Small, regional armies belonging to this rajah or that, had managed to stay organized in the face of raw chaos. They’d set up on the outskirts of town to try to burn the bodies of the dead, a task usually reserved for the lowest castes in their society, but the social disruption was so absolute, and the need so evident, that every survivor was absorbed in either this task, or in self-defense. The pyres sent up a continuous pall of greasy brown smoke, and ashes from them fell from the sky like snow. Random gunfire indicated that the soldiers were also picking off ghul that approached their encampments, while lower-caste servitors dug in the rubble and handled the bodies.
Trennus shook his head, sickened by the stench, and Hecate spread out a bubble of force around them. Enough to keep most of the ghul at bay. “They won’t pass through it?” he asked, as Saraid moved closer to him in her wolf form.
No. It disrupts the connection of most spirits to mortal bodies. It should function similarly for the connection between a mad god fragment and its vessel. Hecate’s words were precise. They may try to cross it, but if they do, they will fall over, devoid of animation.
They did their best with the knotted mess that the local ley-lines had become, which sent continuous waves of seismic energy through the region. It was exacting, delicate mental work, that required vast amounts of energy . . . and he was far from the Woods at the moment. He was stronger now, when he was closer to them. The Woods themselves were his conduit, and he was theirs. He and his land really were one now. Thus, it would have been exhausting and nerve-wracking enough . . . but Saraid sensed a mad godling returning before they were done. We must go, Saraid told them, her tone implacable. It is too large for us to fight.
The ley-lines are still tangled, Trennus objected. There is a knot in space-time here.
Then whichever gods remain here must attend to it themselves. We must go. Saraid’s voice held force, and Trennus stopped arguing.
From the Veil, Trennus did his best to monitor the situation in the mortal realm through the winter. It became rapidly apparent to those tracking Persian broadcasts and those watching Persian troop movements, that a paradigm shift had occurred. To date, the Persians had been largely untouched by the mad godlings. Some of that might have been the relative power of their god, Ahura Mazda, and his servants, the Amesha Spentas. Some of it might have been the Persian policy of appeasing the mad godlings. Feeding the godlings’ ghul, and whatever else was going on behind the curtain of silence that surrounded the Empire.
After the deaths of Vishnu and Shiva, all of that changed. The mad godlings in the region had been concentrating on India. They’d gorged themselves on the populous Hindu pantheon. They’d grown powerful. And now, they turned west, and began rolling into the Persian Empire.
“Part of me wants to smirk,” Adam admitted, on reviewing the intelligence with Caesarion and Marcus Livorus. “Unfortunately, the rest of me knows that once those godlings get done with Ahura Mazda and his servants and the . . . exceedingly few god-born that are in Persia . . . they’ll be at the Wall, and they’ll be even more powerful. Persia’s standing alone right now.” He tasted something foul in his mouth, and wanted to spit. “Dominus, I hate to point out the obvious, but while Antiochus might be paranoid, he’s not a fool. He’s got Judea to the west of him, and this is the only place on earth, other than possibly Antarctica, where the mad gods haven’t gone. He’ll want to invade us to give himself a fallback position.”
Marcus Livorus raised a finger. “Would this be a good moment to pre-empt that, by offering them an alliance, this time on our terms? They can’t stand alone. No one can.”
Sentiment and pragmatism warred in Adam’s heart and mind. The partisan in him shouted NO! The Persians and the Judeans had been fighting back and forth across the Wall for hundreds of years. Entire generations of his ancestors would, had they heard that question posed to him, risen up in rebellion. And yet, on the other hand . . . humanity was going to be wiped out by the mad godlings if they didn’t all stand together. Adam swallowed. “There will be a good deal of community outcry.” That was a masterly understatement, he thought.
“People may surprise you,” Marcus told him. “Desperate times make for desperate alliances.”
Adam grimaced. “What exactly is the purpose of an alliance that you know will be betrayed?”
Caesarion looked down. “The hope,” he said, tiredly, “that we won’t be. That common sense on both sides will prevail. That the presence of a mutual enemy will be enough to forge temporary bonds of . . . affiliation, at least. I dare not say friendship or affection.” He looked up again. “Aside from which, we are down to the Carthaginian cities north of us, the Picts, a swarm of Egyptian refugees, and a large force of Goths and jotun. Calling ourselves the Eastern Alliance has become . . . disingenuous, I think.”
It’s just Judea, now, Adam thought, tiredly. Just Judea and a world of refugees.
Caesarion made the offer of alliance on December 29, 1996 AC.
He received no response from Antiochus or the Persian Empire.
Ianuarius of 1997 was bitterly cold almost everywhere besides the tropics; even in the southern hemisphere, where it should have been summer, temperatures averaged twenty degrees below where they had, before the Fimbulwinter. In Caesaria Aquilonis, the Nahautl army marshaled attacks on Novo Gaul while continuing to wrestle back and forth with Quecha over the isthmus region between the two nations. Quecha, while maintaining their presence on the northern front, sent troops west, and began to fight their way through the towering mountains of Tawantinsuyu. Mamaquilla, her people, and the former legionnaires who had organized themselves into landsknechten companies, all set up a staunch resistance, but outlying communities fell, and their people were marched off to the east, to be sacrificed on the altars of the Quecha gods.
While the humans contended with one another, Quetzalcoatl, in the body of Ehecatl, worked to preserve his people. He found detachments of Jaguar warriors, and assumed control of each contingent. He looked into the heart of each man, and put to death any who had come to enjoy hunting their fellow humans. Then they snuck back into Tenochtitlan and other cities, rescuing first the soldiers’ families, and as many civilians as they could, getting them to the port at Tampico. There, they boarded ships that would venture out into the Caribbean, where Jormangand was protecting the waterways. The civilians were taken to the island of Coabana, where the native Taino people and their gods had been wiped out, leaving houses and shops to be ravaged by hurricanes and tropical heat. There wasn’t much left. Even the ghuls’ essences had been reabsorbed by their mad godling parents. But it was at least far away from any altars.
When two of his fellow gods sought him out, Quetzalcoatl shifted to his feathered serpent form, and hung in the sky, wary. No, brother, Xototl told him, lightning crackling around his form. We are not here to fight you. Xototl was considered by the Nahautl to be Quetzalcoatl’s twin, lightning and death to Quetzalcoatl’s light and life. Xototl had been part of Quetzalcoatl, once. His dark twin-self, much like his Morning Star aspect. The Feathered Serpent was still worshipped as Lord of the Dawn, the Morning Star. Tlahuizcalpantecuhtli was his title in this regard, though many people currently chose to ignore the fact that the Lord of Mercy was also the Lord of Vengeance. That earliest dualism in how his humans had seen him had both been empowering and identity-threatening at once. He’d been young in the world then, and hadn’t known how to be so many things at once. So he had carefully cut Xototl free. A brother, a son. But the connection remained.
Then why are you here? To aid me in preserving our people?
Xototl had chosen to manifest today with a skeleton’s head, rather than the dog’s head he often wore. We are here to ask you to fight beside us.
Quetzalcoatl’s burning eyes shifted towards the other god, hovering beside his twin. Centeotl had been shaped by human belief like potter’s clay. For instance, he had once been primarily female. They had called him Chicomecōātl then, and figured him as a young girl
carrying flowers, a mother who carried the sun as her shield, and a crone who held death between her legs. Quetzalcoatl knew that his other brother, Tezcatlipoca, had been Chicomecōātl’s mate, at least until the fertility-and-battle goddess had become Centeotl, male god of grain. In human eyes, the affair had ended there, but the two had remained close, ever since. You are not here to demand vengeance for the death of my brother? he asked Centeotl, his body coiling in readiness, scales rasping on scales. I have allied directly with those who slew Tezcatlipoca.
I can wait to demand vengeance. Centeotl’s tone indicated that a reckoning would come, someday. He folded his arms over his chest. Our people are dying. The cursed winter of the gods of Valhalla has ruined our crops. Our people will starve, if this war is not ended.
Quetzalcoatl felt the bitter amusement of his avatar’s spirit. Quetzalcoatl was an old god, having been worshipped by the Olmecs before the Nahautl had come to power. He had been in the mortal realm for around two thousand years, and had seen much in that time. But he had never had an avatar this old, this steeped in experience. Ehecatl-within added to Quetzalcoatl’s sum of knowledge, emotion, and memory. And now, the old god and the old man shared a cynical laugh. Everyone wished for me to join them in the sacrifices before. And now, my power will add to one side or another, so long as I follow their lead and bow my head. No. I am no one’s game piece. Quetzalcoatl’s eyes narrowed. Our people were quite occupied with destroying themselves with violence before the weather began to bite, he said. So what do you wish of me?
We go to end the battle with the Quecha, Xototl told his brother, slowly. We go to fight the Hero Twins. Hunahpu and Xbalanque. Stand with us. Three against two. And with their deaths, Quecha will quiet itself. Our people will have only one war to fight.
Quetzalcoatl exhaled smoke. And then what? Make peace with the gods of Gaul and Valhalla? Will we make peace among ourselves, or continue to murder one another?
He caught the exchange of thoughts between them, a flow of energy that needed no glances to make itself understood between them. Ah, Ehecatl said, within. They are bound to each other?
This is new, Quetzalcoatl agreed. Desperate times bring new alliances.
The pair appeared uncomfortable. Obsidian Butterfly worked against all of us, brother, not just you. It grieves me, that you would stand apart from us, because of her error, Xototl replied.
Quetzalcoatl bared his teeth. Ītzpāpālōtl was not alone. Chalchiuhtlicue, she of the jade skirt, allied with Chaac against us all. Tezcatlipoca, our brother in power, betrayed my word to the gods of Valhalla, that they might have safe passage with their people through our territory. How often must I be betrayed, before I begin to question the motives of all those around me?
The prisoner’s dilemma, the game is called, Ehecatl-within whispered. Mirror the actions of others towards you. Negative consequences, for transgressions. But someone must forgive, at some point, or the downwards spiral never ends . . . .
Xototl hesitated. I understand your reluctance, brother. But we must end this war, and we stand a better chance with you, than with just we two.
If you would end the war, Quetzalcoatl said, be the first one to put down your weapon, brother. Make peace with the Hero Twins. They were mortals, once. They perceive arrogance in other gods, which they do not see in themselves. Speak with them. Be gracious with them. And you two will live long enough for Centeotl to become Chicomecōātl once more. Quetzalcoatl paused, still wary. Which is inevitable, if you two continue your association. One of you is death, the other fertility. Humans understand these things in terms of duality.
Your twin could be the one to wear the skirt, Ehecatl said, deep within Quetzalcoatl’s mind. He’ll have to decide between accessorizing it with the skull or the dog head, however.
Quetzalcoatl exhaled smoke as he smothered his reaction. Ehecatl had always respected his gods, but at the moment, he was not particularly awed by them.
The pair considered it for a long moment. I am sorry that you will not join us, brother, Xototl finally said. But perhaps, you are correct. We will give the Hero Twins a chance to negotiate.
Seven hours later, Quetzalcoatl was hovering in the sky, helping his Jaguar warriors reclaim a city from the flayed men, the ahuizotl, and the soldiers still loyal to the priests and the emperor. Power abruptly roared through the ley-lines, and earthquakes tore at the continental shelf. Quetzalcoatl reeled. His old bond with Xototl faltered. Failed. Snapped, a recoil of old energies returning to him.
Every human on the ground screamed and fled as the ground rocked, trying to get out of the area where the tall buildings stood. Quetzalcoatl threw a shield over his Jaguar warriors and the civilians they’d already rescued from the regional sacrifice centers, and hissed. He blazed in the sky, uncaring for a moment of who might look up and be blinded. Odin! Taranis! Hear me! I have sworn to be your ally. You have sworn to be mine. I turned two of my own away, and bade them to make peace with the Hero Twins. My brethren are now dead. And now, the Quecha will pay. Not because I thirst for vengeance. But because repercussions must be known.
It must be done, Ehecatl sighed, a small voice under that titanic wave of fury. The rest of their brethren may well capitulate. And if they surrender to you, perhaps this hemisphere can finally be united against the mad gods.
A strange thought, from deep in Ehecatl’s memories, then. For him, all this had begun when a shaman of the Chahiksichahiks, back in 1955, had sought to protect his people against the coming storm, by trying to sacrifice a young girl to one of their gods. The Morning Star. Curiosity from Ehecatl-within. It should be no surprise to you, that the beliefs of the northern tribes hold echoes of your people’s. Quetzalcoatl’s words fleeted in response. When your people came over the land-bridge, long ago, there were only a few small tribes then. There were other tribes already here, who had migrated by sea, though that distinction vanished over ten thousand years of intermarriage, conquest, and assimilation. And the Chahiksichahiks moved north from out of Nahautl, centuries ago. They carried their language and beliefs with them, like the possessions on their backs. Their culture, their diet, their understanding of sacrifice, all of it. He paused. But I am not their Morning Star. They found another who fit their belief, and shaped him, and he shaped them. And now he is dead, but his people . . . live.
Ehecatl-within frowned. So who is to say that the shaman of their people, whose blood spilled on the hungry earth . . . didn’t end up saving his people, after all?
Quetzalcoatl had no answers for the spirit of his avatar. But now Odin and Taranis were responding to the images and words he had flung their way. They owe you weregild, Odin said, grimly. If not their lives. You are sure that your brethren meant to parley?
I had convinced them to try. In a way, this was his fault. Quetzalcoatl caught sight of a skyscraper about to fall on the retreating column of soldiers and civilians, and manifested, coiling around it to hold it in place, while the humans ran on the poured-stone street below.
You are our ally, Taranis acknowledged. We are yours. We will come to your aid.
They arrived within the hour, Odin riding Sleipnir, borrowed from Loki, and his ravens swirling above him in the open air. Taranis did not ride a mount, and had no battle form, as Quetzalcoatl did. He did not need it, either. He was as fleet in the air as a summer breeze, and carried with him the same power of storms as Xototl had held. The Hero Twins were god-born once? the thunder-god of the Gauls asked.
Yes.
Perhaps they have forgotten what it means to be mortal, then. Let us to work. Lead on, Feathered Serpent. We will move as you direct.
The Quecha had spread over the centuries; while Nahautl had been fighting with Rome and the Gauls, they had conquered the Tupi, and taken over the region of the continent called Ibirapitanga, for the prized red wood of the native ibirapitanga tree—also called brasilholt, by Gothic traders. And when Rome had turned south, the Quecha Empire had become the province of a greater empire. But large swathes o
f the Ibirapitanga region remained trackless jungles, impenetrable and green. They might as well have been a part of the Veil, so alien were they to the bulk of humanity. There were tribes in the rainforests who had never seen machines made of metal, or even heard the word Rome.
And over the triple-canopied rainforests of Caesaria Australis, the leaders of three full pantheons entered Quechan territory, and the regional gods rose to defend their territory.
Mamaquilla! Odin shouted, his voice echoing across the continent, ringing back from the mountains. Defend your people! The earth will dance today!
From the lonely moon-goddess of Tawantinsuyu, defiance. Let it dance. They invade my lands, they sacrifice my people, for whom my beloved laid down his life? End them! End them all!
Ekchuah, the Quechan god of warriors and merchants was the first to face them, his scorpion tail lashing. Taranis threw him back with raw force, declaring, We are not here for you, war-god. We are here for the Twins who overthrew the gods of this realm, long ago. Depart, and live. Face us, and die.
I will defend my lieges, my people, and my land. I have tasted the blood of fresh sacrifices, as none of you have. We are empowered, and you are weak. There is no way in which you can win. Not against all of us. Ekchuah’s dark-rimmed eyes were wide, and he attacked with sword, magic, and his poisoned sting. Quetzalcoatl moved between Ekchuah and his allies, and wrapped himself around the war-god, coiling like a python, tightening against every effort to escape. Turquoise blood leaked from his skin where magic abraded the glistening green scales. Increasing desperation from Ekchuah; the war-god knew that Quetzalcoatl’s embrace anchored him to the mortal realm. They struggled against each other in the sky, and turquoise blood pattered down on the leaves below like rain.
The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3) Page 116