Gloriana's Masque

by Eleanor Burns

  “I told you. It’s not about revenge,” she interrupted, her tone severe. “Your man was right: it is futile for us to think of attacking men who are armed with teotl weapons. We must resort to other means.”

  “What do you– ?”

  “I mean to invoke the tzitzimitleh: rouse them to their full strength,” she announced to general murmurs of awe and terror, not a few of which came from her own conscience, but she ignored those the most easily. Amoxtli was right: the teotl care not as we do. They are mere power, to be used for good or ill … or ill to do good. “These strangers want a fight? Then let them have enemies worthy of their mettle.” There was a tense hush, finally broken by Tlacelel, with a grim, determined nod.

  “Give me a moment to let my men get clear, then I’ll assist you,” he declared, then turned and started back to where his Quauhtli Knights awaited him. “This is a three-man job, as I recall.” As he walked away, she turned to Necalli to gauge his approval, but saw little evidence of it in his appalled expression.

  “It is the only way,” she remarked, dispassionately.

  “It’s blasphemy,” he whispered, hoarsely.

  “You think the teotl will be happier if we allow creatures such as this to penetrate the Holy of Holies?” she asked, although aware that it would only compound her remorse later on to have manipulated the old man’s piety so brazenly. There will be remorse enough, and mourning … but now is the time for action, and blood. In any case, one could not argue with results: Necalli took one, brief look into the dirty, dishevelled, wild-eyed faced of the easterner, turned away in disgust, then looked back at Xochitla with an expression which, if scarcely happy, was at least resolved. He reached for the bone-handled obsidian dagger at his belt and handed it to her, hilt-first. As she took it, the wounded stranger began to struggle, feebly but desperately, and the panic in his eyes intensified. I don’t know what you’ve got to complain about, she thought, bitterly. This is mercy compared to what I’ll do to your friends … and what you’ve done to me.

  “Take his arms, Sir,” she ordered Necalli, who immediately seized the easterner’s wrists and pulled his arms back. His legs continued to flail, like those of some half-dead insect turned on its back, but to no avail. Tlacelel quickly returned, took the measure of the situation, and seized the easterner’s ankles, finally putting an end to his futile struggles. Xochitla searched the area for something that would serve as an altar, soon noticed a rotten tree-stump, and gestured towards it with the blade of the dagger. The two former generals lifted their twitching, whimpering burden between them, and laid him with his back upon the stump, while the rest of the Shorn Ones watched in silent awe. Xochitla inspected the dagger. Certainly sharp enough, though not perhaps as thick as it ought to be. Hopefully not too brittle. She had seen the ritual often enough, although she had never performed it herself, and she knew the force that it required. As long as the dagger itself did not break, the Blessing – ironically enough – ought to give her the strength she needed. She walked over to her improvised altar slowly, in wonder at what she was doing, but with neither reluctance nor uncertainty, and she recited an incantation as she went along, mechanically at first, but feeling the fire rising inside her with every word.

  “Tzitzimitleh … xihualhuia. Ca nican nicyolitiz,” she intoned, now looming over the easterner, whose lack of comprehension for the spell did not seem to bring him any comfort. He risked a few more twists and struggles, but the knights held him firmly, and the blood now swimming around in his left lung was no doubt not empowering his efforts. He has little time left. Better not to delay this, she thought, raising the dagger over her head, the hilt gripped in both hands, and hurrying the remainder of the invocation. “Auh ye huitz yn tlahueliloc, anquipopolozque … mitznmitia!” she concluded, swinging her arms downwards with her full strength.

  There was a wet crunch, and the dagger did not break, but other than that things did not go as smoothly as she had hoped. The blow had been grievous but not fatal, and the easterner let out a long-drawn, bubbling screech while blood sprayed from his torn flesh and his shattered ribs, dousing all three of them. Tlacalel turned his face away, while Necalli merely gritted his teeth. Xochitla closed her eyes, pulled back her arms, tightened both her grip and her stomach, and stuck again, and again, until the screams had stopped and the stranger’s breastbone was reduced to fragments. A cold wind picked up, and a curious tingling swept over her. The tzitzimitleh sense it. It is now or never. She opened her eyes, stared for a few nauseous seconds at the glistening, mangled mass of human meat before her, held her breath, and reached in. With a single, powerful effort, she ripped the damaged ribcage open as easily as if it had been a rotten tlakakahuatl shell. A feeble, residual palpitation helped her to discern the heart amidst the blood-soaked innards, and she quickly severed its cords and vessels with the edge of the dagger, ripped it out, and held it aloft as she shouted the final invocation, the blood tricking upon her face as the eerie wind whipped her soaked garments and hair.

  “Ontlaquaco y nacayollo. Nimatl mictlanmati … Tla xiquinpopoloti!” she finished, and threw the bleeding organ like a tlachtli ball, causing it to sail several metres into the deep jungle and out of sight, in the general direction the Men of the East must have taken. That did not end her gruesome duties though, and with grim resignation she tightened her grip on the dagger, seized the dead man by his long, filthy hair, and sank the blade into his neck. Its edge was razor-sharp, but it was a long and messy struggle before she managed to completely cut through his spinal column with such a small tool, although when that was done the rest of his neck tissues practically cut like papyrus, albeit with a lot more gore. Swinging the severed head by its matted locks, she sent it flying after the heart, trailing blood in its wake. The cold wind intensified, then it settled just as quickly, although from the declining sound and the rustling of the leaves to the north-west, it seemed more as if it had moved in that direction than simply subsided.

  It is done. I have succeeded, she thought, feeling remarkably unsatisfied. She turned to look at the decapitated wretch before her, with little repentance but no sense of triumph nor pleasure. This day would haunt her soon enough, she knew. Speaking of hauntings, though … This was not the time to linger nor reflect. While she was certain that the tzitzimitleh could not harm the blessed under normal circumstances, she had just poured oil on the inferno, and even she did not feel confident enough in the power of the Blessing to push their luck.

  “Come, Sirs,” she said, turning from the grisly spectacle and leading the way back down the trail. “Leave these barbarians to the tzitzimitleh, now. The sooner we are gone from the accursed place, the better.”

  “Indeed … What about Amoxtli?” asked Sir Necalli, pausing beside the pochtecatl’s incinerated corpse. “Shall we bear him back with us?” Xochitla turned to risk another look at Amoxtli’s dead face, but she turned away almost instantly, with a shudder. With his eyes so dull and staring, and his lips drawn back in that tortured rictus, he looked more like the skull-faced effigies of Miquiztlitecuhtli that had once decorated the temple than the vivacious, irreverent young adventurer whom she had loved. She did not think she could bear to see that face ever again, never mind to carry it with them for their entire journey back home.

  “Leave him. His soul is with Citlacoatl now,” she announced, solemnly but with little conviction, and they resumed the march back. She thought that she felt tears trickling down her face at last, although it could well have been more of the stranger’s blood seeping down from her hair. No doubt she looked as horrible without as she felt within. For the sake of their fellow-citizens, they would need to find a stream to wash themselves and their clothes in before they approached the city again. Though it were better we return naked than like this. Our people must never know what we did for them, and to safeguard the Blessing, if it could even be called that anymore. To be young again, but in a world without Amoxtli … The long and painful life of hypocritical duty that she saw before he
r scarcely seemed to deserve the title of ‘Blessing,’ but at least it would only be long, whereas I have condemned these Men of the East to eternal slavery and torment. Even that fact did not bring her much solace.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN – THE PURGE

  Outwardly, Ensign Ashbyrn was keeping his cool, but it was a feat worthy of the tall tales of Berwyn the Berserk for him to resist the urge to panic. In fact, beating the storms into submission with a war-hammer and holding back the tides by main strength sounds comparatively achievable, he thought. In all fairness to himself, his men were doing no better at repressing their anxiousness, save for Cædmon. He’ll die with that poker face … probably in the next few minutes, unfortunately.

  In spite of Colgrim’s death, the prospect of an honest fight had actually been pretty well received at first, but the faint, eerie tones of some dreadful heathen incantation, borne to the mariners’ campsite on a chilly breeze, had quickly put paid to their good mood. The shrill, guttural scream that had followed had then turned it into an unequivocally dire mood, although the mariners continued to follow their orders, dragging logs and branches into the elf-circle to form crude barricades, while Cædmon barked out harsh but motivational insults at them every time they slackened their pace out of sheer nervousness.

  “Don’t stop to listen to the fucking birds,” he bawled, almost convincingly. “Keep piling that wood on, you hear? Kynric, you lazy bastard, are you hoping the ants will crawl out of that log and carry it for you? Get it onto the damn barricade with the rest. Much as I appreciate you lads trying to give these savages a sporting chance, I’d as soon we took every advantage we can–”

  Whereupon the chilly breeze picked up, intensifying in only a few seconds into a full-blown, freezing tornado that was centred upon their campsite. The mariners dropped their loads, some even dropped their weapons, and the half-raised barricade was quickly blown down and scattered, but that was not what most disturbed Ashbyrn. Far more frightening was the fact that the powerful gusts, which seemed to eddy and penetrate into even the most sheltered spaces, whipped up the loose dirt and ashes in the burned patches where the elf-signs had been drawn, obliterating them in moments. He caught Cædmon’s eye, but was dismayed to see only a reflection of the same horror and powerlessness that he felt in himself. The sun was already setting. Even if the wind died down, and the natives held off their attack, they would never have enough time to redraw the circle before darkness fell.

  As suddenly as it had picked up, the tempest subsided, although a freezing pall lingered in the still air, and the seaxes and crossbows shivered in the mariners’ hands. The distant incantation had ceased, and there were no sounds of anyone advancing up the trail, not that Ashbyrn would have expected native trackers to progress with a full military band, more’s the pity. Still, this deathly silence was perhaps something to be grateful for, if it implied that the would-be attackers had been even more demoralised by the bizarre weather than his own men. If the savages have funked it, we might have a chance to draw the circle again, Thalassa willing, if we all work together. At least time to make a good start on it. If only a few of us can make it–

  Another scream, far closer and no less blood-curdling, disturbed his hopeful reverie. Turning to his left he saw Rothgar who, like him, had been watching the trail from behind the cover of a tree, now performing a series of agonising contortions. His arms and legs were stretched wide as if on a rack, and emitted grisly sounds of clicking and tearing as his bones dislocated and his ligaments ripped. With no apparent cause, large puncture wounds opened in his neck and along his main blood vessels, although only a little blood seeped out, as if the rest was being sucked elsewhere. Rothgar was certainly losing more than the visible seepage would account for, to judge from how quickly his skin was losing colour, but his screams were not so quick to lose their intensity. Most horribly of all, his eyes, which had been wide and staring already, then seemed to widen even further, as if the surrounding skin was being pulled back by some external force, then it became undeniable: the eyelids were lifting, stretching, and tearing, revealing red spaces all around; blood was pouring freely from the ruptures; and the eyes themselves were deforming into shapeless masses as they were gouged out of their sockets by the almost-invisible force. The only signs it gave of itself, other than the hideous injuries it inflicted, were a few fleeting shadows and strange ripples in the air, like a heat haze, but Ashbyrn also had a brief impression of a dark, spindly hand forcing some object into one of Rothgar’s empty eye-sockets: small, hard, and black, with shining edges, like a polished stone or crystal.

  He did not linger to confirm this impression. The whole appalling scene had taken all of a few seconds, and that was long enough for him to collect his wits, level his hand-pyronade, and fire a shot at Rothgar, and he could only hope at his invisible attacker as well. As the noise and the flash faded, he saw Rothgar’s singed and mutilated corpse, and he heard the shrill, receding screech of no earthly creature. The haze and shadows had also dissipated, but for how long? Which of us is next? If only I could see my targets, then we might have a … Of course.

  As inspiration dawned, he reached for the leather bottle at his belt that contained the rest of the trickster cap infusion. The Queen’s instructions had stated that to minimise the risk of poisoning they should prepare it afresh at each location, but right here and now Ashbyrn knew exactly where Gloriana could shove her instructions. Part of him had foreseen that the ready-made preparation, however dangerous to drink, was too useful to throw away, and he was very glad to have listened to his instincts. There’s not enough for all of us, though, he thought, taking a swig of the foul, cold potion which was suddenly the finest thing he had ever tasted. It needs to last us until dawn, as well. Maybe enough for me and Cædmon, though. That logic was even colder than the potion, but it was the only sensible option. Crossbows were unlikely to be of much use against the shades, and only he and Cædmon had the pyronades. Perhaps if the rest of the men stick close to us, we could fight the things off … though two men could just about manage to pilot the knarr, at a pinch.

  His stomach already cramping as the drug settled in it, he turned back to the glade, where Cædmon was attempting, with very little success, to dissuade the panicked men from discharging their crossbows at every fleeting shadow and rustle of the undergrowth. That confirmed his faith in the plan he had just devised, and he called out the master-mariner’s name and threw him the closed bottle.

  “Take one swallow, then keep the rest of it on you,” he ordered, loudly and urgently. “That shit needs to last us the night.”

  “What? Don’t we get any?” asked Eadwulf, with terrified outrage. I feared as much, but no chance. “Leave us to the tender fucking mercies of those things? I don’t think go. Give me that bloody bottle, Cædmon. We’re in this together, ain’t we?”

  “Don’t talk out of your arse, Eadwulf,” advised Cædmon, after he had taken his swig, and had closed the bottle again. “The officer’s right. There’s not enough for more than two if it’s to last the night, and we’re the ones with the guns. All of you lads, just stick close to his Lordship and me,” he announced, to all the surviving squad members. “Just don’t get in our line of fire. We’ll see you through this all ri–”

  But his encouraging words met with an unfortunate interruption. Kynric, who had been crouching behind the sad remains of the barricade, suddenly screamed in torment, his limbs stretched and twisted, and bloody punctures started erupting like a pox on his neck and torso. This time, Cædmon was the quickest to fire, incinerating both the unfortunate Kynric and his attacker. Ashbyrn was able to faintly discern a skeletal shadow behind the mariner’s corpse, crumpling into a lifeless heap that then disintegrated into nothing. He had just managed to pull back from firing his own weapon in time. We mustn’t waste shots. It takes so long to charge another. We need to make them all count or … Circumstances immediately finished that thought for him, as he felt a prickling in his flesh, turned around to find his vi
sion immediately darkened, jumped back several paces, and fired his next shot into the shade that had practically been upon him. That won him but a few seconds’ of respite, he deemed. The forest was becoming hazier in his vision, and several shadows that had seemed innocent before were now becoming more solid, and closing in, not very quickly but inexorably. Another of the things died, screeching, as Cædmon let off another blast, buying them a little more time and space to manoeuvre, but with only two slow-firing weapons their chances of lasting the night did not look so great.

  “Sod this. I’ll take the bottle and the gun,” declared Eadwulf, to Ashbyrn’s appalled astonishment, as the mariner almost pounced upon Cædmon like a starving varg, and wrestled him for the hand-pyronade. “I’ll happily do the shooting for you, but you ain’t fucking using me as your decoy while–” He tailed off with a rasping cry of pain, as the point of Cædmon’s seax suddenly poked out of his back. Even half-tripping, you can’t get the jump on that old warhorse. Which is just as well, thought Ashbyrn, quickly immolating the next closest shade which had been perilously near, and very grateful that he had not needed to waste that shot on Eadwulf. Unfortunately, the scent or the taste of Eadwulf’s blood on the air seemed to invigorate the rest of the shades, and Ashbyrn could now see dozens of them: a slowly encroaching forest of angular, spindly black forms, creeping in on the glade from all sides. Cædmon, having quickly dumped Eadwulf’s corpse, torched another of them, for all the difference that made, but seconds later there was another piercing, human scream. It sounded more distant and echoey this time. Dagmund? Where in Anākai’s name … ? Looking around for the source of the sound, Ashbyrn could only make out a greyish, vaguely human blur, stretched like an animal hide on a tanner’s frame between two of the creatures, while a third reached for the captive’s head with its long, clawed fingers. He tried to fire, but his gun merely hissed at him.