Obsidian & Blood

by Aliette De Boddard

  I had just finished laying on the true sight on myself when Palli came back.

  "We have rabbits, and owls, and a handful of hummingbirds," he said. In the gloom of the Feathered Serpent's sight, Palli shone like the moon: cold, harsh, the veins of his arms and legs contracting and expanding to the rhythm of his heart. He carried two magical knives in his leather belt, one for each hand.

  I finished my spell, and carefully brushed my hands clean, praying that Neutemoc and Teomitl would have had the good sense to wait before launching an attack.

  I said to Palli, "Whatever you've found will have to do. I'm not sure we'll have time for real blood-magic." Sacrificing an animal and doing a full ritual required preparation. In the midst of a battle, I didn't think we'd have time for this.

  Palli said, "Ichtaca is sending messengers to the palace, to request the Guardian's help at the Heart of the Lake."

  "He sent Chimalli?"

  Palli shook his head. "No," he said, grimly amused. "The two calmecac students, the ones that were frightened by the whole prospect."

  "You're not frightened?" I asked, remembering how he'd preferred storehouse duty because of how quiet it was.

  "When I stop to think about it. But then, it doesn't change anything, does it?"

  He looked and sounded disturbingly like Teomitl: like a warrior, uncaring of his own life. I finished erasing my quincunx, and rose in turn. "No," I said. "It doesn't change anything. Come on. Let's get to the boats."

  The boats were the flotilla of the temple, moored on the boundary between the southwest district of Moyotlan and the northwest one of Cuepopan, beyond the Serpent Walls. We had a dozen sturdy reed boats, which the priests took on their errands throughout Tenochtitlan.

  Ichtaca was already in the second largest of those, with a novice priest holding the oars, and two clustering at the back. He pointed, wordlessly, to the largest craft, the one reserved for the High Priest. It bore the spider-and-owl design of Mictlantecuhtli, and shone with the wards accumulated on it.

  Ixtli and his Duality warriors had their own boats: long, thin vessels holding nine warriors in a single line, with two rowers, one at the back and one at the prow. Ixtli raised his hand to me in a salute; I nodded to him, and climbed aboard my own boat. Palli took the oars; and Ezamahual positioned himself at the prow.

  Every temple boat, including ours, was full of covered cages. It wasn't so much the cages I saw with the true sight though, but the light cast by the animals they contained: the rabbits huddled against each other, and the hummingbirds flitting against the covers in a whirr of wings.

  Palli pushed the boat away from the shore in a splash of oars, and gently directed us south.

  The docks were on the western edge of Tenochtitlan; the tree of the Great Vigil on the eastern side of the city. Even though the town was crisscrossed by canals, the fastest way to go east wasn't through Tenochtitlan, but around it, passing south under the Itzapalapan causeway and swinging back in a north-easterly direction.

  The rain fell steadily around us, but there was something different about it. Something distinctly hostile. In the semi-darkness of the true sight, I could see nothing, but the sense of disquiet increased. The oars splashed in the water, on the left side, then on the right – and back on the left, like a slower heartbeat.

  I turned around, briefly, and saw the city, a mass of huddled houses enclosed by the rain. Light spilled from the Sacred Precinct, beacons in the growing darkness: the temples of Mictlantecuhtli; of Mixcoatl, God of the Hunt; of Tezcatlipoca, God of War and Fate. And towering over it all, the blazing radiance of the Great Temple.

  Something about the last light was wrong. I watched it for a while, as Palli's rowing got us clear of the causeway. Something about the light, which kept flickering.

  The light wasn't strong any more, but tinged with the green of algae. With every passing moment, the green grew stronger. And, crowding around the twin shrines atop the pyramid, were the halfdistinct shapes of Tlaloc's creatures, swimming through the air like some sick imitation of fishes, sinking into the stone of the stairs like transparent blood.

  "It's fallen," I said, aloud.

  "What's fallen?" Palli asked.

  Ichtaca, whose forehead also bore the mark of the true sight, was watching the same direction. "Not yet," he said. "Huitzilpochtli is stronger than you give Him credit for."

  "He's weak," I said, watching as the light flickered.

  "So is Tlaloc's child, for now," Ichtaca replied. And, to his oarsman: "Faster."

  Palli's gestures quickened, as if he'd been the one given the order.

  Faster, faster, I thought, listening to the splashes of water on either side of me. In the darkness, all I could see were the beacons of the temples – and the creatures, slithering in and out of the Great Temple. Faster…

  The Itzapalapan causeway faded behind the veil of rain; the creatures, too, until the whole world seemed to have turned to water. Around us was the vast expanse of Lake Texcoco, the shores so far we couldn't make them out in this stormy weather; above us, the rain-clouds unleashing their fury on us. Thunder rolled overhead, and lightning flashes tore the heavens: the Storm Lord's full anger, finally unleashed.

  And ahead…

  It should have been an artificial island isolated in the middle of the lake, with an altar where the Revered Speaker would sacrifice to Tlaloc.

  But it wasn't, not any more. Or rather: the island was still there, surrounded by a group of boats I couldn't identify from this distance. But at its side was something that drew one's gaze.

  The tree offered at the Great Vigil, sixteen months ago, had indeed rotted to nothing. But something had taken its place: an aftershadow of a trunk, a silhouette outlined by the lightning flashes, with half-transparent branches reaching up to join the black rainclouds with the surface of the lake. Magic pulsed from the roots and the branches, joining in the middle to form a tight knot of light.

  Around the tree were more of the creatures, attached to the trunk like leeches, gorging on Tlaloc's bounty, growing fat with every passing moment.

  I couldn't repress the shudder that ran through me, or the rising nausea that always came when I saw so many of those creatures.

  Behind me, someone – Ichtaca? – let out a string of curses. A more sensible answer than mine, I guessed.

  As we got closer, the situation became clearer: in the group of boats were two dozen priests dressed in the blue-and-black garb of the Storm Lord, their blackened faces filled with the light of magic. They watched us come without a word.

  At the centre of the island, the altar to Tlaloc was overwhelmed with creatures. They passed through the stone as though through water, their clawed hands moving to and fro. They looked like brothers to the ahuizotls, with the malevolence but not the intelligence of Chalchiutlicue's beasts. They seemed to be guarding something. A young child, I suddenly realised. I caught a glimpse of a childhood lock, sweeping over a face the colour of cacao beans, and of wide eyes, as green as algae.

  Mazatl. The god-child. And, by his side, lying in the mud, were two adult bodies. My heart sank. They had to be Mazatl's foster parents.

  Below the altar were more of the creatures, gathering around two silhouettes, one of which stood knee-deep in the water, magic streaming out of him. Teomitl – and the ahuizotls, gathering around him, snapping at the creatures with their jaws, reaching out with their claws. And beside Teomitl…

  Neutemoc, the wards of Huitzilpochtli shining weakly in the dim light of the true sight, hacking and slashing at the creatures, even though it seemed to make no difference.

  Trust my brother to get into the heart of trouble. Although I couldn't see what else he could have done. I'd misjudged. Given the configuration of the place, there was no way to approach discreetly. I glanced again at the priests of Tlaloc. They had made no move, trusting the creatures to dispatch both Neutemoc and Teomitl. But now that we were approaching, they detached themselves from the island, aiming towards us with the sur
eness of cast spears.

  "Faster," I whispered to Palli – and, to the boats behind me: "Prepare yourselves!"

  Ixtli's boats swung around us, blocking the path between us and the priests of Tlaloc: an unequal fight, on an element belonging to the god Himself. Teomitl had His wife's protection, but no one else did.

  There was no choice.

  I laid my hand on the smallest of my obsidian knives, and felt the emptiness of Mictlan fill me, so strong I could have gagged. Chalchiutlicue's touch had definitely changed those knives, although I wasn't sure it was for the better.

  Teomitl went down on one knee; and two more of the creatures leapt past him, towards Neutemoc.

  Faster…

  TWENTY-TWO

  The God's Child

  Palli grounded the boat ashore. At the moment the dried reeds came into contact with the mud of the island, a sense of growing unease crystallised into me, almost strong enough to fill Mictlan's emptiness.

  I had felt this before: in the Jaguar House, and in Tlaloc's shrine in Amecameca. There was no cure for it.

  I leapt from the boat onto the shore, fighting a rising wave of nausea. Beside me, several of the priests were on their knees on the ground, retching and retching, although no bile came up.

  No. You have to fight it. You have to… Ichtaca's face was a mask of disgust; but he at least didn't double over. And then the creatures were upon us. Within the true sight, they shone, their squat bodies exuding algae-tinged light, their clawed hands reaching for us. I threw myself aside, and a claw-swipe narrowly missed my forearm.

  "Huitzilpochtli cut me down," Palli whispered, beside me. "How do you fight them?"

  I wish I knew. Beside me, one of the novice priests was down on one knee, bleeding from a wound, his face already going slack, in an expression sickeningly like Quechomitl's.

  Another creature launched itself at me. The Duality curse us, the things had grown more powerful, capable of ignoring Mihmatini's wards. Without conscious thought, I threw myself aside, but too late: the claws were going straight for my chest…

  Another clawed hand batted them aside; I looked into the yellow, malicious eyes of an ahuizotl – I had time to wonder, dimly, absurdly, if it was the same that had maimed Eleuia – and then Tlaloc's creature, hissing, was retreating, while the ahuizotl's slimy skin pressed itself against mine. Forcing me leftwards, I realised: towards the shore, and Teomitl, who stood with water halfway to his knees, his face creased in concentration.

  I half-walked, half-ran towards him. One creature detached itself from the pack that was engaging the priests, and glided lazily towards me. I quickened my pace. The ahuizotl's jaws snapped at its midriff, and the creature engaged it instead of me.

  I had no particular wish to see who would win; and I couldn't bring myself to cheer for the ahuizotl, despite the fact that it appeared to be on our side.

  "Acatl-tzin!" Teomitl called out. He stood in a circle of emptiness. The Jade Skirt's light spilled around him, creating a barrier the Storm Lord's creatures prowled around, but were unwilling to bypass.

  When I approached, they turned their attention to me, hissing with an eerie joy.

  I did the only thing that made sense: I ran, and threw myself at Teomitl's feet, into the water.

  I rose, coughing up algae, to peer into Teomitl's amused gaze. "Some reinforcements," he said.

  I turned around, to survey the battlefield. On the water, Ixtli's men were engaging the priests of Tlaloc, trying to bring their boats close enough to strike at their exposed enemy. Meanwhile, the priests were also trying to get within range, though their spells did not require contact to be cast.

  One priest in particular seemed to be their leader: a tall, lean man with green paint smeared across his face, standing at the back of one of the largest barges. It wasn't Acamapichtli. No matter how hard the High Priest of Tlaloc had worked to indict Neutemoc, it appeared he was quite blameless in the matter of the Storm Lord's child. I wasn't sure whether I ought to have been disappointed.

  On the island, Ichtaca had a cage with two hummingbirds at his feet. He was busy drawing a circle in the mud, whispering the words of a prayer to the Southern Hummingbird. I recognised a much stronger version of Mihmatini's warding spell, directed not only at Ichtaca, but at every human being in the vicinity.

  It might possibly dispel the creatures, but that spell would take time to cast, time we were running out of.

  Next to Ichtaca, two offering priests swiped at the creatures – failing to do any damage, but still keeping them at bay. As I watched, one of them slipped in the mud, and one of the creatures' claws opened up a wound on his arm. He fell, a vacant smile stretching across his face.

  No!

  An ahuizotl welled up from the water, and leapt to take the priest's place. Neither Ichtaca nor the other priest did anything more than nod tiredly. Any help was better than none.

  Palli was down on one knee, but otherwise unharmed, and Ezamahual was busy protecting two of his fallen comrades, his harsh face transfigured by battle frenzy.

  The least that could be said was that the battle was not going in our favour.

  "Where is–" I started; and saw Neutemoc. He had somehow managed to evade the creatures, and was steadily fighting his way towards the top of the rise – no, not fighting, more weaving his way between claw-swipes, each of which could mean his death.

  "He's insane," I said, though not without a touch of jealousy.

  Teomitl shrugged. "Don't you recognise it? He has nothing to lose any more."

  An image of Huei rose in my mind: of her standing in the reception room, bitter and sad, and I, refusing to understand her until it was too late. I quelled it. It wasn't the time. "Are you wounded?" I panted.

  Teomitl shrugged, although every feature of his face was drawn and wan, like a man drained of blood. "I'll go on."

  I stared at Neutemoc, and at the child Mazatl, still standing before the altar. "We have to help him to reach the altar," I said. "Close enough to strike."

  Teomitl grimaced. "Will the child die?"

  I shrugged. My experience of god-children was, thank the Duality, fairly limited. "He's human. If he wasn't, he couldn't wield so much magic. He'll die."

  Teomitl didn't look convinced; and I wasn't completely, either. But it was a fair chance. "Worth a try," he said. "Distract the creatures, then?"

  I nodded. At least until we found a way to kill them. I hefted an obsidian knife with my left hand, feeling the slight twinge from old wounds, and stared at the creatures, bracing myself to leave the circle of Teomitl's protection.

  Over the water, some of Ixtli's men had managed to get close enough to the priests: they were hacking and slashing, their boats swaying under them. The priests, though, were casting spells: darts of green light that wounded as much as if they had been metal. As I watched, one of Ixtli's men, struck in the chest by three darts at the same time, stood shock-still at the prow of his boat – and keeled into the lake. He did not move. Blood stained the water, lazily spreading over the fluid shapes of the ahuizotls.

  With a sigh, I lifted my knife to strike; and felt the emptiness of Mictlan fill me, a hundred, a thousand times stronger than it had ever been. The wind in my ears was the lament of the dead, and the water lapping at my ankles cold and unforgiving, like a drowned man's kiss – and even Teomitl's voice was the rattle of a dying man.

  I had felt this, once before, when fighting the beast of shadows. But it had never been this strong, never altered the shape of the Fifth World.

  Those were not my knives.

  Within me, Chalchiutlicue was laughing. A gift, priest, she said, and Her voice was terrible.

  Gasping, I stepped away from Teomitl, straight into the path of one of the creatures.

  Its clawed hands snaked, lazily, to strike me. One of the ahuizotls leapt up from the water, snarling, but it was too late – the claws sank into my skin – and numbness spread from the wound, that terrible numbness that marked the end of the fight.r />
  I was dimly aware of sinking to one knee; of someone – Teomitl? Palli? – screaming in a faraway land; of the creature rushing in to gorge on my blood. With sluggish hands, I raised my knife – held it against my chest to defend against the claws – and the creature, too eager to exploit my weakness, impaled itself on the blade.

  Within me, the numbness of Tlaloc's wounds met the growing emptiness of Mictlan: two huge waves clashing against each other and breaking, sending their aftershocks into the depths of my soul. Visions of Eleuia's empty orbits mingled with the image of Father's body – and Mother's face, contorted in anger, held the fervent gaze of Commander Quiyahuayo. My limbs would not stop shaking.

  Chalchiutlicue laughed and laughed in the empty rooms of my mind. A gift, priest. For My husband.

  Far, far beyond me, the Storm Lord's creature screamed: a thin, reedy cry like a strangled new-born. As the visions slowly faded away, I came to myself, in time to see the creature withdraw from my blade as if scalded; and with each passing moment it grew fainter and fainter, still screaming in that pathetic way that tore at my guts.