naked and surrounded by a mob of battling Feral warriors but armed and free. Only feet away, the Grim Strangler sat atop Sandman’s chest, his long fingers wrapped around the young man's throat. Sandman punched him repeatedly in the ribs and kidneys, but the gaunt man was laughing with madness, clearly feeling nothing, and Sandman’s punches were growing weaker.
Angie thrust Nightfall through the back of his throat, the blade coming six inches out the other side. She yanked the blade free, and the Grim Strangler fell over, choking on blood, his spinal cord severed.
She offered her hand to Sandman and hauled him upright. He shoved her aside, extended his free hand, and cast Shockwave at a charging Feral with a spear leveled where her back had been. The spell hit the Feral in the chest, flipping him over to land hard atop his back with a solid crack. The man lay still, his eyes open, his back broken.
"Stay with me," Sandman yelled. He picked up the discarded spear and stood before her, protecting her. "The Grim Strangler and his damned Savage Sons planned this all along—bastards!" He spat. "They'll break when they realize their leader is dead—unless they kill us first. I'm the last shaman now."
Another pair of scarred Ferals charged them, a man and a woman, both wild-eyed with teeth filed to points. Sandman deflected a spear thrust with his own spear then slammed the shaft against the face of the man, dropping him. The woman stabbed at him with a long hunting knife, but a glowing translucent shield appeared in front of Sandman, blocking the knife with a shower of sparks. Angie stepped forward, thrusting Nightfall through the woman's open mouth, dislodging several of her sharpened teeth, "Kissing the button," as the Spanish would say.
The woman fell away, gurgling blood.
But dozens more charged the platform, so many they'd overwhelm Angie and Sandman.
NOW, ANGELA, TAKE THEIR LIFE FORCE, the Shade King urged.
But I can't touch them, not in time.
YOU'VE NEVER NEEDED TO. TAKE WHAT YOU NEED. BECOME WHAT YOU WERE ALWAYS CAPABLE OF.
She saw their hate-filled faces as they charged at her, the star-shaped scars on their cheeks, their teeth filed to points. These were the Ferals that attacked Commonwealth and Norteno settlements, not the others. These were the ones that killed and ate other people, cannibals, more monster than any Fey. Without thinking about it, she reached out with her mind as she extended her hand before her, willing their life force to flow into her.
No one was more surprised than she was when it did.
The closest Ferals, a half-dozen, faltered in mid-step, their eyes going wide, then toppled forward, dead. Mana flowed into Angie, more mana than she had ever held, and she felt as if she glowed like a star.
YES.
The others faltered, staring at their dead comrades and then at Angie. Several hefted their weapons and edged forward.
"Don't do it!" Angie warned. "Don't make me kill you." But she saw from the hatred in their eyes that they were going to charge. They couldn't hurt her now, not with the Shade King protecting her, not with this much mana flowing through her, but they didn't know that.
She hated what she was about to do.
Silver flashed from above as Moonwing fell among them, scattering them. The griffin's beak ripped limbs from bodies, and his wings buffeted those trying to stand, knocking them back. The talons on his front legs lashed out, ripping through flesh. The lionlike rear legs clawed men and women. All the while, the mighty silver griffin’s cries cut through the air. Scarred clansmen and -women fell all around the griffin.
To their credit, they stood their ground and fought far longer than Angie would have thought against such a monster. Then they broke and fled.
The fighting had stopped. Hundreds of Ferals stood about, pulling back from Moonwing, Angie, and Sandman, but there wasn't a scarred face to be seen.
As the griffin approached Angie, blood glistening from the feathers of his powerful chest, Sandman tried to shield her. "Run!"
She pushed his spear away and stepped in front of him. The crowd gaped as Angie approached the griffin and smoothed the bloody feathers over his chest. Moonwing cooed, settling down upon his lion haunches, and began to groom himself. Angie turned to Sandman.
He stepped closer, the spear falling from his fingers, and dropped to his knees, his eyes taking in the dead Ferals before her. "What are you?"
Angie, conscious now of hundreds of pairs of eyes on her, placed her arm over her breasts. "Naked. Someone please find me some clothing."
Chapter 33
Itzpapalotl slumbered, and in her dream, she saw a vast underground lake as black as her scales. The surface of the lake was calm, but something glowed deep in its depths. The glow grew stronger and began to blaze like a sun—
She woke, filled with an anger she couldn't understand. Dreams had meaning, hidden portents. Where was this underground lake, and what had been the source of the glow? Her lack of understanding vexed her, smoldered within her cavernous belly. The black dragon crawled from her sleeping hole, a narrow crevice built along a tributary of the underground river system. This sleeping hole was one of dozens, and she regularly switched them to confound enemies. She moved on all fours through the half-submerged crevice, splashing through water that reached her scaled underbelly. She pondered the meaning of the dream, but any insight eluded her. Her brother, Tezcatlipoca, the Lord of the Smoking Mirror, had always been more gifted in the understanding of dreams and portents, but he was dead, killed by the feathered coward Quetzalcoatl.
She roared, her anger echoing throughout the cave system.
Far away, in the vast cavern housing the temple of Zolin, her Tzitzime servants heard her coming and prostrated themselves, rightly fearing her wrath. Sometimes she devoured the odd servant not because she was particularly hungry but to remind them that she could. She thundered along the stone surface of the cavern toward the hexagon-shaped temple and the ancient Olmtec buildings surrounding it. Torches burned in brass stands on the flat surface of the temple. She swept past servants, all kneeling, all with heads lowered to the stone, trembling in worship of her. Their devotion was fitting; she was the last of her kind and second only to her sire, Memnog.
When she freed him from his prison of stone, he'd make her as divine as he was, and together they'd turn this land to ash.
And rule forever.
Rayan Zar Davi awaited her atop the temple, kneeling, her head lowered, but the lamia, Aernyx, was nowhere to be seen. Where is that little sneak?
He knew too much, that one, including the location of Itzpapalotl's greatest secret—not that the lamia would dare go near Him—but Itzpapalotl grew tired of Aernyx’s sly smile that insinuated he knew something she did not. She could devour that creature in one snap of her jaws. Lesser creatures, even lamias, needed to know their place.
Itzpapalotl climbed over the wall of her temple and onto its flat summit, unconcerned for the human servants she might crush—there were always more servants; human
s bred like vermin—and settled herself before the black stone altar, resting her horned head atop her powerful forelegs, her wings wrapped about her like a cape, her tail hanging over the far end of the temple.
"What news, Mother Smoke Heart?" she asked in a voice like thunder. "How goes the war?"
She really didn't care. The wars of humans were tedious and over in moments. All her life, humans had warred among one another, with nations changing as easily as they changed clothing. It all meant nothing to her. If she didn't like a nation-state, all she needed to do was sleep until a new one rose in its place—with perhaps a nudge from her Tzitzime servants to help it along.
What she did care about was recapturing the Haanal X’ib. She grew weary of this mundane existence and wanted to ascend to divinity with her sire. She couldn't bear to sleep away even one more decade.
"All goes according to plan, Beautiful Mistress," Rayan Zar Davi said as she rose. "The army besieges Sanwa City, and the Haanal X’ib, that fool, commands its defenses. She should have run. I was certain I'd have to drag her out of Fresno." Rayan Zar Davi shook her head, the trace of a disbelieving smile on her lips.
"Take care assaulting the city," Itzpapalotl demanded. "She is of no use to me dead."
"Never, Beautiful Mistress. I have the aircraft ready and waiting for me. When the time comes, I will personally lead the assault and take her alive. I will not fail you."
"Again, you mean." The dragon's deep voice dripped with scorn.
The woman blanched, but Itzpapalotl let it go. There was little point in debasing servants for their inherent weakness, particularly humans, as short-lived and flawed as they were. Besides, despite Rayan Zar Davi’s failures, Itzpapalotl was rather fond of her and always had been. Usually, the woman got results. Perhaps she grows old and senile. It's hard to tell; they're all so hideous even when young. She thought of all the other times the woman had succeeded at near-impossible tasks. No, she wasn't just fond of Rayan Zar Davi, she realized, surprising herself with what passed for an epiphany. In her own way, the black dragon liked her. But Rayan Zar Davi had failed her, so of course, after she had recaptured the Haanal X'ib, Itzpapalotl would eat her.
The Awakened World Boxed Set Page 83