The Divodurumian man paused, giving the valkyrie a look. “To know if my son’s alive, and where he is. My wife and I have prayed to the Morrigan every night to know that much.”
“His name is Fearchar, correct? Fearchar Corraidhin?”
He hadn’t even let himself think his son’s name in the past few months, except when checking the lists of the dead. “And how are you knowing that, now?” he burst out, and caught her look of surprise. It was the first expression that had really broken through her mask of weariness.
“I apologize. I could hear your concern, and love like that speaks a language all its own.” It wasn’t really an answer. “I’ll make some inquiries for you, Drust. I’m sorry, however. I have to go now. Duty calls me elsewhere.”
She raised two fingers in a salute, and as she did so, black armored gloves formed themselves on her dirty hands. A helmet, faceless except for white crystals filling in the eye-holes, covered her face and hair, and a spear appeared in her hand as she rose into the air, and the various Goths in the rubble, god-born and mortal alike, called after her, “Stormborn!”
Drust wasn’t stupid. The fact that every Goth on site now wanted ask him what she had talked to him about, indicated that she was something of a celebrity, even among the god-born.
And late that night, a knock came at the door of the apartment in which he and Sadb lived with eight other people in a space meant for three, and the valkyrie stood outside when he answered the tap. She handed him a basket of food, including apples. The smell of those apples took him back to his childhood. Apple pies, apple fritters, the smell of his mother’s cooking. There was fresh bread, the smell of which made him drool, and even a fresh-cooked goose, wrapped in paper to contain the grease. “What . . . how?” Drust asked, dumbfounded.
“Because everyone needs hope,” Sigrun told him, and handed his wife a slip of paper.
He read the Gothic runes of Sadb’s shoulder: Fearchar Corraidhin. Current status: Alive. Tongeran Occupied Zone. Captive of the Nahautl Army. Has given his parole and accepted a position assisting the occupying force in the defense of the city against ghul, ahuizotl, and the armies of the priests.
An inarticulate sound of joy caught in Sadb’s throat, and Drust spun as his wife sank to the ground, the lines on her face channeling away her tears. He dropped the basket to catch her hands, pulling her back to her feet. When he turned to thank the valkyrie for having somehow obtained the information, however, she was already gone.
The Goths with whom they were staying were wild-eyed. “That was Sigrun Stormborn,” the pregnant woman they’d befriended on the road, whispered.
“That’s what everyone kept saying today. She’s a valkyrie. I don’t understand the fuss.” Drust watched as Sadb lifted the basket, and set it, reverently, on the table, where everyone crowded around, hardly daring to touch the fresh, warm food.
The pregnant woman shook her head, vehemently. “She was a valkyrie. She was one of us.”
Her husband nodded. “It’s said that she and the dragon, Niðhoggr, killed Hel, stole her kingdom, and now rule over the dead. So now she’s the queen of lost battles and the night sky.”
Drust couldn’t believe any of that. Why would a goddess get her hands dirty? Couldn’t she just wave her hand and make all the rubble vanish? But every objection he raised was quelled by the fact that no matter how much they took out of the basket, there seemed to be one more thing left at the bottom. They ate. They drank. Their bellies, unused to so much food, groaned.
And in the morning, the basket was gone, but everything they’d unpacked from it remained. Magic. The kind of magic that not even a sorcerer can manage.
Of course, in the morning, the entire city was covered in a blanket of ash a foot deep. And the news, which had shown the dozens of smaller eruptions in the Mitsi'adazi region the night before, now showed footage of a massive explosion that had showered hundreds of square miles with rock overnight. They couldn’t even estimate the size of the crater, because of the black smoke still belching out of the earth, but scientists’ best guess was about five miles in diameter.
That was, however, second billing on the news. The more pressing problem was that while a mad godling and its attendant ghul had attacked Nimes, another army had actually been behind it, toiling up the coast. Ahuizotl, flayed men, and other creatures were part of a force controlled by the Nahautl priests. They’d moved around the ruins of Nimes, pausing to make sacrifices to their dead gods whenever they’d found refugees who were unable to flee, but hadn’t dared enter the fallen city. They’d pushed north, instead, which had forced the bandits that preyed on refugees fleeing along the highways between Nimes and Burgundoi, north as well—and some of those bandits had weapons stolen from the legions. Two separate forces, at least, were moving north along the Imperial Highway.
“The first wave of bandits reached the south side of the city around four antemeridian. However, they immediately surrendered, indicating that they were fleeing a larger threat. Many have been offered parole in return for their willingness to fight the coming threat. All able-bodied men and women capable of using a weapon are asked to report to local militia centers immediately. All others are asked to report to your designated refuge areas.”
“If we’d stayed in Tongeran,” Sadb said, quietly, “we might be with Fearchar now.”
Drust nodded. Of course, there was no way in which they could have known. And for a moment, he wondered if the valkyrie had invented it all. Told them a lie, so that they’d have one piece of hope to cling to, today. “We could pack up,” he offered. “We could just . . . start walking again.”
“And where would we go now? We can’t go back to Tongeran. Not with an army in the way.”
Drust put his arms around her, and stared out the window at the falling ash. “Then we fight, see? And when the army and the mad ones are all dead and gone . . . we start walking back south.”
“Maybe your friend the goddess will give us a lift on her wee dragon, then.”
“I’m thinking that whatever she is, she’s one for people doing their own work.” She gets her hands dirty.
No more time for talk. Sadb refused to hide in a shelter. If we’re separated, we’ll never find each other again. And so they both carried their guns to the southern lines. And prepared for war.
Caesarius 27, 1999 AC
Cuzco, rocked by earthquakes almost forty years ago during the death of Inti, had had time to repair and revitalize itself. Mamaquilla’s new temple stood beside the Inti Kancha, the temple of the sun. And where Inti’s temple remained precision-cut, ancient stone, sheathed in gold foil, Mamaquilla’s was new and modern, a pyramid of glass, with polished and sealed nickel facings that would not tarnish as silver would. The city had reinvented itself as Mamaquilla removed the rigid caste system that had governed the lives of her people for centuries. The caste system had dictated that all food produced by farmers went into communal storehouses controlled by the nobles. Had dictated that only nobles could consume privileged foods. Had dictated the life-path of every person born into it. Instead, Mamaquilla and her new government mandated universal education. Gave everyone the freedom to choose their path in a life. And built new structures, new neighborhoods, atop old ones.
And now, the city was burning.
The Quecha had been left godless. Since their once-human Warrior Twins had been slain in combat with Odin, Taranis, and Quetzalcoatl, their priesthood had become locked in a dream of bringing the gods back . . . or at least, they’d maintained their power over the people, the military, the government, by asserting that, as in the ancient legends, where one twin had sacrificed the other, and then returned him to life, that this was all just a temporary interregnum. That the gods would be reborn . . . just as Mamaquilla, to the west, insisted that Inti could be reborn. And that all it would take was sacrifice.
Many, many sacrifices.
Some of their people had fled into the jungles, and the wilderness had devoured them whole. T
ribes deep under the rainforest’s canopy who’d never gotten past stone tools and fire, found their bones, and wondered at them and the strange devices they’d brought with them, damaged by animals and insects . . . and then left the bodies alone, as taboo.
Some people fled into Tawantinsuyu, but the mountainous empire was far smaller than its jungle-covered neighbor. Gallic and Gothic mercenaries—former legionnaires—did their best to keep the borders sealed, but more and more of Tawantinsuyu’s own people were required to join the army, trying to keep out the overwhelming flood of refugees, the sacrifice raids, and everything else. Rocky, molten cherufe were seen on mountain highways, and supay were said to occupy every cave and mine.
The situation had been bad, but Mamaquilla had been holding the human invaders at bay . . . until the mad ones attacked her country once more. Attacked her. She was the sole focus of her people’s belief now, and thus, surprisingly powerful. But here in Caesaria Australis, there were no other gods to divert the mad ones’ attentions any more.
Valhalla had sent allies, as they were able, rotating gods though. Quetzalcoatl had rendered aid, when he wasn’t trying to save his own people from the madness. At the moment, Freya was here to assist, and Mamaquilla was both grateful for the help, and bitter that it wasn’t going to be enough. Her country, her people, were too far distant from Novo Germania for the Goths to be able to render meaningful assistance. And the godlings were rolling in over her borders, while her people fought and died on the terraced lands that their ancestors had built and tilled. Goths, Gauls, and even a few Roman legionnaires who’d managed to follow the intricate steps of the dance of allegiance predicated by the Roman civil war were fighting and dying. Mamaquilla’s luminous eyes filled with tears. I hoped to give my people freedom, she told Freya. I wanted them reach for the stars. Forty years of work, brought to this.
Freya nodded in weary empathy, and gestured at Cuzco below their feet. I can put out many of the fires, but I feel more mad ones coming.
The goddess of the moon covered her face in her hands. Cannot Valhalla send more aid? she asked. She would not beg, but she could . . . request. Odin sent Baldur and Thor to fight alongside the Roman gods. Why has he only sent you to aid me?
Freya’s tone was infinitely gentle. He sent me to help you evacuate.
No! These are my children! This is their land, their home! This is where Inti died. Where he gave up his life. Mamaquilla raised her face, her scaled face twisting in distress. I cannot leave them!
I do not ask you to leave all of them. You must evacuate your best. Your brightest. The ones who will carry the heart of your civilization, of your people, to the stars, as you have said you wished. Freya’s voice was compassionate. Thor is injured. Baldur, too. Odin is still recovering after the attack on Nimes. Our Gallic allies are down to but two gods. We do not have the resources to defend the entire world. We must . . . choose. The queen of the Aesir bowed her head, her expression shamed. You are our ally, and we will aid you. But you must retreat to where we can protect you.
Mamaquilla sighed. Her eyes rose from the city below, wreathed in flames, to the moon, peeking through the clouds and the pall of smoke in the sky. Her own symbol. I will take them. But not into your lands. Or even into the Veil, as Rome has chosen. She twisted to regard Freya directly. The moonbase. The mad ones have never crossed the void.
Freya’s eyes widened. The humans who dwell there, do so in careful balance with their self-made ecology! This many people produce that much carbon dioxide and such an amount of ammonia and fecal material. Introducing enough people to sustain your civilization may destroy the entire colony!
Mamaquilla stared up at the moon, her eyes mirroring it. I would be a very poor moon goddess, if I could not provide for my people in my own realm. Set your heart at ease, Freya. I will sustain them, in their exile until they are able to help provide for themselves.
_________________________
In the shelters in Cuzco, Machu Picchu, and other cities, scientists, engineers, teachers, farmers, and builders looked up, and saw Mamaquilla standing before them, her eyes filled with tears, and her blue-green scales glistening in the light of the moon, which streamed down from above. It is time to go, she told them, softly. We have tried to hold back the darkness. Now, it is time to retreat. Take my hand, and come with me.
Mamaquilla was not a cruel goddess. Mothers, fathers, and children were not separated. In all, six hundred and twenty-five families were represented, and twenty-five hundred people. Some were god-born, such as the current Empress of the Inca and her children. Most were commoners or former members of the merchant caste. Believe it or not, this group of you is larger than your entire civilization, when your people first began to conquer their neighbors. To build their cities. To raise themselves up, and create a new world for themselves.
The humans stared around themselves in awe. They stood in wide, circular chamber, with a white floor, and curving, white walls reaching up above them, as if they were encompassed in a single teardrop. “Please . . . where are we going?” a mother asked, clutching her young son to her.
To the heavens. To build a new world. Mamaquilla lowered her head, and the teardrop lifted, and they all felt inertia’s hand push them back to the soft, curving floor. Some of them later swore that they could hear the frustrated screams of rage from the mad godlings behind them.
They huddled together, clutching each other, and their few belongings. And hours later—perhaps as many as twelve, though no watches seemed to function inside Mamaquilla’s tear—the sensation of movement stopped. There was a gentle bump, and the walls of the tear became transparent, instead of opaque, and let them see the stark white, cratered surface on which they now stood. The black sky, spangled with more stars than could even be seen on a clear night from their mountain homes. Then one man gasped, pointing, and they all looked up to see the Earth above them. A huge swathe of Caesaria Aquilonis was on fire, visible even through the clouds. The polar ice at the north extended deep into Raccia, and at the south, reached up for the tip of Africa and Caesaria Australis. The people covered their faces. They hadn’t known how bad it really was, until this moment. But their planet was trapped between fire and ice.
_________________________
Inside the L’banah Station, Dr. Larus Sillen, the fenris physicist, and his hveðungr wife, Linnea, bounded through the tunnels, trying to keep their cardiovascular fitness intact, despite the low gravity. This involved Linnea throwing a large ball for Larus, and both of them desperately trying to catch up with it before the low gravity sent the toy somewhere it really shouldn’t be.
They’d long since accepted that they would probably never return to Earth. For a normal human, the low gravity worked an ugly alchemy on muscles and bones; if someone spent too long in lunar gravity, Earth’s gravity would crush them to death on return. For a jotun, a hveðungr, or a fenris, that was probably not an issue. They simply regenerated too vigorously, and every scientific experiment conducted on Larus, Linnea, and their children indicated healthy muscle fiber and no reduction in bone density, even after years on L’banah. But the closest anyone was getting to Earth these days was Libration station. The Cydonia colony on Mars hadn’t been resupplied, other than from L’banah, in three years.
There weren’t many windows in the moon base; it was built into the rock of the lunar surface for protection from radiation and asteroids and everything else. But the observation dome, which was used for astronomical study, was the grand exception to this rule. It also had triple airlocks, precisely because it could spring a leak that might threaten the entire colony.
Larus lunged for the ball, throwing himself into the air, and caught the rubber projectile inches away from the eighteen-foot ceiling, glancing out the window at the top of his arc. While he was a physicist, and thus, something of an expert on bodies in motion and the concept of ‘what goes up, must come down,’ his attention was so fixed on what he saw outside, that as he drifted back to the floor, he didn
’t brace himself correctly. And even at sixteen percent of Earth’s gravity, the fall still startled him, and he dropped the ball, before leaping back up to an observation seat. Linnea . . . come here. Am I going mad, or do you see what I see?
Linnea, in her jotun form, sprang up, caught the edge of the seat with her fingertips, and pulled herself up beside him. And stared, as well. “I see people. Walking on the surface. Without suits, though there’s . . . light around each of them. And they’re heading for the docking area.”
Larus’ tongue lolled out. That is precisely what I see. He paused. A complete impossibility.
“Not entirely. Remember two years ago, when that Hellene technomancer had a suit breach when he was exploring Aristoteles Crater with the geology team? He sealed his suit by solidifying the air at the breach site itself, and prevented the air from subliming away in the vacuum.”
They are not wearing suits made of dry ice. Also, our technomancer had massive freeze-burns on his leg from doing that.
Linnea watched the people, who, straight-backed, continued to walk towards the great hatch that led into the hangar area. Some of them were barefoot. And last in line was a woman who was close to a jotun’s height, but covered in blue-green scales, like a nieten . . . but who just as plainly was not mortal. And behind her, a long, solid box of what appeared to be gold floated above the ground. “This is a god at work, Larus.”
The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3) Page 155