Truck after truck passed by, some with living men aboard . . . and some with the masked, armored, tattooed forms of Immortals. He could see them turn their heads to look in his direction, and he swallowed, remaining absolutely still. The spirits within the Immortals’ bodies knew something was out there. It could be my men that they’re sensing, he thought. Or someone else. Rig thought. Father, this would be a very good time for me to have some of your luck.
When have I ever had luck? Loki replied, to Rig’s surprise. Head west once you’re certain you’re not being followed. If you cross the Wall, you can make for the Caledonian Forest.
Is it protected?
Very much so.
Rig breathed more easily, and got back on the road once the convoy was out of sight. He passed two towns that had been completely destroyed—the ley-tap stations for vehicles were burned out, and the houses and buildings had shattered windows that gaped at him like the eye sockets of a bare skull. Every building was filled with ghul, he realized, as he peered, invisibly, through those broken windows. Most were skeletalized, and many were, horribly enough, child-sized. The mad godlings did not discriminate. Without food to chase, however, the ghul were dormant. Just bodies, curled up fetal-style. Waiting for prey.
He couldn’t stop to rest, so he moved on, masking his scent. Nothing here but rock and wind, he thought.
The second village was thankfully empty. He found a spot on the second floor of what had once been a market. Rig chewed on his ration bars, tasteless things that they were, and stowed the wax paper coverings back in his pack. Leave no sign. Leave no trace.
Around midnight, he snapped awake as a rat scuttled across him, and Rig did his best impression of a rock; the rat, which had been attracted by his scent, moved away, and, heart pounding, Rig started to get ready to leave . . . which was when he saw movement in the ruins. He held completely still, and watched as a patrol of Roman soldiers, all moving with stealth from one piece of cover to the next, made their way through the town. My unit, he realized, recognizing them easily. The way they moved, every stance, was familiar. Well, half. These are the young ones. This isn’t their best route home, which was my last order, and they’re not moving deeper into Chaldea, per our previous orders. Which means yes, they’re tracking me. Damn it. What happened to the other half of my people? Loyalties tugged at him, but he had to move on.
It took him another two days to get to the Wall, and he grabbed the back of a convoy truck and let it carry him through the gate and into Judea . . . one more faceless legionnaire among a dozen others. He had dark hair, and under his camouflage paint, a dark tan and a month’s worth of beard. His ice-gray eyes were the only real problem, and he promptly turned them dark brown. His Latin had no discernable regional accent. “Got split up from my unit,” he said, when asked, and it wasn’t really a lie. “Falling back to base to get chewed apart by my trib.”
At the main base for this section of the Wall, it was easy to find a motor pool, and simple enough to make the hasta in charge believe that a blank piece of paper was actually a centurion’s hardship leave pass with a requisition for a vehicle. Rig tossed his duffle in the back, including his rifle, and kept Livorus’ sword close to hand. He didn’t want to lose it.
The guards at the main exit were more alert than the motor pool hasta; base security was heightened, thanks to all the desertions. They were about to call in to verify that his papers were authorized, when Rig sighed. I really wanted to do this without bending your minds, but . . . very well. The papers are in order. Let the centurion get on with his leave.
“I’m sorry for the delay, centurion. Your papers are in order. You can get on with your leave.” The gate guard looked uneasy. “Stay out of the Forest. The Picts have armed themselves, and god only knows what’s going to happen now that the Gauls and Goths have rebelled. Just take Imperial Highway seventeen south, and avoid the whole mess.”
“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind,” Rig said, put his boxy, military-grade vehicle in gear, and got moving.
An hour later, he crossed into New Caledonia, and held up his hands to show his peaceable intent to the wary border guards. “My name is Rig Lokison,” he said. “Husband of Inghean Matrugena. I think your king is probably going to want to see me.”
Three hours after that, he arrived in the northern city of Tarvodubron, and Inghean just about flew down the steps of the family villa there to wrap her arms around him. Rig leaned down, kissed her—getting a wrinkled nose at the facial hair and the stink of four solid weeks of sweat on him—and asked, “Inghean, I’m glad you’re safe, but how’d you get here?”
She sighed. “Come inside. Da came and got me and Vigdis. He’s in talks with Caesarion. Gods only know if anything will come of that.”
“Oh, well, so long as we all hang together, we won’t hang separately, is that what this is . . . ?” Rig trailed off as realization hit. “Shit. Where’s Sol? Where are Latirian, Tas, and Maccis?”
“Inside. Come on.” Inghean dragged him up the steps, and Rig picked up his daughter at the door, before being swarmed by his various in-laws. A tight band around his chest eased when he saw Solinus, who looked bruised, but otherwise intact, sitting at one of the huge tables inside the great dining hall, which appeared to have been converted to a war-room.
“What happened?” he asked Solinus.
Solinus shook his head. “Was finally out on a strike into southern Persia when the word came in. Wouldn’t you know, the man I’d given seventy lashes to, happened to be my squad’s radioman? I should have had him executed, not just lashed.” His eyes held a hard gleam. “He gave a slightly edited version of the orders to the rest of my people. He told them that I’d been declared a traitor and that they were going to have to take me in for execution.”
“And they believed that?” Rig demanded.
“A few of his cronies did. They jumped me in my sleeping bag and got a few kicks in before I was awake.” Solinus’ eyes were distant. “The rest of my people got into it. Let’s just say that I’m not going to lose any sleep over burning him—” he paused, and took a look at Shiori and Hanni’s woebegone faces at the table next to him, and clearly edited what he’d been about to say. Rig didn’t need the words. He knew the look in Sol’s eyes. The man in question was dead. Solinus went on now, “With the rest of my men sitting on his cronies . . . I thought I had them. I mean, assaulting a centurion, falsifying orders . . . . So I called in, but I didn’t identify myself specifically. And I was told to bring Matrugena in alive for interrogation, because of his affiliation with a rebel king.”
Rig ground his teeth for a moment as he took a seat at the huge conference table, pulling Vigdis into his lap, and his little girl latched her arms around him and refused to let go. “My legate wanted me returned under armed guard for my oath and presumably for use as a hostage. They didn’t say anything about questioning.”
“Your unit was under the technical command of the Seventh Carthaginian Legion,” Trennus said, entering, and waving irritably at everyone to stay seated, “Sol’s was pure JDF. The JDF actually is refusing Julianus’ order . . . so my guess is that someone in Legion Intelligence got other orders, direct from Rome, and moved to take Solinus, Latirian, and Tasalus. They're all fine. Stories for another time.”
Rig shook his head. “How’d you get out, Sol?”
Solinus grimaced. “I told headquarters we’d get back to them, turned around, told the rest of the squad what the orders really were . . . and my second told me to get the f—” Solinus paused, glanced at Hanni, Shiori, and Astegal, and amended his words, “get out of there. So I went phoenix and flew north. I got here two days ago.” He gave Rig a look. “You’re late.”
“I walked out. I don't fly, so much as fall.” He looked over at Trennus. “My mother?”
“I have it from Sigrun that your father extracted Fritti when, ah, Zeus was killed.” Trennus took off his glasses and cleaned them, pulling the hem of his shirt loose to do so. Rig’s mouth fell
open. His father-in-law looked at them all, his eyes tired but kind as he put his glasses back on. “I’m very damned glad to have you all here, where it's safer.” He sighed. “There’s a bathhouse behind the villa, Rig. Go and make yourself feel more human. We might have to put you in a kilt till we can get you other clothes—” Not in this lifetime, Rig thought, but grinned as all his in-laws laughed, “and I’ll get you more of the details once you’ve cleaned up.”
Rig shook his head, and hauled himself to his feet as everyone else began to filter out, though Inghean kept her arm locked firmly around his waist, and Vigdis appeared to have glued herself to his left leg. It had felt incredible just to sit for ten minutes. Solinus stayed put as well; Masako was nowhere in sight. But all the tensions of the past weeks were seeping out of him, only to be replaced by different worries. “Sir?”
Trennus looked up from the papers in front of him, appearing surprised. “Yes, Rig?”
“Inghean said you’re in talks with Caesarion?”
Trennus nodded, his lips turning down at the corners. “Caesarion had already agreed to recognize New Caledonia as a subject state of the Empire before all of this. He’s now agreed, in principle, that we are our own sovereign nation. He’s in talks with half the Empire, and is preparing Judea and what’s left of Carthage to rebel, too.” His expression turned grimmer. “African Carthage is swamped with refugees fleeing north through the Sahara from the interior of the continent. Which says something in and of itself. People think the situation to the south is bad enough that the Sahara looks like a better option.” Trennus grimaced. “That gets left out of the newscasts. We won’t get much support from Carthage, other than Tyre and Damascus, but even an agreement to recognize the legitimacy of Caesarion’s government, and ours? Every bit helps.” He waved. “Let me worry about the politics. It’s apparently in my job description now.”
Rig nodded, and looked over at Solinus. “Guess we’re out of jobs ourselves, for a while.”
Trennus snorted. “You and Solinus might wind up with new ones. If you’re willing. Caesarion needs lictors. I’m leery of any of my children becoming Praetorian Guard candidates at the moment, because we’re no longer subject to Rome, and the symbolism is all wrong, but it’s something to consider as a gesture of amity.” He smiled slightly, but his eyes remained tired. “You were both being considered by the Guard before everything fell apart, apparently.”
Rig’s jaw dropped again. Solinus exhaled. “Four years later than you were appointed, Da.”
“It’s not a race.” Trennus looked around what had once been a family dining hall, and was now festooned with maps and telephone lines. “I don’t know if anything will come of it. Leave that till tomorrow, all right? Just . . . go be with your families. While you can.”
Iulius 6-Iulius 27, 1993 AC
On the North Sea, just as the mad godling died, Sigrun had done her best not to panic as the dark waters closed over her head. Her body hurt where the mad godling’s tendrils had pierced, and while the cold didn’t bother her, the rush of the sea water hit her like the open palm of a giant hand, knocking the wind out of her. And then she was sucked down in Nith’s wake, still clinging to his neck . . . and the enormous pressure of the water closed around her, pressing on her body and lungs. I have to get out of here, she thought, dimly, as her lungs screamed at her to breathe. I’m going to drown. I’m going to drown and die. Panic set in, and she struggled to fly upwards, but she was still being dragged down. Nith! Nith! I can’t breathe! You have to take us out of here! I can’t—
The world around her flickered, and went even darker, but the sensation of pressure around her vanished, entirely, and her perspective skewed for a moment. Then Sigrun collapsed against Nith’s long neck, as she got a general sense of up and down. Pure relief. Not going to drown after all, thank you, thank you, Nith—
I believe that you could open the way to the Veil yourself, if you were sufficiently motivated, Niðhoggr informed her, calmly. You were panicking. Fear replaces rational thought. This is not like you.
I can’t heal from drowning, Sigrun replied, embarrassed. Fire hurts, but I can recover from it. Drowning is not a battle-wound.
There was a momentary pause, and she could hear Nith’s laughter in her mind. Sigrun felt as if she were, once again, overlooking something obvious. Nith? Where are we? This doesn’t seem like the Veil.
It is not the Veil. I thought that you might be able to . . . gain some perspective here.
Sigrun sat up on Nith's neck and looked around in some confusion. Stars. A bright, crisp star field lay beyond his blocking body. Steady, shining points of light. The apparent twinkling of a star was a product of the Earth’s atmosphere, as she knew from reading Adam’s astronomy books. Nith? Her head swiveled from side to side, as she scanned her environment. No clouds. Something dark that blocked her from seeing the stars directly ahead of her, and . . . on all other sides, a limitless expanse of stars. Nith!
You are panicking again. Consider this, Sigrun Stormborn. When you fought the centaurs who attacked your sister . . . why could they not hold you? The dragon’s head swiveled back to regard her, his silver eyes as bright as the moon. It was night, he prompted.
The memories were vague. She’d tried not to relive that night often. Because I wasn’t there to touch . . . ?
You can make yourself intangible in darkness, yes. You become shadow. You are night and darkness now. At the moment, we are in the darkness of space. Three hundred miles above Earth. We are entirely clear of the atmosphere, and you have not breathed for the past five minutes. Nor have you needed to do so. Nith’s voice held gentle irony, as Sigrun tried not to choke. The loss of pressure, the searing cold of space, would kill a human, as would the lack of oxygen. Your body is no longer mortal . . . when you do not inhibit yourself with the habits of your mortal life.
Sigrun’s entire body had, in fact, clenched in on itself, and it took a long moment for the spasm of terror to pass. It’s the armor, she thought, dimly. It’s the armor that’s protecting me from the vacuum . . . no . . . it’s not air-tight, or I’d suffocate. Wait. He just told me I can’t suffocate . . . or drown. The last realization hit a little belatedly, and Sigrun felt a wash of embarrassment with it. Does this only apply at night? she wondered, directing the thought at Nith.
I do not know. He began to move, and Sigrun caught at his neck again.
How are you moving? There is no air up here to fly in!
Will. Intention. My flight is not subject to physics and aerodynamics even in the air. Rich amusement in his voice at that. Has not Steelsoul remarked on that many times before, in varying tones of annoyance? A pause. I did enjoy the flights that we undertook with him, Sigrun. He was able to make his flying machine move quite well, given the limitations of the device
Sigrun stared around her, and her heart ached. He would love to see this, she said, silently, staring at the stars. But . . . I can’t bring him here, can I?
I do not see why you could not. You would need to wrap him securely in seiðr. Alternately, a suit of metal and glass with air for him to breathe.
Sigrun lowered her head. Maybe this would convince him to change his mind.
If the man will not accept as an inducement the chance to share eternity with the woman he loves, then I really cannot say what would change his mind. Nith’s tone was terse. But worrying about what he will or will not do is . . . a waste of your time. He either will do it, or he will not. And you have done everything that you can do to convince him. There comes a time, my lady, when words no longer matter. There is only waiting for the storm, and dealing with what comes of it.
She considered that for a long moment, and then leaned forwards to wrap her arms as far around his neck as they would go. You are correct. As usual. She sighed inwardly. Can you reach the moon in your flight?
Yes.
Then, if you are willing, we will take him to stand on the moon the next time I see him. If he will go. Not because it will change his mind
, but because it fulfills one of his lifelong dreams. A tear ran down her cheek, under the mask.
And why would he not come with us? Surprise there.
Because he believes that humans should get there on their own. By their own merits. He is a proud man, Nith. And there is nothing wrong with that kind of pride.
Pride that hurts those around you is the wrong kind of pride. The dragon sounded nettled again. But I will speak no more of this. He paused. Look at the stars—really look at them, he urged her.
They’re all ghosts, Nith. The light from these stars is only just reaching Earth. We’re looking at the universe as it was a hundred or a thousand years ago. Every star we see . . . is nothing more than a memory of itself. They could explode in a nova this very instant, and we would not know for decades or centuries.
Time is meaningless to such as we. Live long enough . . . and find that out for yourself. He pulled them into the Veil, and the stars overhead shifted, becoming larger and brighter and vastly more numerous, as if they dwelled on a world near the galactic core.
The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3) Page 73