The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3)

by Deborah Davitt

  One of the priests doing the flaying held up a fresh human skin so that the crowd could see it. “For Xipe Totec! For the Red Tezcatlipoca!” he bellowed, and the crowd roared. Maccis only spoke a few words of Nahautl, so his understanding was limited. “Fertility in our fields! . . .” A few words that Maccis couldn’t make out, and then, “Rebirth and renewal!” The priest wrapped the skin around himself, wearing it like a robe. The other flayed skins were wrapped around the statue of a malformed man, his genitals clearly visible, and his face painted yellow on one side, and tan on the other.

  Do we end this now? Auda asked, grimly.

  No, Fenris replied, his voice almost completely distorted by his snarl now. Right now, we are witnessing the charm of local culture, which, after all, we must respect, must we not? The gods of Rome have told us all to look after our own. They must therefore attend to their own priests. When and if we see any of the Gauls, who are our staunch allies? Then we attack. In the meantime, look for where they are caged. All animals, when slaughtered, must be penned first. The same holds true for humans.

  They began to circle, looking for where the humans might be kept, and found a chain-link fenced-off area. Not everyone in the area had, apparently, agreed to the sacrifices. And they were slated to pay the price for their refusal, evidently. And there were other captives, with hair red enough to be Pictish or Eirish. A handful of blonds and brunettes. Many others with dark hair and gold-touched skin. The people of the town of Féir Crompán had been a mixed group, as people in border areas tended to be. But they’d all lived together in peace, and at peace with their neighbors, for centuries.

  The fenris sprang out of the shadows and clamped jaws to the guards’ throats, taking the bullets from the guards’ guns to their bodies, and whimpering faintly as they carried the humans’ bodies to the ground. Maccis slipped into human form, and fumbled for the guards’ keys, quickly hushing the people who crowded to the fence, and who tried to reach hands and fingers through to touch him. “Where are the rest of your people?” Maccis hissed in his Pictish-inflected Gallic as he opened the gate, and caught one woman by the shoulders as the rest started pushing out, holding their children in their arms.

  “The men were taken to a separate holding pen. They said that the men were more valuable as . . . as sacrifices . . . but that the children’s tears would m-make their . . . their sacrifices . . . sweeter. . .” She looked around, frantically. “I haven’t seen my husband since they took us! I don’t know if he’s still alive.” A torrent of words, just this side of hysterical. “They started the sacrifices yesterday. They wanted the Roman priests to watch as the temples were re-dedicated before breaking them, I think.” She shifted, frantically in his grip. “Please, let me go. And please . . . find my husband. His name is Cabiros . . . .”

  “I’ll try.” Maccis’ stomach churned, and two of the fenris peeled off to escort the captives off through the dark city. The priests aren’t going to be checking here, not till they run out of men. We have to find the captive males next.

  Come to me! Fenris’ voice was a howl that split the night, and Maccis shifted form, instantly. They bring forth captives now! Come to me and let none of their priests or soldiers survive! Any who condone this, will die!

  The next few minutes were nothing but a blur as Maccis leaped through the crowd. Anyone who turned on the fenris was now fair game. Fenris’ howl had cleared away hundreds of people, who’d run, staggering, through the streets, trying to get away from the horrifying sound. There was the crunch of bone and the taste of blood, the smell of fire and smoke. A voice at the back of Maccis’ head told him that he should be bothered; this was the first time he was killing humans, after all. Another voice corrected the first: The grendels were human, once. Every monster I kill is human. No matter the shape it wears. The howl of a frigid storm suddenly turned this place that never tasted snow into an ice-choked piece of the northlands, as frozen rain beat down on them all, leaving a chill, slick rime over everything, and put out the sacrificial brazier. Paws slipping in the blood and the ice on the pyramid’s steps, Maccis bolted to Fenris’ side, charging the priests who’d stopped there, staring as their organized ritual turned to chaos. Jaws clamping again, and then dropping a priest into the spluttering brazier set up atop the pyramid to receive the hearts. “Xipe Totec! Huitzilopochtli! Metztli! Tonatiuh! We have sacrificed to you, so that you will be powerful and strong and may defeat your enemies and ours! Come to us! Save us, your loyal followers!”

  Maccis’ head spun as the carved friezes atop the pyramid began to move. The gods named and invoked and bound in blood were manifesting, using the idols as focus points. He snarled and leaped for another priest, and found himself flying through the air, and then rolling down the steps, coming to a halt far below, dazed and bruised, and managed to lift his head in time to see a rush of fire pour down into the body of the priest. A crown of fire wreathed his head as his body grew, and his skin turned turquoise and glossy, hard as stone. Who dares challenge us within our domain?

  I, Fenrir Vánagandr, do. The words were a snarl that rang back from the buildings, cutting through the screams of the crowd.

  Our children offer us blood, and we will requite that sacrifice! We will save our people with the power they have given us, and you will not deny us, creature. You are nothing but a beast, a whipped dog that once more licks the feet of its master.

  Maccis’ head rang, and his vision skewed. He managed to crawl forwards, up the steps. He wasn’t even sure what form he was in, at the moment. One moment, his hands were human. The next, a wolf’s paws. Then a lindworm’s claws. That form seemed to stabilize him. The pain washed away and armor wrapped itself around him, and he dragged himself back to Fenris’ side, aware of the other wolves ringing the square. Killing guards, defending prisoners.

  And you claim to be the sun, the great god worshipped at the heart of this empire, Huitzilopochtli? You are but one of half a hundred gods, little remarked and less worshipped since Rome came. Their gods were greater, and your people began to worship them, and most scarcely even remember your name. A taunt. A challenge. A battle-flyt, half truth, and half provocation. You are a whisper on the wind, and a nithing coward who butchers the innocent rather than standing to fight with your own strength. Come at me if you dare.

  Maccis’ head spun and the ground shook as the fire-sheathed god leaped at Fenris, and the great wolf snapped him up in his jaws, for all that he blazed like the sun. Maccis could barely look at the sun-god, and could smell fur and flesh burning as the god wrapped his arms around Fenris’ body like a muzzle, trying to sear through the wolf’s flesh. A blazing pillar of light blazed down from the night sky, shrouding them both in flame, and the icy wind whipped it away, just as the other gods began to shamble forwards, still bound, for the moment, to their statues, but the idols were beginning to crack as they focused more and more of their attention here. And began to manifest as avatars, instead.

  No, Maccis thought, dimly. One on one is quite enough. He limped further up, and staggered again as the pyramid shook under the weight of Fenris and the sun-god as they wrestled and snarled. Golden blood streamed out of the sun-god’s body, splattering on the stones, and Maccis pounced on the back of one of the statues, as the stone began to crack, and light radiated out of it, as the god began to make himself manifest. He raked and tore with all four lindworm paws, not expecting to do much against stone . . . but at least I’ll distract one of them . . . .

  A thought that he immediately regretted, as a second statue lashed out with a stone fist and slammed his muzzle. There was something deathly cold in that attack, and when he hit the ground, this time, he couldn’t move at all, as if paralyzed from the neck down. He could only look up as the statues laughed silently in his head, and one of them paced slowly closer. Raised a foot over his head, to stomp down . . . .

  . . . and then Fenris tore the sun-god, Huitzilopochtli, in half. Energy blazed out from the body, and for a moment, Maccis thought the sun ha
d gone nova. That he was blind and burning to death, and that that instant would go on forever. And then he knew nothing but blessed, blessed darkness.

  When he regained consciousness, he was aware, dimly, that he was being carried by the scruff of his neck. Fenris?

  Yes. You were brave, Gleipnir. Foolish, but brave and honorable. It is best to know the strength of your foe before you engage them.

  I will . . . keep that in mind. He found himself deposited on the ground, and managed to open his eyes. The smell of death was powerful around him. Where am I?

  A mass grave. Two or three thousand bodies. Most of them, their own people, or at least, people of mixed blood. Sub-tribes who did not worship Huitzilopochtli sufficiently, or whose political power had begun to grow. I know not all the details. Neither do I care. Several hundred Gauls are mixed in with them. Fenris’ voice was grim. Such a thing would not have bothered humans, in ancient times. Battles were fought, hundreds or thousands died, and the losers were dumped into pits like these, and the victors received similar, but separate treatment. Or pyres. He looked away, and Maccis sat up. The world has changed. Or it was supposed to have done so.

  Maccis struggled to remember everything that had happened. There is going to be trouble because of this, isn’t there?

  Very likely. Stormborn, Worldwalker, and their comrades have killed gods before, but no god has killed another god in direct combat in . . . centuries. The peace of Rome. Hah. I see the price of that peace before me. I smell its charnel reek. If the gods of Rome come for me, they will have a fight, even if Valhalla does not honor my actions. Fenris paused. And yet . . . I think that they will. Tyr and Loki will stand beside me. Is that not a strange thing? So unless Rome is ready to make war upon Valhalla, they will turn away. We will demand that they hold the gods of Nahautl to account, and they, being much occupied in their own lands, will decline, and the remaining gods of this land may well turn on us and the gods of the Gauls.

  Wouldn’t that . . . they are already at war . . . .

  And they would not fight on two fronts? Against two combined forces of gods? I do not know. Perhaps they will only send their humans north. That will be bad enough for all. Fenris turned and looked down at him. I no longer require you as a guarantee, Gleipnir. I have renewed my bond of trust with Tyr. Loki has returned to assure me that I do not face the reluctance of our allies alone. You should return to your people. I would not have you by my side when the gods of Rome come. They might not choose to punish me, because it would not be politic. But they might vent their wrath on you.

  It would be my honor to stand beside you, then, and at any other time.

  We will share that honor again. But not today.

  Maccis stood, shakily. He looked, for the first time, all around him, and saw that the rest of the pack was industriously digging, and a handful of humans, armed with shovels, had joined them. Trying to recover and identify the bodies. The humans wore respirators; the fenris had no such recourse. The trenches were hundreds of feet in length, and he could see that all along them there were arms and legs, in various stages of decay, jutting up out of the ground. And he knew that that vision, and the smell, would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life.

  Another wolf materialized beside them. Smaller than Fenris, but still powerful, and her leaf-green eyes were familiar. Mother?

  Yes. His mother’s voice was affectionate, but worried. I am bringing you home through the Veil, Mirrorshaper. Come. Run with me.

  Maccis bit back his objections, and staggered to his feet. Looked around at the people he was leaving—Auda, Tofa, Fafnir, Hrokr, and twenty more. The sensation of being derelict in his duty was strong. Go, Auda told him, silently. You are injured in more than body. Rest. And when you are ready, I am sure that there will be more than enough fighting left for all of us.

  Maccis lowered his head in farewell, and turned. Followed his mother, and felt the Veil surround him, until he realized that he was loping through a very familiar forest. I am home, he thought, in delight. May I stay here now, Mother?

  For a little while, yes. There may come a time when you will choose to stay here forever. But you still have those whom you love, who cannot come here for long. Fireflower is not yet ready.

  He sighed at the reminder, and lay down in the cool grass. A little time, outside of time, will have to be enough. Thank you, Mother. I do long to see her again.

  Chapter 6: Tipping Points

  3:35 postmeridian, November 15, 1992. Interrogation Specialist Tasalus Matrugena interviews subject Kambid Bahram. Identification made from military id papers found on subject at time of capture. Subject is a sorcerer, and is therefore shackled and under medical sedation.

  TM: So, Kambid. [Sympathetic tone.] You’ve been kept in solitary confinement for the past, what, seven months? I know . . . it’s hard to keep track of time with all the medication. Of course, it’s the drugs, or keeping you gagged the entire time you’re detained here, and that just gets . . . uncomfortable. They’d want to feed you intravenously instead of letting you eat. Depending on the kind of gag used, you’d lose muscle tone in the jaw. Might not be able to move it again after a month or so. Talking would be hard. Eating anything but paste . . . another big problem. So on the whole . . . I think the drugs are a better option, don’t you?

  KB: Do you have a question, or are you just here to make my ears bleed?

  TM: You were captured the same day that the Forest appeared. I know the other interrogators have been keeping you apprised of current events. So you know that your army retreated.

  KB: I don’t believe everything I hear.

  TM: Have I lied to you yet?

  KB: . . . not to my knowledge.

  TM: I’m glad you know you can trust me. They retreated. It makes sense, though. They got what they wanted: Chaldea, Media, and East Assyria. They got them back—depopulated by the mad godlings, and with thousands of ghul roaming around—but they got back the land. Then they tried to take West Assyria. Some trees popped up, and they went home. Leaving you and others like you in our custody. And you know what? They haven’t even asked for you back.

  KB: A captured soldier is to be considered dead unless there is the possibility of rescue.

  TM: We had a cease-fire for a year or two, as Persia and Rome both fought the ghul. Then, Chaldea, Media, and East Assyria still swarm with them . . . but your army isn’t fighting them anymore. Isn’t being attacked by them. And you’re throwing them at us. How’d you get control of them?

  KB: [No reply.]

  TM: You know, a word from me, and conditions for you could get a lot better. The drugs would continue. But you could be out of solitary. You could be with some of your compatriots.

  KB: I cannot be bribed, Roman.

  TM: Oh, I’m no Roman. [laughs] I found it interesting to discover that you’re not Persian. You’re Aimaq. Nomads. Persians call your people ‘practically Mongols.’

  KB: Do not presume to think that you understand me.

  TM: Oh, I don’t, but I can make a few guesses. The Empire’s sorcerers go through the backhills every few years, looking for young men and women of talent. The best were sent to Chaldea to become Magi. The rest went to Persepolis. And you were raised up, but they didn’t send you to become one of the Magi. And then Chaldea broke away. You were seven or eight. Old enough to be told that all the Magi were traitors now. Maybe you believed it. And maybe part of you wonders what would have happened if you’d been just a little better. After all, if you’d been fostered in a Magi family, you’d be a part of Rome now, wouldn’t you?

  KB: Shut your mouth, Roman. [spits]

  TM: But instead, you became the good soldier. You stood up on the battle lines for the Empire, even though your fellow soldiers called you a goatherd. Laughed at your accent.

  KB: Shut up!

  TM: You see, Kambid, you and I are a lot alike. I’m a Pict. I’m not a Roman. I grew up in Judea, and I’m a foreigner wherever I go.

  KB: You can’t play me, Ro
man! I know how interrogations go. The others were the ‘bad jailers.’ You? You sympathize with me. You try to build a connection. It won’t work.

  TM: That’s too bad. But now, all I have to do at this point is treat you very well. Feed you better meals than your fellows get, and let them see it. I could tell them that you’re ready to sign a declaration of loyalty to Rome. People believe that sort of thing about magi. How can anyone with that much power really ever be trusted? You’re not one of them. By birth, by talent, by language. And then I’ll let you join your friends, outside of solitary confinement. Still sedated, so you can’t use your magic. And continue to give you the good meals and the special treatment. What do you suppose will happen then?